The Music of Us (Still Life with Memories Book 3)
Page 18
Her fingers started flitting across the keys, and at once I was taken by the solemn, dramatic sounds she made rise over us. They came pressing against the far reaches of the hall, gathering ominously just below the vaulted ceiling, as if in preparation to blow it away and sweep us into the night.
A Note to the Reader
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Bonus Excerpts
Excerpt: A Peek at Bathsheba
Wrapped in a long, flowing fabric that creates countless folds around her curves, she loosens just the top of it and lets it slide off her head—only to reveal a blush, and mischievous glint, shining in her eye. It is over that sparkle that I catch a sudden reflection, coming from the back window, of a full moon.
Looking left, right, and down the staircase, to make sure no one is lurking outside my chamber door, I let her in. Then I lock it behind her, so no one may intrude upon us.
In a manner of greeting I raise my goblet. It is a gift from my supplier, Hiram king of Tyre, and unlike the other goblets I have in my possession, this one is made of fine glass, with minute air bubbles floating in it. With a big splash I fill it up to the rim with red, aromatic wine. In it I dip a glistening, ruddy cherry, and offer it to her, with a flowery toast.
“For you,” I say. “With my everlasting love!”
Bathsheba takes the goblet from my hand, and raises it to her lips. “Love, everlasting?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “What does that mean, in this place?”
I hesitate to ask, “What place is that?”
“This court,” she says, with a slight curtsy, “where the signature feature is a harem, which is as big as the king is endowed with glory.”
“Glory is a good thing,” say I, lowering my voice. “But sometimes it is better to meet in the shadows.”
“Especially,” she says, matching her voice to mine, “when there are so many others.”
“Here we are,” say I. “It’s just us.”
“Really,” says Bathsheba, sipping her wine and ever so delightfully, licking her lips. “It must be a special night, then! Just you and me, and no one else, no one else at all.”
Yet I cannot avoid feeling the presence of someone other than me in her thoughts, perhaps her husband, Uriah, who is one of my mighty soldiers and the most trusty of them. Earlier today he must have received his transfer orders to join the cavalry in the eastern hills, where he would be stationed outside the city of Rabbah.
I have a catch in my throat as I tell her, “I’m so glad you came.”
Bathsheba lifts her eyes and looks straight at me.
“Really,” she says, in her most velvety tone. “You mean, I had a choice in this matter?”
Her question stumps me at first, because how can I admit that she is right, so right in asking it? Instead I just shrug.
“You do have a choice,” I say at last. “And I hope you’ll make it.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” says Bathsheba. “With that ape, I mean, that bodyguard of yours knocking so loudly, so rudely, and for such a long time at my door, I had my doubts about it.”
“You can go, if you wish,” I stress, with a reluctant tone. “But I wish you wouldn’t. Stay with me, tonight.”
Bathsheba picks the stem of the red cherry, and takes little bites out of it. In her pleasure she hums, and smacks her lips. Then she raises the goblet to my lips, letting me take in the aroma. I do, and then I take a long gulp.
With a slight sway of her hips Bathsheba walks past me, knowing I cannot take my eyes off of her. She wanders about my chamber as if she were the one owning it.
“You’ve been brought here by my order,” I whisper to her, across the space. “But I am the one held captive.”
Excerpt: The Edge of Revolt
At last, “Decisive action may be easy for a king,” I tell her. “But as a father I must weigh every word I speak, because in the future it may leave a scar upon the hearts of my children.”
Somewhat reluctantly she says, “I understand.”
“I hope you do,” say I. “They are, all of them, my flesh and blood.”
“Then, act as a king,” she says. “Not as a father. Name the one who will succeed you, the one who—in your judgement—may become a better ruler than the others.”
I have to admit, “I have yet to make up my mind,” which fills her eyes with worry. She knows all too well that Solomon, being the younger son, has less of a change to win my favor.
“Decide,” she says. “And make your wishes known. That in itself may bring about a change, a peaceful transition of power. Otherwise, I’m afraid there will be mayhem. It will start at sunrise.”
I let go of her hand, because to say my next sentence I must not lean on anyone.
But before I can muster my pride, and take air in my lungs, and clear my throat to state, in my most regal tones, “I am still the king, am I not,” I find myself staggering. In the next instant, there I am, a heap of arms and legs spilled on the floor, twisting in agony from the sudden chill overtaking me.
I reach up, trying to breathe her name. And I wonder what this suffering may look like, to her and to a heavenly city watching over me, floating silent and forlorn on the hill.
Overhead, a cloud breaks off from the others and moves in a new direction. Its wooly, dim grays are drifting across. I squint, rub my eyes. Now, in a separate layer, another image starts floating past: the way she looked, right here on this roof, when we came out of these doors the very first time.
I remember: scattered petals flew off, swirling in the glow around her long, silky hair that started cascading under her, onto the tile floor. In the background, a vine of roses twisted over the wooden lattice and into it. Between its diagonal slats I saw a diamond here, a diamond there of the heavens. I wondered then about the black void that was gaping upon us, dotted by a magical glint of starlight.
Separated from her by the thought of a kiss I sensed her heat, and the gust of air, which was sweetly scented by roses and by her flesh—but I could not tell if the breath between us was hers or mine. Which is when I knew, for the first time in my life, that she would always be part of my essence. I would be part of hers.
Accidentally the goblet, which she had set down next to her, tipped over and some of the wine spilled over her hip. The crisp sound of breaking glass rang in my ear. It marked the moment, from which I could not turn back. Never would I be able to put it out of my mind.
Yes, this was my fault: taking a woman that belonged to another. Soon after came the blunder: bringing her husband, Uriah, back from the front, that he may sleep with her, which would have explained her pregnancy ever so conveniently.
And when that did not go as planned, then came another mistake, the worst of all: sending him back to the battlefield, with my sealed letter in hand, arranging for his death.
All the while, my boys were learning their own lessons—not from my psalms but from my deeds. One error begets another, each one bringing a new calamity over me, over my family, and over this entire land. Sin followed by execution, followed by revolt, escape, execution, revolt...
Had I known back then the results of the results of my mistake, the curse looming over my life ever since that time, would I still choose to do it?
Bathsheba tries to raise me to my feet. Her fragrance brings back to me the sunny, warm hues of spring. The fears, the doubts flee away when we are that close. I adore the way she calls my name, the way she sighs. With every sweet word I
fall deeper into her eyes.
How can love be a mistake? In my passion for her—then as now—what choice do I have?
I want to tell her, “Let me close my eyes. Let me remember.”
Excerpt: Apart from Love
“Stop right there,” I tell him. “It makes no sense to me! Why would she want to leave you right then, at the turning point of her life, when you could be there, by her side, fighting to hold her back, away from the brink?”
“This,” says my father, “is something I, too, do not understand. Up to that point Natasha has changed, quietly, and grown so much stronger than me, to the point that, no matter how hard I tried, there was no pleasing her. Then she got word, somehow, about my moment of weakness: my fling, this little, one-night thing—that was all it was, back then—with Anita.”
I look at him as if to say, Who cares about your moment of weakness? So far it has lasted ten years.
He looks away, saying, “Your mom, she was mad at me. She flared up in anger. It was painful. More painful than I had expected. Was she too proud to forgive me? Did she expect me to fight harder for her, so that she may take me back someday? There was no way to know. My God, she let me feel I was done, I was no longer needed.”
“But, dad,” I say, “did she believe she could face it alone, whatever it was? Was she willing to risk everything, and for what? For no better reason than pride?”
“God,” he says. “I wish I knew.”
“Enough,” I say. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“That’s just the thing, Ben. Natasha kept quiet, all these years, and so did I, for her sake. Gradually, her memory problems got worse and yet, no one knew: not our friends, not even her students, because she was so afraid, afraid to lose them. Teaching, for her, became more than a livelihood: it was the last token of her independence.”
“You should have told me, dad.”
“Well, how could I? There was no one here to whom I could talk.”
“So, since then, has mom been diagnosed?”
“Well, son, it took a long time,” he says, in a tired tone of voice, “Four years after she had left me, that was when they found out, at long last. And you, Ben, you were in Europe then, off to your medical studies, or something, with a light suitcase, and a heart heavy with anger, who knows why.”
I want to say, Because I had to go, to be some place else. Because I had no family, with you cheating and mom throwing her wedding ring away. That’s why. But without waiting for an explanation, my father moves on to say, “I just could not do it, could not bring myself to open up, to tell you about it.”
Suddenly his voice trembles, and he wraps his arms around me, which makes me unsure if this is to lean on me—or perhaps, to protect me.
“Ben,” he says, “this disease, unfortunately, it can strike in the prime of life. Natasha was forty-six when, after years of knowing that something was going terribly wrong, and not being able to put a finger on it, they finally diagnosed her.”
“And,” I hesitate to ask, “does it have a name?”
There is a sound by the entrance door, then a knock, once, twice, three times—but neither one of us moves. There is a somber expression on his face. His gaze is locked into mine, and something passes between us which I cannot express in words.
Meanwhile, between one knock and another there is a smaller sound: the click of the clock. Under the glass crystal, the black hand moves around the dial, from one minute mark to the next. It advances with a measured beat, the beat of loss, life, fear—until at long last, my father takes a long breath, and allows himself to say, “The doctors, they call it Early onset Familial Alzheimer’s disease.”
Then he passes by me on his way to open the door; which gives me a moment to think of mom.
I picture her staring at the black-and-white image of her brain, not quite understanding what they are telling her.
The doctors, they point out the overall loss of brain tissue, the enlargement of the ventricles, the abnormal clusters between nerve cells, some of which are already dying, shrouded eerily by a net of frayed, twisted strands. They tell her about the shriveling of the cortex, which controls brain functions such as remembering and planning.
And that is the moment when in a flash, mom can see clearly, in all shades of gray blooming there, on that image, how it happens, how her past and her future are slowly, irreversibly being wiped away—until she is a woman, forgotten.
Books by Uviart
My Own Voice
(Volume I of Still Life with Memories)
978-0984993215
Paperback: Amazon, Barnes&Noble
Ebook: Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, Smashwords
Audiobook: Amazon US, Amazon UK, Audible US,
Audible UK, iTunes
The White Piano
(Volume II of Still Life with Memories)
978-1517049447
Paperback: Amazon, Barnes&Noble
Ebook: Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, Smashwords
Audiobook: Amazon US, Amazon UK, Audible US,
Audible UK, iTunes
The Music of Us
(Volume III of Still Life with Memories)
978-0-9849932-9-1
Paperback: Amazon, Barnes&Noble
Ebook: Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, Smashwords
Apart from Love
(Volume I and II of Still Life with Memories, woven together with two bonus chapters)
978-0984993208
Paperback: Amazon, Barnes&Noble
Ebook: Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, Smashwords
Audiobook: iTunes, Amazon US, Amazon UK
Audible US, Audible UK
The David Chronicles
(Volume I, II, and III)
Ebook: Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, Smashwords
Rise to Power
(Volume I of The David Chronicles)
978-0-9849932-4-6
Paperback: Amazon, Barnes&Noble
Ebook: Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, Smashwords
Audiobook: iTunes, Amazon US, Amazon UK,
Audible US, Audible UK
A Peek at Bathsheba
(Volume II of The David Chronicles)
978-0-9849932-7-7
Paperback: Amazon, Barnes&Noble
Ebook: Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, Smashwords
Audiobook: iTunes, Amazon US, Amazon UK,
Audible US, Audible UK
The Edge of Revolt
(Volume III of The David Chronicles)
978-0-9849932-8-4
Paperback: Amazon, Barnes&Noble
Ebook: Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, Smashwords
A Favorite Son
978-0-9849932-5-3
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Audiobook: iTunes, Amazon US, Amazon UK,
Audible US, Audible UK
Twisted
978-0984993260
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Home
978-09849932-3-9
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Audible US, Audible UK
Children’s Books by Uviart
Jess and Wiggle
978-1494920968
Paperback: Amazon
Ebook: Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, Smashwords
Now I Am Paper
978-1494919429
Paperback: Amazon, Barnes&Noble
Ebook: Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, Smashwords
1 “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition was written by Frank Loesser and published as sheet music in 1942
2 “Those Green Eyes” written in Spanish under the title "Aquellos Ojos Verdes" by Adolfo Utrera and Nilo Menéndez, 1929. The English translation was made by Eddie Rivera and Eddie Woods in 1
931.
3 I’m in a Lowdown Groove written by Jordan Roy
4 Bei Mir Bistu Shein composed by Jacob Jacobs (lyricist) and Sholom Secunda (composer) in 1932.
5 Amazing Grace written by John Newton in 1748
6 This story, eventually titled Leonard and Lana, is included in full in the novel Apart from Love