Toki crept into the salon at the last possible moment. He had to be here: it was the Queen's orders, but not just that. He needed to get it over with. He needed to hear Skwigelf play.
Toki remembered earlier years, when he had just reached manhood and lived in relative seclusion in Lillehammer. He had felt like such a nobody, as though he had been exiled from all real society. It was there he had first heard of the great Skwisgaar Skwigelf. There were tales of the electric guitar played beyond human comprehension, and of the whirlwind of passion it inspired.
What had happened? Why was he now so fiercely envious of his hero? In the dreary Norwegian winter he had longed passionately to hear this master, and followed the tales of his exploits from Mallorca to St. Petersburg. And now was the moment, the moment when he would finally attend a concert, and he was doing so reluctantly.
But he was older now, past the age of making idols of men. Especially when the man in question had shown his arrogance so clearly.
The room was brilliantly lit, and an overhead chandelier cast a radiant glow over the front of the room. Toki huddled in the back, behind the large columns that divided the room, next to the heavy curtains.
He could see Yolande in the front, looking about anxiously. There was an empty chair where she had placed her fan, the Japanese one with the black enamel. He felt his heart throb. She was saving a seat for him. He longed to sit down beside her and engage her, to watch her eyes spark with interest as he told her some story from his childhood. It seemed as though Skwigelf had severed him from everything.
A man scurried in and snatched the seat besides Yolande. Toki saw her open her mouth in protest, before realizing it was her husband, Jules, the Duke of Polignac. They were essentially separated but the Duke would appear from time to assert that yes, she belonged to him. Where she was gentle and playful, he was harsh and humorless, and had a nasty habit of criticizing her before the court. It was something Toki could barely stand to watch, but Yolande accepted it as the course of life. And she was right in a way- a married woman had few rights when it came to her husband.
Sighing, Toki sunk deeper into the curtains, a sour feeling in his stomach. He shut his eyes, trying to forget where he was, when a single note jolted him awake.
He opened his eyes to find himself staring directly at Skwisgaar Skwigelf.
Skwigelf was holding his guitar, the guitar, the famous black and white Thunderhorse. The Swede's eyes clouded over as though with ecstasy, and his lips pursed together in an extremity of concentration. His heels were higher than usual, and he seemed at that moment of immense height. He towered over the crowd like an obelisk. The overhead light cast long shadows over his cheekbones, making him seem haughtier, fiercer, even crueler. He was dressed in burgundy velvet, and there was a black beauty mark above his lip. Toki noticed a touch of darkness around his eyes, which brought out the intensity of their blue, even from a distance.
There was a collective holding of breath. Several of the women clutched their stomachs, barely able to gasp within their tightly bound stays. Skwisgaar bowed, but it seemed it was not so much a mark of respect, but a calculated dance step, an acknowledgement of his own power of enchantment.
He began his song, and the room seemed to alter. It seemed to Toki to be misted over, less than fully real. He leaned back against the wall, and a small groan escaped his lips. It was an agony, and yet so powerfully enticing to hear such music: the escalating arpeggios, the course of song rising and falling, the thrilling wail of the high notes, and the sinking sorrow of the low.
Skwigelf pulled back, letting Thunderhorse rest against his groin. He sank into the trance of playing, and lured the audience with him. Several strands of hair came lose as he moved his head and played with increasing speed, an alarming speed, revolutionary and yet the unspoken desire of every listener. The energy of the audience, even politely seated, was palpable. Several small cries erupted from ladies, an unprecedented occurrence.
He performed the final chord, and a small grin crept over his face, as the audience burst into wild applause. Toki felt paralyzed. He had an urge to join them, but he physically couldn't. A small bead of sweat fell from his forehead. His body was buzzing with the electric impulse of the guitar and the chords and riffs, one after another, echoed through him. His rage, his envy, they were dulled by an aesthetic impulse far more powerful. He knew they would return again but for the moment he only wanted to sink into the music and let it conquer his senses.
With a regal sweep of his arm, Skwisgaar introduced Cornichon. The crowd clapped politely, not knowing who he was, but it doubled over on itself when a drum set was carried, piece by piece, onto the stage. They were thrilled by the prospect of hearing the electric guitar and drums together.
Toki feared that the drums would distract from the guitar, but they complimented each other. The deep rhythm formed a powerful background as Skwigelf's solo rose higher and higher. Toki wondered at moments if he would simply lift off the ground. Whatever the speed, his fingers were steady and sure, and never made a single error. It maddened Toki, this excessive perfection, but what was worse was the raw feeling behind it- he wasn't a technician, but an artist. The familiar jealousy seeped in, but Toki still could not overpower the overwhelming sense of awe.
At times Toki felt as though his legs would not support him, and he clutched the velvet curtain beside him. He found himself fixating on details- a bead of sweat that glittered like gold on Skwigelf's forehead, the clench of his jaw as he moved into more technically advanced phases, and its release when he slipped into slower, dreamier phases. He noticed the strength of his fingers, the flexible tendons of his wrists, his tongue that ran over his teeth, his teeth that bit the full lips as he concentrated. It was a strange madness, all these details, and Toki felt sorrow, and also an intense relief as the song drew to a close.
The concert was over, and Toki was mentally and physically drained. Everything seemed so go silent, and slower, much slower. He watched the bowing figure of Skwigelf, the fainting ladies, the flowers and diamond brooches and silk gloves that littered the stage. Swigelf picked up a single satin glove, kissed each of its fingers, and with a playful smile flung it back into the crowd. The courtiers, normally so controlled, fell into a grasping heap trying to get hold of it.
He stayed on when Skwigelf left the room, and courtiers dispersed, one by one. He had chosen a good hiding spot- the shadows of the curtains left him well concealed. Two figures remained, standing in the open area where Skwigelf had been playing. Toki watched without interest as they spoke rapidly, their arms gesticulating. And suddenly it came to him- they was Yolande and her husband. The Dukehad her shoulders in his grip, and was shaking her. Her head was bent to the side in pain and humiliation. He could hear them now-
"I saw you watching him- have you no shame?"
"I was just watching the concert!" she cried. "Just like you!"
"Anyone could see what you were thinking!" His fingers pressed deeply into her arms.
"Stop it, Jules," she said, her voice cracking. He noticed a tear slip over her cheek. "You're hurting me."
"And I'll hurt you a lot more before I'm done." His large teeth were bared, and with his slim nose and round eyes he resembled a cadaver. "You're a born whore."
Coming out of his trance, Toki reached out his arm, and took a step forward, but a figure stepped in from the corner. It was Skwigelf, and Toki's body froze.
"What the fucks are you doing?" asked Skwigelf, casting an angry glance at the Duke.
"Oh, it's the prince himself!" said Jules. "Your Majesty!" he said, imitating a deep curtsey. "The bastard prince himself!"
Skwigelf snarled and stepped up towards the Duke. He had at least a foot on him, and the Duke shrank back. He gripped Yolande by the wrists and shoved her towards Skwigelf. "You want him so bad, then go to him!" He sneered and turned towards Skwigelf. "She's not worth much, but you're welcome to her. A bastard and a whore. A pretty picture."
The Duke hurried from the room. Skwigelf laughed bitterly. "A cowards. He was afraids to haves to fight me."
He looked down at the woman on her knees, who was crying bitterly. "Shhh," he said, taking her hand and lifting her to her feet. "Quiets. He's gones now."
Toki felt his face reddening. That was supposed to be him. He should be there, supporting Yolande. He felt slightly ill as Skwigelf placed his arms protectively over her shoulders. "He hurts you?"
"No, no," she whispered, brushing off her shoulder. "He's not so horrible. He just doesn't like me looking at other men."
"Pffft," said the Swede. "He's horribles. I've seen so manys of him. Venice, Lisbon, Amsterdam- there's always ones. Come here."
He put his arms around her, and she cried into his shoulder.
"Would you like to takes a walk?" He asked. She nodded briskly, wiping her eyes. Skwigelf gave her his arm, and they walked through the glass doors towards the palace grounds.
Toki emerged from the corner, stunned. What was Skwigelf doing? Was he trying to help Yolande or- the thought horrified him- seducing her? A intense sadness, something akin to mourning, overtook him. He didn't know exactly what he was grieving- the blow to his pride, his failure to help Yolande, or the prospect of losing her to Skwigelf- whatever it is, a sickness overcame him. He hurried from the salon, through the long halls, and into the depths of his gloomy chamber, into darkness.