This chapter is somewhat connected to another one. I hope you notice the link! And I hope you notice when this story is set. :-)

Enjoy.

XII. A Farewell in A flat major

Sun and frost, a fleeting rainbow, the moment just before the sun peeks over the horizon…the rarer, the more precious. The more fleeting, the more immortal. The more unique, the more common it becomes in our dreams.

The sun pressed against the windowpanes, ricocheted off the walls, off her hair as she basked in it. A bee buzzed somewhere, and perhaps if she closed her eyes and just listened to its soft drone, if she just let this rare July sun soak through her skin and become part of it, she could keep the warmth there for the rainy days. For all the other days.

She walked to the piano. Atop it lay a large ginger cat, having, no doubt, eaten its fill of pies – or, at least, what was in inside them – and made the entire instrument, its wooden body, its soul beyond the hammers and strings within it, vibrate with purring. Soft purring, like the bee's drone, the chirp of birds. The sound of the sun as it touched the ivory keys and their black counterparts.

When people asked her who her favourite composer was, she would always say it was Chopin. And yet she would never be able to say why, or even speak of him, as one finds it hard to speak of one's friends or relatives, or of personal happiness or melancholy. Chopin was a part of her. An inseparable part.

She often wished that he would come to London and play; that she would be able to see him, to assure herself he indeed was a living, breathing person. For sometimes it seemed that such music could not be written by the hand of a human being; the coarseness of everyday life splashed through puddles on the London streets and braved through wind and rain; music could not seem part of that. Not that kind of music.

She ran her hands over the pages of music atop the piano, next to that ginger cat. That massive ginger cat, purring in the sun. This rare July sun. If only Chopin had arrived in London instead of his executor; then, she would not have simply written asking for scores; she would have seen him play them himself, and, having come home, she would have played them, played all night, in spite of all the groaning neighbours who dreamed of mundane reality, trying to retrace the breathing soul Chopin evoked from the strokes on note paper. If not for Fontana, this waltz would probably not be on her piano now, and, judging from his reply to her, Chopin probably would not have played it in public.

Could a soul live beyond the body? While the body still lived, and breathed? Could it be that Chopin's soul rested in a piano? Perhaps that was what drew him to it; perhaps that gave him the ability to sing through hammers and strings. Perhaps that was why a piece was something personal for him.

There was her husband, calling her name, holding her little girl in his arms. She listened to the soft tone of his voice, to his gruff tenor; she looked at his hands, the beautiful hands she always imagined on ivory. The sun fell on his hair, illuminated his cheeks and made his eyes sparkle. Indeed, it was a sin to stay indoors on a day such as this.

"Remember those music notes Fontana sent me?" She ran her fingers over the music. "I've always wondered what this waltz would sound like in the sun…in the July sun."

"I promise you that one day he will play for you," he said, his tenor voice like an old cello, one that creaked a little and yet was as rich in sound as any.

She imagined herself, sitting next to her husband in the concert room, watching Chopin's long fingers run over the keys. Listening to every cadence, every note, every breath between phrases. She sat down at the piano, and placed her fourth finger on the E flat.

The first bar. The sun seemed to make her hands glow. She could almost see that little ginger kitten, the one that had ever since grown into this tiger that purred in the sun, grown into this regular customer at the pie shop, that had seemed so helpless, drenched and mewling on the edge of the street. The little kitten whom not she alone had noticed; whom a young man with deep, warm eyes had also seen. He had picked it up, uncaring about the dirt and grime on its tiny paws, and warmed it in his arms. And when she had asked him to give it to her, his eyes had warmed and his hand brushed hers as he handed her the little shivering kitten.

The second bar, the third bar, the melody in major, seemingly warm and content, and yet it was the warmth and contentment of the last rays of the sun before it sunk below the horizon. The warmth and happiness of a last glimpse of someone's face; someone's dearly missed, and loved face. She could almost feel the trepidation in her heart, as she searched for him among the dancers, colourful like an exotic carnival. She had never been one for noisy social gatherings, for drunken merrymaking or dancing, and yet she had come for him. And she would have noticed him, even if there were a thousand, even a million people dancing there. She would have seen his warm eyes among a million grey ones; she would have heard his cello voice among a million simpering violins.

The fourth bar, the fifth, the sixth…the rapid ascension of notes to the G flat…a fast run, like a sharp intake of breath, the whoop of a heart…and yet, it was not the intake of breath at the sight of something beautiful. It was an intake of breath at a feeling of hope. A hope when everything else seemed lost…She could almost hear the beating of her heart in her ears at night, as he pulled the strings of her corset. She could see the Goosebumps rise where he touched her.

Now, the music became faster, made mazurka-like leaps, and the music was happy – if it had a face it would have been smiling; it sounded like the peal of laughter, the peal of wedding bells in the morning light of a cloudless sky. And yet, it was the happiness of memories of bright days, as one remembered them while it rained incessantly beyond the window. The music was joyous, but it was the joy of a happy story told by a lonely old man. She could hear her father's blessing, and the church bells where she was married. She could hear the cry of her newborn daughter.

As the chords ascended, faster and faster, simple and yet promising something at their end, she remembered herself walking along a dark forest path, wondering if she would ever find the light, if she would ever find her way out to the moonlit meadow,she remembered herself walking, her heart beating more and more wildly with every step, rattling against her ribcage, her breath fast and shallow. She remembered herself bumping into trees and crying out at every rustle. She thought she was going mad when she thought she heard voices calling her name. And then, she saw the moonlight. A clear white drop in the black forest. And she had run, tearing through the trees, allowing the bats fly past her and the voices turn into the whoosh of the wind in her long, tousled hair. The chords ascended, her feet tapped the ground beneath them and the wind whistled in her ears, and as the trees opened into a clearing, hands swept her up and twirled her around, and she didn't need the cliched shine of the moon on water, for she had his eyes, his warm eyes, that glowed even in the darkness. As she remembered herself bursting out of the woods, the last note at the very top hang quietly in the air. The last note after a passage did not have to be loud. The last note did not have to be like a fanfare. The last note in a series of ascending, hopeful chords did not have to be loud, but it could also be quiet, like a soft light behind a cloud. And yet, it was not the soft light after the rain. It was the last light before the storm came.

She could see herself sitting in the concert hall as the choir sang of joy. She could feel his hand on hers, soft and warm, his cello voice joking about the German language, her own supplying a translation. As the music progressed, she saw herself running down a grassy lawn, hand in hand, the speed sending exhilaration through her blood; she could see her daughter's first birthday. She saw herself playing in front of a room of people, and she would always, always pick out his face first, his warm eyes and loving smile. She heard the last chord of the waltz, and it was a major chord, and on its own it would seem happy, and yet it was the happiness of knowing the one you loved would be happy, even if you couldn't ever be with him.

She had not noticed how her entire life with the man that now stood at her shoulder had just passed before her eyes. She put her hands on her lap, wondering. Did that not happen before death? Yes, and indeed, was this not a farewell waltz?

She stood up and took him by the hand. When they returned from the market, there would be a fire, crackling and warm, and the large ginger cat would be purring, curled up on the rug, bringing back memories of a sunny July day…