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FANTAISIE-IMPROMPTU
“Are you free tonight?” The query is answered by a coy giggle, and behind the pillar, she clenches her fists in restrained rage.
How could he do this to his face? How can he use it so indiscriminately, favouring it upon the masses? Didn’t he know that it is precious- his face is precious; one in a million!
“I don’t know, Charlie… Professor Wildman told me to go for additional practice tonight.”
Her nails stab the side of the circular column, as she tries to contain her anger by breathing through her nostrils. In, out, in, out, in.
Wildman, Wildman, Mark Wildman. His first name is Mark.
A thought lurks just beneath the surface of her conscious mind, like a bubble bobbing threatening to break free on the water face, but not quite. She strains, trying her hardest to retrieve it, but it was like trying to reach a hand to the bottom of a slimy quagmire.
“Come on. I mean, I have a composition to hand in tomorrow too. But still, I’m asking you out, aren’t I?”
Composition, he’s from composition. And Simon Bainbridge owes me a favour… He must be Bainbridge’s student; he has to be.
A smile blooms on her face, delicate and deliberate like the unfolding of the night jasmine, only to be interrupted by a gasp. Her own, she realises, from the sudden pain on the index finger of her left hand.
Her nail has broken, split in the middle to be exact, from the pressure she was asserting on the pillar. The blood welling up from the centre is the source of her pain.
Ripping her concentration from her hands, she refocuses on the scene unfolding before her.
“Angela. Say yes?”
“No, I won’t. There’s this soprano senior in my class—Selena? Yeah, well, her voice is phenomenal! If I don’t go for additional practice today; he’ll give her the part of Julia in Spontini’s La Vestale.”
Selena? Her mind clicks; the bubble bursts. Ah, the girl is a soprano.
And Selena knows her. Selena, Selena. She can ask Selena.
“But you aren’t a vestal virgin, Angela. I should know.”
“Charlie! That’s a horrid thing to say!”
“What? I’d say it’s a great thing that you aren’t a vestal virgin. Your talents would have been wasted.”
Their voices fade behind her as she turns to take her leave.
The poor child is confused, seduced and made dizzy by his angelic countenance. She knows the feeling.
It is not her fault, not at all. She must not be angry at her.
The poor little lamb does not deserve anger directed at her.
Instead, she must be saved, before she sinks in anymore, any further.
Yes, she must ask Selena. As soon as possible.
Because Ann Tamborse is an expert from saving lost souls from damnation; that she is, with her years of experience.
She gives the backpack in her hand a fond pat, smiling slightly as the familiar clanking sounds—it is sweet music to her ears, sweeter than the uplifting excitement of Schumann, sweeter than the fickleness of Mozart, sweeter than the thunderous waves typical of Beethoven, sweeter yet, than the flowing, rolling brilliancy of her love, Chopin.
Ah, Chopin.
Her left fingers twitch, and moved in the rapid broken chords of the C harmonic minor characteristic of Number 12, of his Études, Opus 10.
She hums, pirouetting slightly on her sneaker-clad feet, but not quite.
After all, she wouldn’t want people to think that she is insane now, would she?
“Hello? Ann? I got your message. Geez, why are you so excited? And here I was, thinking that something had happened. What are you interested in her, or something? I thought you told me that you aren’t lesbian! You didn’t even leave sixteen voicemail messages enquiring about me after my performance in Béatrice et Bénédictlast year! Jesus. Anyway, yeah, Angela Davids is a junior in my class, and an upstart, too. She actually had the gall to suggest to Professor Wildman that she should get the part of Julia! And she calls him Mark, too! Ugh, how aggravating. But fear not, I got the part, as usual.”
She grins in delight at the direction of the answering machine, too lazy that she is to walk over and pick up Selena’s call.
Angela Davids. A junior. Soprano.
The poor girl has a name, a surname.
How her family will exclaim in horror should they find out that their daughter is led around like a cow by the nose, by an angelic Don Juan.
A frown creases her brows, as she slaps herself hard on her left cheek. “It is not Charles’ fault, Ann Tamborse. His face is too potent for mere mortals, yes. But it is not his fault. He is as much a victim of it.”
Only she, only she will be able to withstand its temptation. Only she will be able to see it for what it is- a work of art, wrought by the loving hands of God.
Nothing more, and nothing less.
Tilting her head back, she nestles her head into her pillows, staring at the winking stars so far away, up in the velvet backdrop of the starry night.
Starry, starry night…
But I could have told you, Charles. This world is never meant for one as beautiful as you.
“Hush. Hush, my dear.”
“You crazy—Let go of me!”
“Shhhhh. People will hear you. I won’t hurt you.”
“I—Ughhh! Mmmmph!”
“Breath in, and relax. Just relax. Poor darling. The ether will help.”
“Mmmph! Glurgh—”
“Shhhh. Go to sleep, dear.”
“Mmm—”
“Yes, that’s it. How beautiful you are. Skinny, though. You should eat more, my dear. But… Your neck is so beautiful, like a swan’s. And pale, so, so pale. Come, my dear. I will feed you.”
A/N: And here's Prelude. Did anyone catch the reference to Hitchcock's Psycho? Wahahaha. Review, please do review, and gimme some love!