Saturday, In the Park
Christine met Erik at his apartment. He'd offered to let her take the concert cello with them to the park. Its sound was truer and richer than her own; she looked forward to playing it. She also looked forward to letting six-foot-three Erik wrestle the thing on and off the buses. He emerged from his apartment loaded down with violin, cello, and a bag containing the lunch he'd made. Christine giggled into her hand, realizing how she must have looked that first day, tumbling off the bus.
"Here. Here. Let me get the bag...don't you have a bookbag? Geez...that's heavy! What are we having for lunch? Roast pig? I'll take the violin as well." She went about relieving him of everything but the cello. "There we go."
"You look lovely, Christine. There's something different..." he looked her over as they hurried down the hallway and out to the bus stop.
"I didn't have time to try to do anything with my hair. It's just hanging there." If her hands hadn't been full, she would have tried to pull it under control. "I'd hardly call it an improvement..."
"I would." He would have said more, but a child's voice interrupted.
"Look, Mom! It's that weird guy from our hall!"
"Shhh, Jonathan." The mother's embarrassed whisper carried clearly.
The kid's voice dropped two whole decibels. "Why does he wear that mask? I bet he's a monster under there."
"Jonathan! Hush!"
"You're the one who said he was probably burned or somethmmmf!" The horrified mother clapped a hand over the kid's mouth, but the damage was already done.
Erik turned away from the two and began to walk back towards the apartment building. Christine jumped after him and caught his arm, dropping their lunch in the process.
"Let me go, Christine." His voice was no more than a growl.
"No. You promised to go with me."
Without a word, he roughly pulled his arm from her grasp and continued his steady march. Christine turned and shot a look of pure fire at the mother and child who were staring at the dramatic scene before dashing after him. She circled in front of him, stopping his progress once more. She lowered her voice so that it carried no further than the two of them.
"Erik, please. He's just a dumb little kid. He doesn't even know what he's saying."
"He's not so dumb – he guessed right, didn't he?" Self-loathing dripped from every syllable. He made no effort to lower his volume.
"Don't be..."
"Don't be what, Christine? Honest?" Erik was walking forward again, gently but firmly bulldozing her out of his way. "I should take the damned mask off – show that brat how right he is."
"Sure!" Christine exclaimed in a last-ditch effort to stop him. The bus would arrive soon. "Sure! Take it off...whatever!" She'd spent nearly a week preparing her song; she and Erik had put in hours and hours perfecting their rendition of Adagio for Strings. All that work, all that preparation was about to go to waste. "But come with me – don't tell me some stupid little kid's words are more important to you than I am." It was a cheap shot, but she was desperate. If he turned back now, she'd never drag him out again.
Erik looked down at her in consternation. Is that what she would think? "I can't...
The bus pulled into the station and people started climbing on. Christine looked back over her shoulder.
"Choose, Erik; a day with me in the park, or another day hiding by yourself in your apartment. Because I'm going." With that, she turned and walked towards the bus, his violin still clutched in her hand. She leaned down and scooped up the lunch sack and climbed onto the bus. She pushed her way to the back, forcing herself not to peer out the window to see what his choice was.
"Ow!"
"Hey!"
"Watch what you're doing with that thing!"
Christine beamed down at the violin case. She knew that sound. That was the sound of a person dragging a huge cello down the narrow aisle of a crowded bus. He thumped heavily into the seat beside her. Christine looked up at him, pride shining in her eyes. She leaned over and kissed the side of his neck.
"I knew you'd make the right choice," she purred.
Without turning towards her, he growled, "You kept my violin."
"Is that the only reason you came?" she asked, feigning a pout.
"You also kept my lunch."
"I love you, Erik," she shifted the violin case and laid her hand on his thigh.
It wasn't long before his slender fingers twined through hers.
Once they'd disembarked, Christine led Erik down to the lakeshore and proceeded to spread the quilt. Erik opened the lunch sack and groaned in annoyance. When Christine dropped it, the lid was knocked off the casserole dish (which was miraculously unbroken). Chicken florentine casserole was spilled and mashed in the bottom of the bag, no longer attractively layered gold on green on white. Christine peered over his shoulder and barked a laugh.
"I guess we'll be eating it au sac, hmm?" She pulled out the plastic forks she'd brought. "Oh well. It smells delish. I bet it looked good, too, before its little incident."
"You did this, you know," he accused. He was still upset over the bus stop and not at all gracious.
"Well that's a matter of perspective, now isn't it." Christine thrust a fork into his hand. She was just happy he'd come instead of slinking off to his sanctuary. "Eat up. I'm not singing until I've got something in my stomach."
They ate together quietly for a while. She was enjoying the day; he was brooding. As before, people passed by, paying them no mind.
"You realize that that little boy was only saying out loud what others think, right?" Erik sat cross-legged, pulling small tufts of grass. "You realize that anywhere we go, people will be thinking the same thing, whispering things – and that's if we're lucky and they're being polite."
Christine packed up the remaining casserole and stowed their forks before answering. "I know."
"Doesn't that bother you?" He couldn't look at her. The stark reality that was his meager public life was too embarrassing.
"Yes, it bothers me. I could have slapped that kid and his mother– and I don't condone violence against children, but..." Christine mimed two slaps.
"I mean, doesn't that make you a little wary of going out with me? Being seen with me? Having a freak at your side makes you a freak, too, in their eyes."
"So be it," she muttered, handing him his violin case. "I really don't care. The only real danger is that I'll get arrested for assault with a deadly cello if I overhear nastiness."
"You wouldn't..." he protested, but he was beginning to smile for the first time since the kid had piped up.
"I definitely would. You think I could be friends with Meg all these years and have nothing rub off?" She rosined her bow and passed him the little wooden box.
"You have a point there." He took the little booklet of sheet music she handed him and spread it on the ground. It was a relatively simple piece, straightforward and strophic. He had it memorized in moments. The words, though...he read through it again. "Why did you pick this song?"
"If you don't already know, I'm certainly not going to tell you." she teased, and began warming up her voice.
The song was "Perfect" by Doria Roberts. It was a simple, sweet love song. Erik lifted his violin and made a quick, quiet practice run, transcribing the music from its original guitar to something more suited to violin.
"Does that work for you?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Wonderful. Are you ready? This song, Adagio for Strings, and then the Duet, and your piece?" Erik was all business, now.
"If you want," Christine shrugged.
"Let's do this thing." He began to play and she sang. Christine's voice had been improving incrementally since they began lessons. The voice that emerged now had none of the original breathy timidity left. It was like melted toffee, sweet and warm on the ears of the listeners – and there were listeners. Again, people began to gather. Quickly, their numbers swelled, even more quickly than before.
Instead of remaining oblivious, this time the two musicians fed off the crowd's energy. At least Christine did. Erik found that same wave of energy, not from the crowd, but from the ecstatic light in Christine's eyes as she performed. She was a natural, a genius. Her joy was infectious – soon he was as close to Nirvana as she was.
After each piece, the audience applauded. Every ovation was a standing ovation, since the ground was a little damp. People who normally eschewed classical music found they were unable to walk away. Only one person was not clapping and cheering. She sat quietly at the edge of the crowd, unmindful of the dampness, a miniature recorder trapped between her toes and a pencil and steno pad in her hands. When the performance ended, she quietly rose and slipped away, still unnoticed.
The episode with 'Jonathan' sensitized Christine to a world of stares and whispers, which erupted the moment the music ended. One they'd left the crowd where the whispers were all about who the mysterious musicians might be, the whispers changed. They were no longer murmurings of admiration. Mostly, they consisted of variations on, "Look, that guy's wearing a mask. Weird." The whisperers had no malicious intent; they were simply commenting on a strange phenomenon and bringing their companions' attention to it. Not without some shame, she realized that she would have done the same if she'd been with Meg and Erik passed by. She knew Erik heard them, too. His ears were sharper than hers.
They climbed onto the bus, claiming the front seats this time. The first few miles passed in silence; Christine was pondering Erik.
Erik was pondering the memory of her eyes. "You know you light up when you play for a crowd?"
"That was an appreciative crowd," she demurred.
"It makes you very beautiful. Have I ever told you that? You are an absolutely stunning beauty when you play."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," she grinned. She wasn't taking a word he said seriously. She had mirrors at home - she knew what she looked like.
"She doesn't believe me," Erik complained, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Why do I have to get the one woman who won't take a compliment?"
"Give me a compliment I believe, and I'll take it."
"Ok, Ms. Self-esteem. You play like an angel, and while you are playing, you look like one." He tilted her face up to his with one finger under her chin.
"And when I'm not?" she quizzed, her eyebrow quirked.
"You're still cute."
"But not beautiful?"
"I know better than to answer such a question." Erik sat back, with a look that declared the conversation over.
"Wise man." She nodded approvingly. Scenery passed. "I can't wait to get home."
Erik looked over at her, hurt. "Tired of me already?"
"Huh?" Christine blinked. "No. I mean I can't wait to get back to your place."
"You said home."
"Did I?" she said, and leaned against him. "Same difference."
Once back in Erik's apartment, Christine put the instruments away while Erik cleaned up the remains of lunch and prepared to make dinner. As usual, they were both reflecting on how comfortable it was to perform routine household chores together – but as usual, they reflected separately. While setting the cello back on its stand, Christine saw one of her old rosin boxes on the floor next to the dulcimer. She picked it up, walked into the kitchen and tapped Erik on the shoulder.
"It has begun," she intoned ominously.
He waited for her to go on.
"The Migration of Stuff. It has begun. My things are finding their way over to your place, and not finding their way home again. Now it's rosin boxes; soon, it will be a favorite book, my toothbrush, a change of clothes..."
"You already have a change of clothes here," he interrupted.
Christine nodded wisely. "Do you know what this means?
"That you're forgetful?" He asked. "That I need to chase you down the hall with your stuff?"
"No. It means that we'll be living together soon." She took in his shocked expression and shrugged. "It happens." She stood on her tiptoes and turned her face up for a kiss. When he leaned down to grant it, she untied his mask and took it. "You know, I'm starting to hate this thing."
She turned it over in her hands a few times, then tied it over her face. It had a strange smell, resulting from a mix of leather and ointments. It felt soft against her skin, but undeniably oppressive. The breathing slits allowed plenty of air, but there was still a sensation of being slowly smothered. She could see the eyeholes in the periphery of her vision. They added shadow to everything she saw.
Erik stood silently, warring with himself over her actions. A part of him watched with a guilty feeling of satisfaction. Finally, someone was seeing the world as he saw it, feeling as he felt. Another part of him felt as though some incredibly intimate line had been crossed. The largest part of him, though, only felt one way. He wanted to rip the mask from her face and throw it across the room. Before he could move to act on this feeling, she did it for him. It landed on the opposite side of the living room where it lay like a shadow with blank, staring eyes.
Christine shuddered, sickened. "You don't ever have to wear that...that thing around me again. In fact, please don't. Ever. I don't know how you can stand it."
"It's not so bad, once you get used to it," he stated with false calm.
"Just don't, ok?"
"I have to if we're going out," he warned. "Remember how people stared? You…you can't imagine what it's like without the mask. You don't want to."
"When we're alone together," She bargained. "Promise me."
He nodded. "That I can do." He strained his mind for some good change of subject. "Do you play chess?"
"No. I know what the pieces do, but I never played much." Christine was still staring the mask as though it were a particularly venomous spider.
"Funny. I'd have thought you'd be a past-master. Well, there's a lot more to it than just knowing 'what the pieces do'. Would you like to learn?"
"Sure, but you're going to beat me every time." She let the subject drop with a sigh.
Erik pulled out a beautiful onyx chess set. It was a gift from Nadir during one of his many convalescences. They played for several hours; Christine never once came close to beating him. Finally, she laughed and tipped her king over before they ever began.
"I surrender. I bow to your chess mastery." She shook her head in mock-sorrow.
"There's a book you can read. Get comfortable in the armchair while I find it for you."
Christine settled into the overstuffed E-Z Boy. Erik was back in a split second with "The Fundamentals of Chess" in his hand. "Look through this – it might give you some ideas. I have an article I need to finish up editing, then I'll be back to beat you a few more times."
She flipped through the book, wanting to be interested, but unable to absorb herself in the specifics of the "Ruy Lopez" opening. Erik sat at his computer, listening to something soft by Brahms. He was typing continuously and the soft tap-tapping was soporific. She was soundly asleep when he turned to ask her how the reading was coming along.
She looked so comfortable, he decided not to wake her. Instead, he took the blanket from his bed and covered her before taking his shower and retiring to bed himself. She slept the night through, waking only when a thin shaft of sunlight sneaked between the curtains. A quick glance at the clock told her she had just enough time to catch the bus home, change, and jog to work. She was in far too much of a hurry to eat breakfast while perusing the morning paper, as she usually did.