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"So you have been working!" I drop my backpack on my bed and stare at the second piece on the program he's handed me: String Quartet in G Minor by Adrian Lawson.
"I worked on it last summer, actually," he admits, blushing. "I've just been polishing it up this semester."
"And rehearsing it," I point out. I look up, delighted for him and amazed at the risk he's taking by letting everyone listen to his music. "I can't wait to hear it."
"You really want to come?" Adrian sounds surprised. "It's not all that great," he warns, flapping his hands awkwardly as if he doesn't know where to put them. "Well, it is kind of neat-with lots of string plucking instead of bowing-but it's pretty derivative, too-"
"Quit criticizing yourself before Tyler does it for you," I tell him, grinning. "It's got to be good, or they wouldn't be performing it, right?"
"Well. . . ." He hunches one shoulder and looks unconvinced.
"I really want to come," I assure him.
"We're having kind of a party after," he says slowly, "to celebrate. I don't suppose you'd want to go to that. . . ." He lets the words trail off.
I almost groan. Trapped. But I am curious about his music. "Yeah, I'll come."
Adrian was wrong - his music is terrific. And I like the odd voice of the plucked strings - like a harp, instead of the whining bows that usually give me a headache in string music. Adrian manages to make the strings sing and purr and hum. I could paint shafts of silver light in a blue-grey wash that would shimmer like those strings.I glance behind me in the school concert hall. Adrian stands at the back of the rows of seats, a stiff shadow dimly illuminated by the glow of the Exit lights. He holds his arms folded tightly across his chest, one fist pressed against his mouth as if he's gnawing his knuckles. Is that what it's like to have a crowd of people studying your work? It was bad enough with one. Why does he risk it?
Turning back to the four musicians on the stage I see Tyler slumped in an aisle seat a few rows in front of me, probably imagining himself a critic for The New York Times, ready to jump from up at the curtain and race to his office to dash off his latest poison pen review. He'll probably burn Adrian to a crisp to get even for my sketch of him. I ignore the pang of regret and let the music wash over me.
After the final movement, I grab my pack and slip out of my seat in the applause. I corner Adrian in the lobby as he's heading out to circle around to the stage entrance. "It was great," I tell him honestly.
The awkward tension has drained out of him, and he looks radiant, almost luminous, like that dazzling music. Is that why you risk it? To become part of that radiance? "Go-" I give him a slight push toward the stage. "Enjoy. I'll be back for the party."
I let myself into the dark, away from the lighted building, away from the people. The party will be here, in the concert hall lobby, but I want some time alone first. I walk through the night, listening to the strains of music in my memory. These's a fresh wind blowing into my face, not hot for once. We'll have rain later on, the drops echoing the sound of the plucked strings. The wind in the leaves hums like the violins singing, the clouds scud across a quarter moon like the mellow drone of the cello. I lean into the wind, into the sounds, and the world feels new-made and full of promise.
I see a single tree illuminated by a street lamp. It stands out starkly against the swirling greys of the sky, bent sideways by years of wind. The trunk and branches have allowed the wind to cripple them, rather than breaking under its onslaught. I stare, transfixed by the sharp, clear image of the tree against the sky, painting it in my mind as color and texture on a waiting canvas.
Why couldn't I have someone to share this moment with? Someone who understands tormented trees fighting ceaseless winds in a canvas world? There has to be someone, somewhere, to whom I could describe this tree and the things it makes me feel - even someone who could see the tree, and know how I feel without my saying a word. Someone who could look at the painting I'll make of this twisted trunk and gnarled branches, hunched even on a still day against the winds that will come, in the end, and understand the feelings mixed with the oils. Other people have friends who share their dreams. . . . For a slow moment, the longing is piercingly sweet.
Then I turn away from the crippled tree. Other people open themselves up, the way Adrian opened himself tonight by having his music played, the way Rachel opens herself as she sorts through fragments in that tidy office of hers. They've found a place to belong, a way to be accepted for themselves. But what do you do if you don't really belong anywhere? if you won't be accepted? I can't risk opening myself up, not the way Graeme risked opening himself in his book.
Or did he? Adrian's self was in his music tonight, just as my self is in my painting. I thought Graeme's self was in his book, but the pieces don't fit together. Is that really why Rachel wants me to draw him? Because she wants someone to rearrange the pieces so they fit? Perhaps Graeme's as clever at disguise and misdirection as I've become.
Copyright ©2002 by Elaine Marie Alphin
