Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
Where did I stop last time? Oh, yes. Night music. Well, to tell you the truth, I'm getting rather sick of Erik dominating all these pages. I was supposed to write down my memories too—and that includes stuff without him. Anyway, since I started it and I don't like leaving anything incomplete (I'm a bit neurotic; why does he like me again?), I'll finish off with the night music bit and go back to what I really want to write here.
So. Night music. What was I doing that night…? Oh, yes. Getting ready for bed. I'd wished Nana goodnight, pointedly avoided Ma's door (she'd gotten into the habit of trying to engage me in conversation for some time; I wasn't too keen on it), and had then gone off to my room. Just after I turned off the lights, Ma knocked and entered.
Now that I think about it, I think she was trying to make up for all her brusqueness over the years. She'd been getting noticeably better and had been trying to cut down on her varying moods. At least that's what I think. I never paid much attention back then. And I still resented her Gala almost-diktat, so I wasn't particularly interested in what she had to say.
She came in, sat at the edge of my bed, and started talking. I ignored her in the beginning (remember what I said about how I don't like my 15-year old self?), but began to pay attention when she started speaking of Papa. Why? Because that was the only time her voice lost the heaviness it had acquired over the years and the softness made me nostalgic.
Memories. The memories that brings back. You won't ever know how many times I've sighed while writing this. Memories are powerful, but they also hurt so much….
She spoke about Papa a bit. About his music, and how she missed hearing his violin at night when she was alone, and did I remember how I hid his bowstring when I was six, and how the next time we went to the graveyard together we could leave a bowstring there for him, couldn't we, and did I remember those absolutely silly stories they used to tell me about angels and demons and all that, and so on and so forth.
I hugged her impulsively. Ma, you asked me to forgive you some years ago and I said I did. But I wasn't thinking straight. There was nothing to forgive. I love you so much, Ma. Nothing you could ever have done would have stopped me from feeling that way. Even when I was so stupid and immature. God, Ma. Words can't say how much I'd give (even a lifetime here with him; but that isn't possible now, is it?) to spend even one moment with you. To say goodbye, perhaps, and to ask you to forgive me for being such a twerp. If only….
But, no. I'm wallowing in regrets. Next step is self-pity and I'm not going to go that way while I can help it.
Cold. Clinical. That's what I have to be. Cold. Clinical. Cold. Clinical. Detach yourself, Christine. Forget that you know these people. Put the memory on paper and then start feeling again. Don't waste time writing what you feel. There is ample amount of time for you to feel without paper. And stop talking to yourself, too. That's just stupid.
After that impulsive display of affection, we warmed up to each other a bit and sat talking to each other for quite a while, until she realized it was past midnight. We both went to bed. I went to sleep immediately. Somewhere in the middle of my dreams, I heard a violin play. I woke up. Looked around. Nobody was there. Went back to sleep. Heard it again. Got really annoyed. Thought that some crazy fool was playing music in the middle of the night. Was about to go to my window and shout out to whoever was playing the music when it started again. And it captivated me. I couldn't move. I just sat up in my bed and listened to it and listened to it and listened to it until it slowly coaxed me back to sleep.
I didn't mention it to anyone when I woke up. Thought it was a dream. The next night, there was the same thing. And the next night. And the next night. The fourth–or fifth?–night, though, there was nothing, and I couldn't sleep at all. I didn't know it then but–and this is a very crude way of putting it–I was under his spell already.
It became a drug for me after that. The nights he played to me were the nights I slept peacefully. The nights he didn't play were normally followed by days where I'd be bleary-eyed and cranky. Damn you, Erik. What the hell were you thinking? I was only fifteen! A kid, for God's sake! Didn't you feel the slightest bit of remorse for messing around with my brain like that? Can you feel that sort of thing, anyway?
Oh, right. I'm not supposed to feel on paper. Sorry. I'll go back to recounting.
The music went on for years. It only stopped for a really long time around a year– year and a half?–ago and I finally managed to force myself to sleep without the music. Now…. Now, I can still sleep without it, but maybe that's because I hear so much of it during the days….
Ponder later.
I don't know what he did to me in the nights. No, no. Not physically, of course. He'd never stoop to that level. I think I know that much about him. Mentally, I mean. I'd wake up in the mornings with ideas on how to improve my singing, or with new songs in my head, or just with a sense of calm and peace, and my days would be made so much more meaningful with the music. Not once did I question where the music came from. Not once did I think hard enough to make a connection between notes and music. I, brat that I was, thought that everything came from my own latent genius. Or at least I did for around a year or so.
After this first year, his influence grew on me. How? One night, in a 'dream' (I use the quotation marks because I can no longer distinguish between dreams and reality), he spoke to me. Said some rubbish about being sent by my father. Silly man didn't realize that that was the one thing that could make me shake off my trance. I'm far too cynical to accept anything like that at face value. I don't believe in angels. Not now, not ever.
Like a (wo)man drowning in this intense ocean of music that captured her soul, I clutched at that statement as my only lifeline and refused to let go. But the rope turned out to be merely a flimsy string. He realized his mistake almost immediately and backtracked. The music began again and, for the moment, I was beguiled again and lost myself in it. One problem, however: I still remembered what he said about Papa sending him when I woke up (how could you dare to use him to further your sick cause, you horribly horrible man?) and that planted enough of a doubt in my mind to make me aware that something was wrong.
However, still being phenomenally stupid, I still did not tell anyone about the music. I think I was subconsciously afraid of losing the music. Perhaps he had something to do with that belief. I wouldn't be surprised.
A month or so after his failed attempt, he tried talking again. This time, I heard him in a daze. Fear mingled with awe and wonder. His voice was, and is, beautiful. He spoke about life and death and how he could give me all that I desired in the world—yeah, right!—if I just let him guide me. In my drugged (and I use the word intentionally) state, I willingly acquiesced to all his demands. When I woke up the next morning, I knew that I would stick to what I had promised. The fear of losing him was far too much for me to bear. And—and don't tell anyone this—I had this little hope—which I hardly dared think of—that somehow, by some miracle, the night music would let me see my father again.
Didn't happen, of course (how could it?).
And that is how Erik came into my life.
And now, enough of him. I will not mention anything even remotely related—no, scratch that—anything directly related to him for at least one week. Deal? Excellent.
So. What do I talk about?
Memories, of course. Which ones?
Ah, yes. I know. The ones where I was happiest. Let's see where to begin. Obviously before Papa died. Hm….
Ah. I know.
When I was six or seven, we all went to the seaside for a summer. It was a lot of fun. I don't remember much of it, actually. Just that Papa amused himself by playing a violin at this local fair and Mama was most mortified at first. I remember that after she berated him for a while, he went and hugged her and they kissed (which I found rather disturbing, as a young child, mind you) and then she let him go. We all went together to see him play and in the middle of one of his songs, he laid down the violin, scooped me up in his arms and started waltzing with me. We must have been a sight, with me in the air and giggling madly, and him moving me up and down without a care for the crowd.
Yes, I was certainly happy then.
It's odd. I don't need anything but the slightest words for some memories to spring up in my mind in full detail, complete with sight, smell, and sound. For others, though, I have to rack every corner of my brain for any little tidbit that can help me piece up a memory out of nothing. Like this, for example. I only needed that short little paragraph for my brain to latch on to it.
What else? What else?
Oh, I just remembered! If I'm not mistaken (and I'm fairly certain I'm not), I first met Raoul there.
Who is Raoul, you ask? The only friend who actually bothered to stay in touch with me (and vice versa) over all these years after everything that has happened. He's not my closest friend, but I can definitely count him amongst the ones I can rely on.
Wait a moment. Kate is the only other person on that list. Well.
That says a lot about how much I trust people, doesn't it?
So. I met him there. He was (and always will be) a brat. No, not seriously. We just love ribbing each other and that tends to lead off into insults quite frequently. To tell you the truth, he's the sweetest guy that ever lived.
Oh, damn. I wasn't supposed to say that here. If Erik ever reads this, I don't want Raoul to be in danger.
Ah, well. This gets the 'cancel' treatment then. All these lines are going to be cancelled so thoroughly, nobody will ever be able to read them.
Let me continue with him for a while and then I'll cancel this out. As I said, he is probably one of the sweetest guys ever. He's also had a crush on me (he doesn't know I know, poor thing) for the last year, or so. Wait, more. I forgot to include the time I was here. Anyway, it's really cute, but it can't ever happen because after Erik, the last thing I want to do is be with any member of the male species. And Erik would probably rip apart anyone unfortunate enough to be dated by me, anyway, so that's a moot point. No, really. And what am I doing? I said no Erik in this.
Raoul. I'm talking about him. I know he likes me because he told Kate and Kate told me. I was most flattered, but also a little weirded out. Nothing against him, of course, but I'll always think of him as the dirty little boy with scabby knees who was crying because someone stole his toy soldier (which happened the first time we met, by the way). It's a bit strange to be liked that way. And of course nothing can ever happen of it now. No going back home for me, you see.
It's time for me to 'socialize'. Excuse me while I do the needful scratching out and then head to the library. I'm reading Great Expectations by Dickens again, and I like it this time, too. Ms. Havisham was the woman I'd read about who could never be happy in her life because she was so bitter, if you remember (and I'll be most surprised if you do; I only do because I was reading through what I'd written earlier before I started today). I don't want to be like her—or Estella, for that matter, though I do see some resonances between us.
I digress. This wasn't supposed to be a literary discourse. Goodbye for now!
Note on the chapter title: 'Eine Kleine Nachtmusik' is the name given to Mozart's Serenade No. 13 for Strings in G Major. It ought to be translated as 'A Small Serenade' in English, but I prefer the more prevalent, literal translation, 'A Little Night Music', especially as it is relevant to this chapter. Listen to it. It's a piece of Mozart heaven. In fact, it's so popular, the odds are you have already heard it somewhere or the other. Here is your chance to embed it into your memory.