The Virtuoso by Sonia Orchard Read Free Book Online

descend to the A; then again, soon after, I’d rise to the E and he’d skip down to the F sharp, then leap off and away. We were like two admirers gliding past each other on the floor, a seemingly inevitable embrace hindered each time we drew near by the beguiling swirl of the music that intervened, thrusting one of us off to the farthest reaches of the room.
    And every time it occurred I felt, maybe imagined, that we lingered a little longer, to see what would happen if by chance we were to meet. I’d watch his fingers race down the keys as if pursuing mine, and see how long I could remain without appearing too yielding. Then I’d follow him likewise, praying that he might wait for me, but then as I approached, he’d be off, leaving me in a trail of whispering eddies, trilling from his hands onto mine.
    The last episode of the piece was a peal of wedding bells, a rippling legato in G major. And even though Noël was contentedly smiling throughout, and swaying his head giddily to these celebratory triads, I was suddenly struck by the inevitability of departure, that I was a plaything and this duet was a meaningless dalliance. Resisting any more hopeful glances in his direction, any more quiet begging for his gaze, I concentrated on the notes I was playing so that my desire to throw my arms about him could be reined in to producing a diminutive final chord, a swift mounting to my feet, a gentlemanly thankyou and a gracious farewell.
    We were now heading towards the final return of the theme—our very last dance—and I was relieved this would all soon be over. My part was quietly undulating beneath his melody, which softened and slowed into a string of questions and then pleas. Our parts converged for the final A major chord of the episode (my right-hand third finger on C sharp and his left-hand third finger playing the A just above), and that’s when it happened: our little fingers touched each other, not at all awkwardly, but ever so lightly, like a gentle grazing of lips.
    I dared not move—I ought to have only played a crotchet and then a rest, but I waited for his next notes to lead into mine. I was completely at his mercy—I would have been frozen to the keys forever if those following notes of his never came.
    Then he turned his head slightly towards me. ‘What are you doing this Friday night?’ he whispered.
    ‘Nothing,’ I replied, handing myself over to him entirely.
    ‘I’ve two tickets for Tosca —would you like to come?’
    ‘That would be wonderful.’
    ‘Marvellous. I’ll meet you at the Sadler’s Wells Theatre at six.’ And then, as if nothing had happened at all, a graceful mordent around a note, he arpeggiated the A seventh chord in both hands, so that it chimed out radiantly, then trumpeted out the final proclamation of the theme.
    We rollicked along, bellowing out triumphant chords, our little fingers now happily brushingwhenever we ventured close. Then four lines from the end my right hand jumped over his left, so that our elbows were tucked in the other’s side. We sang out the theme, back and forth—dolce—echoing the other, then with our arms still threaded, my forearm leaning gently on his, we launched into the final chords—fortissimo staccato—bouncing between A and D major; I could feel the shudder of his upper arm trembling through my ribs. Then the closing affirmations—D-D-D-D! And as we were belting out these chords I was humming them to myself, and it seemed that the sound of him and me and the quiver running through my veins were all ringing as one.
    Thinking about that evening at Walter’s house, remembering my inebriated laughter as I collected my hat and coat from Walter’s wife, Delphine, and leapt down the bluestone steps onto the sleety footpath, I’m aware that my real interest in the Schumanns was born on that night.
    I recall a moment in particular as I skipped towards the station and looked up at the spire of the parish church of St Peter’s, the blue