Talk to Me

Christine finished playing and sat limply for a moment, catching her breath. When she raised her head, the sound of applause flooded out of her speakers. She'd played with passion, without mistakes. She'd impressed herself with her own performance. Apparently, she'd impressed him, too.

"Brava! Well-played. Haimovitz would be proud. If only I knew the supporting pieces! You said you could play, but that was more than I expected."

She could hear the rasp of a bow lightly testing violin strings. He continued speaking, "Your performance was extraordinary. Let's see if I can avoid embarrassing myself entirely. I don't know if you've heard this piece. It's called "The Lark Ascending" by..."

Christine interrupted him and gushed. "Vaughan Williams! Oh, I love that piece. It's one of my all-time favorites!"

There was a pause as Erik adjusted to the concept of being interrupted – and not minding. He settled his chin into the chin rest and began playing. At first, he thought he'd watch and see her reaction to his performance, but the music took him too quickly. His eyes drifted shut as the music took him out of himself and gave him wings.

Christine had a hard time believing it was Erik playing on the other side of the connection. If she had not known the piece well enough to recognize Erik's unique interpretation of it, she would have suspected that he was simply playing a recording. As it was, she began to suspect something very different.

When he stopped playing, she raised her hands to clap, but found herself wiping away tears, instead. "Oh Erik," she breathed, "did you say you were an editor? Are you sure that's all you are?"

Silence greeted this remark. He didn't understand the statement – he barely heard it. All he could see was the small, sweet smile and the glistening tracks of tears on her face. He had done that. Ugly, reclusive, abrasive Erik had brought those tears forth with his music. She was speaking again.

"Erik? Why aren't you a performer? Why aren't you in some symphonic orchestra, or taking center stage in Carnegie Hall?"

He almost made a biting retort, but then he realized that she was entirely sincere. She didn't know what he was. He had made very sure that she should not know. He pondered over his reply for a moment.

"I will never perform onstage." It was an insufficient answer, he knew. She wouldn't accept it. He winced, realizing that a gate had been opened and it was too late to close it.

"But that's ridiculous, Erik! You...you're a genius! They'd love you! I can't believe you're not a performer."

"Believe it, Christine. Let's not talk about this. Please." his voice had grown quiet. Christine couldn't decide if the taut chilliness was fury or misery.

"Why not? I tell you everything." She paused. "Now that I think of it, I don't think you've told me a single damned thing. This is obviously something that's important to you. Why won't you talk to me about it?" She knew she was pressuring him dangerously, but didn't seem to be able to stop herself.

For his part, Erik was warring with the roiling of his guts. How dare she push him so? Why did she care? "...important to you", she'd said. But she didn't know the half of it. Erik would give anything to perform, to share his music with the world. He felt as though he were strangling. He wanted to scream at her and tell her exactly why he wasn't a performer, but that would frighten her away. That would make her hate him and that would be...well, that would be dreadful.

"Erik?" Her voice was cautious and soft. "Please talk to me."

"I'll say this one thing, and then I won't talk about it anymore, so please don't try." She could hear him draw a deep breath before continuing. "Why won't I use a webcam? Think about it, Christine. Draw your own conclusions."

That told her nothing. She'd already asked herself that question repeatedly. She did not have the answer. Obviously, he was trying to tell her that there was something wrong with his appearance, but who didn't think they looked weird in some way? She'd almost not met him tonight for that same reason.

"I'm not trying to make you talk about it anymore, and I know you are probably thinking I'm awfully pushy, but if you're overweight or think you aren't attractive or something - you should know that with the way you play, it probably wouldn't matter. I mean, look at John Popper"

"Christine…" His voice was tight as he tried to remind himself that she had the best of intentions. Still, her name slid hissingly from his lips in a low, warning tone.

"Seriously, Erik. It's not like you're a circus freak or something."

The hell, you say, he thought acidly. Had this been anyone else, he would have turned off voice chat and disappeared from her forever. But this girl had gotten into his soul somehow, with her trust and her passion and her talent. This was so new, so annoyingly difficult. For the first time in his life, he was trying to keep a friend. How did one go about that?

"Christine?" He'd remembered something from their first conversation. "Would you like to learn to sing?"

The obvious attempt at redirection was frustrating, but she let herself be led away from the subject. He wouldn't talk now, but someday... "I already told you I can't afford lessons."

"I wouldn't charge you. I'd give you lessons for free." It was working! She was distracted.

"But…how can you give me lessons over a microphone?"

"I'm sure we'll work it out. Let's try it and see how it works. Now, stand up, so I can see you better. You shouldn't have much problem with the breathing, because you play the flute. If you play the flute as well as you play the cello –and, honestly, of the two of us, you should be the performer – you already know how to breathe and how to control your breath. Sing for me. Anything you like."

Christine stood, trying to think of a song she knew well enough to sing off-the-cuff without lyrics or sheet music. "Really, you should sing first. Erik, I can't sing at all. I really…"

"Hush. Let me be the judge. Sing."

Not normally one to take orders, Christine bristled. Erik could see the crease in her brow and the angry frown that crossed her face. It made him smile. It showed him that she was not naturally pliant, but he could see in her eyes that she would do this because it was AngelofMusic who asked.

Christine began to sing Nick Drake's "Cello Song". It was a beautiful little ballad that did not require a broad range or exceptional vocal skill. It was also one of her favorites, which helped her to sing it believably. She couldn't have known the effect it would have on her lonely listener.

The girl's voice was entirely untaught and raw. She knew how to breathe, but she wouldn't open her mouth to let the voice out. She seemed afraid to produce sound. What little sound she did produce, however, showed immense potential. Her voice had a sweetness and tone that many an opera singer would envy. It needed work, true, but with a very little effort he could release an Angel's voice.

And the words. The words she was singing in innocence…

"Strange face, with your eyes / So pale and sincere. / Underneath you know well / You have nothing to fear. / For the dreams that came to you when so young / Told of a life / Where spring is sprung."

Through the first stanza, he could focus on the technicalities and critique her weak spots. As the song progressed, though, the lyrics pierced him. Erik knew this song – how could one love stringed instruments and not know Nick Drake – but to have her choose it, and sing it directly to him…

"You would seem so frail / In the cold of the night / When the armies of emotion / Go out to while the earth sinks to its grave / You sail to the sky / On the crest of a wave."

The few girls Erik had tried to know between his years in the hospital and the moment when he decided to isolate himself from the world had either been afraid or openly contemptuous of him. He'd grown cold, encasing his romantic hopes in layer after layer of ice. This unpretentious ballad, sung in her modest, whispery voice as she gazed into the camera lens, was melting that ice faster than he could absorb the melt.

"So forget this cruel world / Where I belong / I'll just sit and wait / And sing my song. / And if one day you should see me in the crowd / Lend a hand and lift me / To your place in a cloud."

She finished the song, and there was silence.

and silence.

and more silence.

"Was that ok? Do you still think I can learn to sing?" As it always did, silence made her nervous. She decided that she'd wait it out this time. After a few minutes, her patience was rewarded.

"It was fine. You…need to open your mouth more. There are issues… with enunciation…and other technical things…" She almost asked if he was ok. He suddenly sounded old and tired; it seemed he was trying to catch his breath. "but you have a beautiful singing voice Christine. If only you weren't afraid to make the sound."

"But…" she began to protest, he interrupted.

"I have to go now. I have deadlines to meet. Will you be on tomorrow?"

"Yes, but…"

"I'll talk to you then."

Click.

AngelofMusic has logged off.