Forbidden Melody

by Magnolia Robbins

  There were several messages on my phone from Emma. Playful, sweet messages. I deleted them all, clumsily, tossing my phone onto the couch. Once I had, I found my way to the Steinway in the corner of the room. My body slung into the chair. I’d never dare touch my violin after drinking that much alcohol, but tonight it didn’t seem to matter much.

  I unclasped the Vuillaume from the case and the Mozirot bow, they fumbled their way to my shoulder and hand. My fingers trickled up the neck of the instrument, feeling the textured strings beneath me. Outlining every note in my mind. Drowning myself in my music, as I knew how to do. There was nothing that would save me in this world like the lull of a nocturne or the triumphant chorus of a concerto. No words that could breathe life into my soul like a simple etude could.

  I didn’t think. I couldn’t. Every piece of me became a part of the maple wood of the violin. The sweet vibrations that pulled from it and filled me, as my bow ran lightly across the strings. It just happened. There was no stopping what was coming. Barber’s Adagio spilled from every fiber of my soul. Long, emotive pulls of the bow across the high registers, crying out into the room. It started slow, dragging out each fragile, broken note. Building and building until it screamed the highest notes my fingers could reach. Bellowed them out in agony.

  The song dropped down again into low, solemn notes that told a story. A story with an ending that was out of my control. I played it exactly as it was meant to be played. Every note precise. Every measure detailed and delicate. I knew how it would finish. The way the final sweet low bowings of the deep sorrowful notes would thunder into the room. There was no stopping it. It was how it was meant to be played.

  Once the final measure pulled from me, the last note drew from my bow so long that I’d lost track of my timing. I sat there, once the sound had faded from the room, staring out to nowhere in particular. There was no other option. It had been decided from the beginning. Every part of me knew what this would become, and I’d chosen to do it anyway. Now it had spiraled out of control. A fiery, untamable blaze that would be smothered. It had to be. For both of our sakes. Emma Harvey and I had to be through.

  WHEN I AWOKE FROM MY drunken stupor the following morning, my head was splitting. I barely managed to get to the kitchen to take something for my head. I fixed a pot of coffee, the room spinning around me. The moment I checked my phone, I wished I hadn’t. There were a dozen messages from Emma, several from Miranda. All concerned about my sudden disappearance. Emma had attempted to come to my apartment the previous night. I must have been so drunk I hadn’t heard her knocking. It hadn’t mattered. There was no possible way I had the ability to see her.

  After I downed a cup of coffee, and felt well enough to function, I made my way into the living room, and heard a knock at my door. My head felt dizzy again, my stomach churned. Emma. I couldn’t answer. I stood frozen until I heard the loud echoing voice of my friend roaring through the door.

  “Juliet, open this goddamn door,” Timothy’s voice sounded more concerned than angry. In swift steps, I made my way to the door. It fell open in a matter of seconds. We met each other’s gaze and he knew something was wrong. The realization was written all over his face. “Juliet.” I knew as he said my name, without the use of that condescending nickname, he was gravely concerned. My body fell against the wall, staring at him.

  “What the hell is going on?” Timothy asked me. Once again, he looked more anxious than upset. “Miranda and I tried calling you a dozen times last night. Emma was worried senseless...” I prayed for that to be the only thing he said. For him not to add some crass remark about our engagements. Luckily, he’d read my mind. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” I breathed, barely able to formulate words. Timothy stared at me, paused, until I managed to speak in a few more fragments. “My father... he...”

  “Oh God, Juliet.” Timothy’s hand clasped his forehead, shaking his head. Again, I begged to every entity that he’d leave the lecturing. “What are you going to do?”

  “He’ll ruin her,” I stammered. “She’ll have no chance with the Philharmonic. They’ll pull her grant funding. God, I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds a way to expel her all together. There’s bylaws about fraternizing with faculty...” I couldn’t speak, having run out of air.

  “Take a breath,” Timothy said, his hand falling on my shoulder. They came in deep frustrated sighs from my mouth and nose. “Did he say he was going to do it?”

  “Only if I didn’t end it,” I replied. “Timothy, I have no options. I don’t know what to do—“ My words got caught in my throat, tears fighting to leave the corners of my eyes. “I can’t. I can’t do this to her. To us.”

  “Then don’t.” The words from his mouth surprised me. He stared calmly, reaching out to place a hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps it’s best, Juliet. Best for both of you.”

  FOR A FEW DAYS, I MADE desperate attempts not to contact Emma. Eventually I found out she’d gone to stay with Miranda and Timothy, who both insisted I stay far away from her. I would have given everything to have the opportunity to apologize. To explain myself.

  The week after New Year’s, the faculty returned to campus. For the spring semester, Miranda had resumed her regular teaching schedule, leaving me only with two private lessons and an undergraduate seminar to attend to. I arrived at the staff meetings promptly, though my father and I never spoke or acknowledged one another. As far as I was concerned, if my position was safe, if there was no threat to Emma, that was all that mattered. Everything seemed to have returned to normal. That was until I found the note.

  I’d intended to leave the apartment early that morning, for the first day of classes. The seminar started first thing. There was a bit of preparations I had in mind before it began. As soon as I opened the front door into the hallway, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. After I’d plucked it from the ground, I let it linger in my hand for a moment before I had the courage to flip it over.

  Dreams can change. I love you.

  My fingers spilled across the page. The minute I read it, I was filled with dread. I made the short walk up to campus, my phone to my ear, dialing Miranda. She answered and I spoke before she could. “Where is Emma?” I asked, pausing along the sidewalk. I saw Miranda leaving her car in the parking lot. My phone returned to my pocket, and I sprinted to her. The look on her face explained things that her words wouldn’t. I knew Miranda could tell by the expression on my face, I knew something too.

  “She asked me not to tell you,” Miranda explained, her voice soft. She reached out to touch me on the shoulder. “Not until after—“

  “Miranda, did she leave?” The words barely managed to escape my lips. I already knew the answer, I hadn’t needed to ask. Miranda nodded, and I felt myself crumble against the side of her car, unable to breathe.

  Three Years Later.

  24

  Emma

  Bartok, Concerto for Piano No. 1

  Grieg, Holberg Suite

  THE COOL EVENING WIND whipped at my face as I stood at the foot of the fjord on the concrete slope. Yellow lights of the opera house glowed behind me, reflecting off of the stainless steel and glass sculpture that floated in the icy water. The shimmering effect had me hypnotized. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground, not completely unusual for April in Norway.

  Oslo’s city lights glowed off in the distance. I’d sat at this bench, in this exact spot, several dozen times since I’d came a year ago. It wasn’t quite the same this time, knowing that in a few short hours, I’d be on a plane back to the States. What had initially been an extended visit had turned into three years of performances with the Oslo Opera House orchestra. Lydia’s father, Albert, had offered me a position without even a discussion.

  I wrapped my coat around me tightly, preparing to get up and head back inside. The last performance of the season had ended an hour earlier. Overwhelmed with emotions, I’d found myself needing a brief escape and ended up out by the water.

  T
he theater was a sight to be seen. It was angled and designed with marbled, white granite giving it the appearance of rising out from the water like a giant man-made iceberg. The entire lobby was encased in large glass windows that allowed for maximum views of the fjord outside. White oak filled most of the interior surfaces of the building, providing a warmth which contrasted the gloomy landscape outside. Yet it wasn’t the lobby nor the structure of the building that appealed to me most, but the world-famous auditorium that I’d spent months rehearsing and performing in. It was horseshoe-shaped, illuminated by a magnificent crystal chandelier. Baltic oak lined the entirety of the theater. I’d stood in nearly every spot in this room at one point or another. It had become a second home to me.

  The set for the Magic Flute opera was spectacular in every way. A beautiful painted canvas spread as a backdrop, with a wooden outline of a bare tree, stretching towards the catwalks. It was a mesmerizing enchanted forest out of a storybook. The Oslo spared no expense with their shows. Every costume was designed in the grandest nature, down to the very finest stitches. Every prop, exquisitely looked over. And the set was no exception.

  I made my way down the left-hand side of the floor of the theater and I saw Lydia and her father still on stage, beneath the wooden tree. A young blonde woman had her arm wrapped around Lydia’s waist. The three of them were lost in conversation about something and hadn’t noticed my approach. Once I’d wandered up the side steps onto the well-polished stage, they all turned. I waved, coming to stand beside them.

  “Did you wander outside again?” Lydia asked me. I could tell by the look in her eyes, she was as distraught about my departure as me. “Anita offered to drive us to the airport to drop you off.”

  Anita Koslov was a ballet dancer from Saint Petersburg, who had moved to Oslo to perform around the same time Lydia had arrived. They’d hit it off almost immediately. By the time I’d made it to Norway, they were already married. She was a beautiful Russian woman with long blonde hair and mesmerizing blue eyes. I’d very rarely met someone who was as nice as she was. The best part, however, was Lydia was completely smitten with her.

  I nodded graciously. “We probably should get going.”

  Albert walked over to pull me into his arms. He looked strikingly similar to Lydia in almost every way. I hugged him back briefly. When we parted, he spoke, “There’s a seat for you in the fall if you change your mind.”

  As much as I’d wished I could’ve changed my mind, the minute I’d gotten the phone call from Miranda Kepner, I knew there would be no turning back. By the expression on my best friend’s face, she knew it too.

  A few minutes later, I left the Oslo Opera House for the final time. As we loaded into Anita’s car, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of finality. The city passed around us as we rode towards the airport. I drank it in, trying to remember all the small details I’d taken for granted after living here as long as I had. New York felt like a distant dream at that point.

  The airport, while on the smaller side, was one of the busier airports I’d ever visited. By the time we made it, I was already running late. I exchanged brief goodbyes with Anita before I hopped from the car to stand on the sidewalk with Lydia. There were tears welding up in her eyes. We came together tightly. I could feel my friend’s erratic breathing against me.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I reassured her. As soon as I did, she pulled back from me.

  Are you sure it’s what you want? Lydia asked me. The question was deeper than she was implying. She was just reaffirming I was making the right decision. Warning me of the implications of my decision. Reminding me there was history waiting for me when I went back home. I knew all too well what I was in for, but the opportunity likely wouldn’t present itself again.

  I’m sure, I signed, trying my best to smile. I’ll miss you.

  I’ll miss you too, Lydia said, unleashing a small cry. We hugged again, tightly, before I gathered my two suitcases and shouldered a backpack. “I’ll call when I get to the States,” I promised. Lydia nodded, and I took off into the airport without looking back, in fear if I did, I might hesitate. There wasn’t room for second-guessing, not with my dreams on the line.

  The flight from Oslo to New York was a non-stop ten-hour red-eye. I managed to sleep through the majority of it. When I arrived at the terminal, it was sunny out, still early morning. Once I’d made it through the terminal, I saw Miranda waiting for me against a white concrete column. She hadn’t changed much, her curly brown hair still long. A phone was against the side of her face, and she looked lost in conversation. When she saw me approaching, she quickly hung up. We collided together, and I breathed a long sigh of relief. The last time we’d seen one another was over a year ago, at my father's wake in Poughkeepsie. It had been a small affair, just our closest friends and family.

  “Well don’t you look spunky,” Miranda said, running a hand through my short cropped blonde locks, reminiscent of my teenage years. The look on her face seemed as if she’d approved. “You’re exhausted,” Miranda said when we were looking at one another again. She’d reached to push some of my hair behind my ear in an affectionate and motherly way.

  “I just need some coffee,” I replied, shouldering my backpack. Miranda smiled and looped her arm around mine, as the two of us made our way to fetch my luggage.

  After we’d picked up some coffees in the airport, Miranda and I made the small trip to her and Timothy’s New Jersey apartment, where they resided for the Philharmonic shows. I was surprised to find Timothy waiting for us when we arrived. There was breakfast on the table which smelled divine.

  Timothy swept me up into a tight hug. Once we broke, he took my luggage across the apartment to the spare bedroom where I’d stay until I could find my own living arrangements. Then the three of us sat down for breakfast, our conversations falling as naturally as they had the last time we’d seen one another. I shared stories of my time in Norway, most of which they hadn’t heard much about. We were off-and-on while I’d been overseas, finding it hard to stay in touch with the time difference.

  I helped clear the table, and Miranda finally spoke about what was waiting for me that afternoon. It had been on my mind all morning, even amidst the distractions. “The panel meets at three today. There’s four auditions, but I’ve already put in a good word for you.” I smiled, handing off a stack of dishes to load into the dishwasher. “Emma, I have to warn you. She’s going to be there. I don’t know how you feel about that.”

  “It’s been three years,” I replied, meeting her gaze. Miranda knew that even if she was a part of the package, I wouldn’t have passed up the opportunity. That time of my life was far behind me now. My own dreams and goals were what was important.

  “I just wanted you to know,” Miranda said, calmly, once she’d finished at the sink. We stood facing one another without speaking for a minute before she clapped her hands together. “Speaking of which, you probably should be getting ready.”

  My nerves didn’t hit me until we’d made it into the city to the Lincoln Center. The last time I’d stepped inside that building, Juliet had let me play at the Ugly Duckling, right in the middle of David Geffen Hall. Now, I would be auditioning with four premiere pianists for spots in the summer showcase with the orchestra. Miranda had made sure my name had been placed on the roster and I’d gotten a call the minute there was an availability. I wouldn’t have passed it up. If I could get on now, most likely I’d be offered more spots in the future for other shows. Playing alongside Miranda and Emerson, and others like them, had always been my dream.

  As we made it off the elevator from the parking garage, into the Lincoln Center, we stood in the lobby for a few minutes. It was quieter than normal, just a handful of employees wandering the halls. It was a beautiful, late-spring day, the trees in the pavilion outside in full bloom. The city spanned around the building in every direction. I was lost in it while we waited, having missed the vastness and bustle of New York.

  Before I knew it, Miran
da had wrapped her hand around my own. When I turned my attention to her, she was smiling. “I don’t need to tell you, but good luck.” I returned her smile, nodding, before she took off down the backside of David Geffen Hall. The same hall I’d wandered down with Juliet years ago. Thinking of her briefly made me remember the words she’d uttered to me before the fall performances at the Bard.

  “All the best,” I found myself murmuring out loud. After I’d taken a few deep breaths, I pulled open the doors to the back of the theater. It was just as big and captivating as it had been the last time I’d been inside. A sea of fabric and wood surrounded me. I’d grown accustomed to the chic elegance of the Oslo Opera House, but there was nothing quite like being inside of David Geffen Hall. The room was music.

  Quietly, I made my way down the aisle to the front of the room. At first, it looked as if I was possibly the only person in the entire theater, until I spotted a small collection of individuals in a row near the front. I assumed they were the other pianists auditioning. When I met them, I recognized one of my classmates from the Bard amongst a few familiar faces. We introduced ourselves, before I joined beside them.

  The conversation lasted for a few minutes before Miranda made her way onto the stage in front of us. She introduced herself and explained the audition process. It felt similar to college auditions. We’d play a collection of pieces from the Philharmonic repertoire and some scales, and then they’d call to let us know. The only difference was, the rest of our competition was here to see us perform.

  I was grateful when I wasn’t the first called to the stage. Instead, the woman from the Bard had gone first. From everything I remembered about her, she was a gifted pianist. The pieces she’d chosen for her audition were surprising to say the least. Most of them were popular, somewhat cautiously safe choices of the Philharmonics. Nothing that particularly showcased anything special about her playing. She was extremely talented and played technically well, but she was about as memorable as any other seasoned musician.