It's Like in Spring...
Erik stared warily at the blank monitor. What had just happened? He'd gone into the voice chat session comfortably sure that he could impress her with his voice and his skill – and he had. She'd been amazed and delighted. But control had escaped him just when it seemed she was totally under his sway.
Then it came. She said the same things that he'd told himself in the greenness of his youth: he should be performing, he would be great, his face wouldn't matter if he played well enough. She was so convinced that she was convincing, even though he knew the truth from brutal experience. He had almost told her his secret and what a mistake that would have been. As it was, he had given her too much. "Draw your own conclusions," he'd said, and she would do that, he was sure. Then he asked her – no, commanded her - to sing, and that was the right thing to do, because it distracted her from the immediacy of her curiosity.
That's where things truly began to go wrong. In her breathy, untaught voice, she sang to him sincerely. The lyrics were more than simple words coming from her. He couldn't shake the feeling that she somehow knew him despite his best efforts to keep her in the dark and whispered a message to all his weaknesses. He'd been reduced easily to the verge of weeping; like the doctor in W. C. Williams' "Paterson", he was 'shaken by her beauty, shaken.' She wasn't even pretty.
Neither am I, he though, grinning wryly. Next to me, she's Aphrodite. No, not Aphrodite...she's Artemis: her weapons are youth, innocence and passion. And when she plays...when she sings... He logged off in self-defense, but promised to meet her the very next day. Even in the shaky fear of his vulnerability, he already eagerly anticipated going back for more.
A new idea struck Erik then. What if she's right? Not in the broader sense, not on a stage, but for her? What if...what if I can play well enough that she won't mind that I'm ugly?
As soon as he thought it, he knew it was too much to ask and dismissed the possibility harshly. But the tiny voice of loneliness and hope wouldn't let go; it only grew louder.
Just with the mask. What if she doesn't mind about the mask? That's possible, isn't it? His mind gave no answer. He spoke softly into the darkness of his apartment. "Isn't it?"
Christine affectionately stroked the fingerboard of her cello before picking up her flute. She found that she could focus now, and practice as she needed to. As she played, she concentrated on her breathing. Breathing was key to singing. She knew that before he told her. AngelofM... Erik was going to teach her to sing. That thought excited her tremendously.
She knew he would be an exacting teacher; he was obviously a perfectionist. That was no drawback in her eyes. A teacher must be demanding if a student is to progress. Christine's excitement was born of an aspiration beyond her lifelong desire to learn to sing. She realized now that all these months, her heart had been there for him to view in bold black and white. She'd given it willingly and guilelessly because he was such a good listener. But he remained a mystery, at least until now.
The tremor and the hopeless bitterness in his voice when he told her to draw her own conclusions spoke for him. The effect her simple song had had on him spoke for him. No matter his power and suave confidence, the man was clearly in need of some kindness. The young barista decided to befriend her reticent internet acquaintance and thereby learn his secrets. It would be a challenge; she'd have to walk a delicate line to keep him talking to her, to make him trust her. She planned to draw him in as he had drawn her out.
"And Meg, I know music. Anywhere he chose to audition, he'd take first chair without practicing." Christine spoke animatedly, waving her hands in the air and nearly bouncing in her seat. They were eating a quick lunch at the little Italian bistro across from the coffee shop.
Always the levelheaded one, Meg quirked an eyebrow. "If he's so great, why isn't he a performer? I mean, talent like that usually doesn't go unnoticed. Unless it sticks its head in the sand and hides." She paused to throw a sharp look at her friend who was suddenly staring at her salad, pushing a cherry tomato around the plate. "Oh no. I bet he's just like you."
"What do you mean, '...just like me'?"
Meg's face softened in a sympathy that was almost maternal. Christine was a genius. She could make the cello sit up and wag its tail. She could play the birds down from the trees on her flute. But since that humiliation during her last year at the Lawrence Conservatory, she would only play for close friends and family.
"How many times has that annoying little man from the Conservatory called and begged you to come back and finish your work there? How many times have they apologized to you – literally groveled – for what happened? Does the Dean of Students still call every Thursday at 3:30?"
Christine riled. "Meg, that's really not necessary."
"Have it your way, Christine. But the most amazing cellist within a two-thousand-mile radius is eating two-dollar salads and serving mochaccinos for five-fifty an hour plus tips while she should be off wowing audiences and making a name for herself."
Christine put down her fork hard enough to shake the little metal table and slosh water over the lip of her glass. Quickly regaining control, she picked up the recalcitrant cherry tomato and popped it in her mouth. "But we're not talking about me, Meg. We're talking about him. He's so mysterious. I can just tell he has some deep, dark secret..."
"Like raping little girls he meets on the 'net?" interjected Meg.
"No! Like a lost love. You should have heard his voice after I sang for him."
That stopped her pushy friend cold.
"He got you to sing for him? Out loud?" Meg blinked, her eyebrows rising halfway to her hairline.
"That's typically how singing works, Meg." Christine's expression morphed from wry to shy in a split second as she admitted the truth. "It wasn't hard for him to 'get me' to sing. You see, I'm starting to...you know... It's like in Spring, when you first feel a warm breeze instead of a cold one. Or, it's like that first bite of Godiva when you've got a craving. It's like..."
"You've got a crush."
"Exactly."
Meg tried not to show her concern, but it leaked out around the edges of her smile. Christine had made bad choices in the guy-department before, but at least she'd always fallen for flesh-and-blood men. There was something distinctly creepy about internet romances. You never heard about happy endings on the news, but you heard plenty about women and children who were stalked, raped and even killed by men who hid behind the anonymity of their computer screens.
"Well, you know the rule. If you are going to be infatuated with this guy, I have to meet him." It was a rule Meg had made after Sterling – an honorable man who had shown his love for Christine by driving up her cell phone bill calling all his friends to announce that he'd "done it" with her, which he hadn't. The only boyfriend Christine had had since then, Raoul, passed Meg's scrutiny. And he really was a sweet, gentlemanly guy – he just wasn't her type.
"Uh-uh, Meg. No way." Christine could only imagine Erik's response to Meg's aggressive directness.
"You swore it to me! Remember? You put your left hand on the cappuccino maker and swore to me that I could screen all of your potential future significant others." This was a serious issue, something sworn on the cappuccino maker was sacred; it was widely believed that if you broke an oath sworn this way, the machine would break down and the oath-breaker would be swarmed by caffeine addicts in withdrawal.
"He'd take offense to it, Meg. I've known some people with pride issues – they pale in comparison to this guy. I think he'd be really angry if I brought someone in to judge him like that."
"He'd never have to know. I'd stay off camera and just listen." Meg turned on her shiniest best-friend smile and leaned in close. "C'mon Miss Chris; it's for your own good. When do you two meet next? I'll bring popcorn and chick-flicks for afterwards!"
Meg was irresistible when she turned on her charms. For twenty years she'd been as loyal and true a friend as anyone could hope for. To deny her the right to 'screen' Erik would be to break a serious promise and to allow an element of distrust between them. Christine bit her lip, sighed, and caved in. "Today at four o'clock. But please, Meg, promise me you'll stay off camera and not move. The microphone I bought has nearly perfect reproduction."
"Of course, Miss Chris. Whatever you say, Miss Chris!" Meg saluted her with that same shiny smile plastered over her face. Christine rolled her eyes and looked at her watch.
"We better get back. I don't need to be late so soon after calling out sick." Meg nodded and stood, still smiling. For Christine's sake, she hoped the guy wasn't too creepy. If he were, she would do her duty as best friend by telling Christine so.
After their shift, Christine and Meg walked home together. Christine was silent all the way, answering Meg's attempts at conversation with single-syllable grunts. There were terrible butterflies banging around in her stomach. It was too easy to imagine tonight going wrong. Erik might hear Meg in the background and become angry. He might disappear again, this time for good. Or, Meg might not like Erik, and then Christine would have to find some way to dodge her best friend's disapproval.
As she unlocked the door to her tiny apartment, Christine turned to Meg with large, solemn eyes. "Ok. The camera points this way, and if you sit over there, you'll be too close to the mic. Try sitting over here."
"Christine. Calm down. I'm not going to give your dread secret away to your internet hottie. I promised, didn't I?" Christine's nervousness was catching, which irritated the ever-confident Meg.
Christine went on as though Meg had never spoken. "You might want to get some water, and a pillow...and here's a blanket. Get comfortable now. Man, oh man, this is not a good idea..."
Meg settled into her corner and watched Christine bustle around the room, getting her cello set up, her bow rosined, the microphone and camera set at good angles, and generally acting like the metaphorical long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.
She really does have a crush. Meg thought, pityingly. I hope he's worth all the angst."
"Ok. Stretch and do whatever you have to do now. I log on in a few seconds."
Trying to sap some of the tension from the room, Meg lowered her voice and spoke through her hand to imitate a bad CB connection. "Ch-ch. Houston? We have log on in three...two...wuh..."
"SHHHH!" Christine clicked to log in. It was entirely irrational, but she really felt as though she were betraying Erik. Which is ridiculous. Girl, get a hold of yourself! You never promised him total privacy. There he was, waiting for her.
minorchord: Hi there! Edited any good articles lately?
AngelofMusic: No. How was your day, Little Latte?
minorchord: Truthfully?
AngelofMusic: Of course.
minorchord: It was a very uncoordinated day. I couldn't stop thinking about you and how you played. It made me mess up a lot of orders. :-)
AngelofMusic: Did it really. I've been thinking a lot about how I can teach you over the microphone, and honestly, I don't think it'll be too difficult. You've got natural talent.
minorchord: When do we start?
AngelofMusic: As soon as you like.
Erik smiled at her eagerness to begin. He opened the webcam session and voice chat, steeling himself to see and hear her again. Her image glowed behind his eyelids and her voice haunted his ears the entire night before. Whether this was a pleasant or unpleasant thing, he was as yet undecided.
"Well, then. Let us begin. Go ahead and stand up straight and relaxed. I'm going to teach you a few warm-up exercises, and then we can try... What are you looking at?"
When Erik began speaking, Christine could not restrain herself from looking to see Meg's reaction. Meg sat frozen in her corner, open-mouthed. Christine wanted to laugh, point and yell, "I told you so", but that would give her away entirely, if Erik hadn't figured it out already.
"There's a fly on the wall," She lied, thinking that it was actually pretty close to the truth. "It keeps buzzing around; it's very distracting." The spell of Erik's voice was broken a bit; Meg stuck out her tongue.
Erik raised an eyebrow. Christine didn't seem to be the type to be so easily distracted. His suspicions raised, he watched her closely. "Focus. Let's start with lip trills."
For the next hour, Erik walked Christine through vocal warm-ups. As she grew more comfortable in front of her audience of two, Christine's voice improved dramatically. Erik had been correct when he said that her biggest hurdle was simply a fear of making sound. Once he convinced her to open her mouth, the whispery quality disappeared and very pretty soprano voice emerged. When her voice began to tire, Erik ended the lesson, half-relieved that she hadn't actually gotten to sing. He knew which song she'd want to learn first and he simply wasn't up to it.
"Why did my voice give out so quickly? I can talk for hours! You should ask my friends." Christine mentioned her friends more to gauge his reaction than anything else.
"I doubt I'll ever meet your friends." There was no humor in his tone. "Your voice gave out because the muscles you use to sing aren't developed – that what the vocal chords are. Rest your voice today. Practice every day. Soon your voice will last nearly as long as you want it to – if you don't abuse it."
"Why?" Christine asked.
"Why what?"
"Why do you doubt you'll ever meet my friends? I could bring Meg over here one day and you guys could talk." Christine wished she could see his face.
"I would very much prefer that you not do that, Christine. I don't...get on with people very well." They were the calmest words Erik could find. In his mind's eye, a gaggle of 20-somethings hung over Christine's shoulder, mocking him.
"You do just fine with me..." She smiled as she asked. Finally, they were talking about him.
"You're different."
"Be a little less specific, please. I might understand you, otherwise." Her sarcasm was gentle, not meant to bite, but to encourage.
"What do you want me to tell you?" Erik truly didn't know. He was miserably unsocialized. This business of chatting candidly with a woman was difficult at best, dangerous at worst. It would have been a relief to log off, but every soft word she spoke and every little change of her expression made him need to stay. It horrified him, but the naked truth was undeniable: he was becoming fond of her.
"I want you to tell me anything. Why am I different? Different from who?"
He sighed heavily and when he spoke, his voice dripped with forced patience. "How are you different? You know music. You're a genius on that cello, and I think you will shape up to be a fine singer. I respect such musical skill. We've been talking for, what, four or five months now? You continue to be interesting long after most other people would have begun to bore me. I enjoy talking to you, Christine. Different from whom? From everyone else I've ever met. Anything else you are burning to know?"
"Sure, but remember that you asked me. Do you like Quasi? How about Lesley Garrett? Where do you live? Why don't you perform? What's your last name? What conclusion do you expect me to draw from the fact that you won't use a webcam?" All of this was delivered rapid-fire, giving him no chance to interject anything. Christine took a deep breath – in for a penny, in for a pound, her father always said. Meg's presence gave her courage. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
Erik stared at the screen. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was at a complete loss for words, or thoughts, or breath. She was looking away from the camera, blushing furiously, chewing her lip in a way that made him sweat. Something important had just happened. Could it be that she had grown fond of him as well? But, all those questions! How could he even begin to answer?
"I think Quasi has matured quite a bit over the years. They have a truly unique sound," Erik said, deadpan, and then fell silent.