The Diva

   The cacophony in his head was the deafening opposite of the stillness around him. Her voice, loud en clear, overruled everything. Something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

   He sat at the red comfortable chair with the soft lining which was designed for his needs. And this indeed, was very expensive. Each chair on it's own was £ 1500. Ridiculous amount of money, fortunately it were only 6 and not a whole theatre. But even then he had been more than willing to pay for them.

    While leaning backwards, he modified the chair to his own comfort and allowed his thoughts to wander off, hoping that thinking about her might also reduce the noise that swirled round and round with false tones.

    He recalled her face and hoped this time it would be calm although he knew the main feature of it was her mouth and that was never calm. How stupid to have fallen in love with that same mouth which was at the time her attraction, particularly to him being a bachelor who lived on his own for too long.

    He met her at the birthday party of his best friend. He never meant to go but this was friend's 40^th birthday and a 'Bal Masqué'. He liked that, he did not often appear in public and definitely not at parties but this way he was going to be slightly incognito. Not that he was easily recognized because he was famous (which he wasn't) but he just did not like large crowds.

And one other thing was that he was extremely rich and women, particularly single women, had a nose for money. They smelled it and immediately behaved like cats in heat, something he hated! It made him immune for the female species. But with a masque he would be fairly safe.

    Blame the masque that he fell for her mouth. Of course it was the most visible part of her face apart from her chin which revealed a determined character but that is not what he noticed. No, it was her mouth as beautiful as a rose in full bloom. He wasn't a poet but the phrase 'a rose in the morning dew' crossed his mind. He watched it from a distance and could not take his eyes of it.

    Her lips were so fascinating that the world around him disappeared. He stood in the middle of a universe without sounds and people. The space was empty and in this emptiness floated her mouth with the moving lips like wings as if they weren't attached to her.

    The thin air around him wasn't cold but warm and comfortable. He couldn't remember if her mouth made his blood boil or the warm thin air. Or both, he did remember he fell in love, deeply in love, without being introduced to her.

    The mist dissolved and very slowly the sounds of tinkling champagne glasses laughter and conversations returned.

A male voice next to him asked him if he was alright and without turning round to the man he said he was fine and added: “thank you for asking.”

    He shook his head an realized he must look like a fool although the beautiful mouth smiled and moved towards him. It was then when he noticed it belonged to a woman almost as tall as he was. He looked into green eyes behind a very simple but expensive masque. A warm voice said: “I don't think we met before”. When he agreed, they exchanged names and started a conversation. He needed all his willpower to listen to her words (which were many) and not to fix his eyes on her lips. Although he had relationships before with women he went to bed with, he never had the desire to kiss them the very first moments of their first meetings but now he only wanted one thing: kissing her. And not a social kiss, or a kiss between two friends no, he wanted to press his lips against hers until she opened her mouth to welcome him. He wanted his tongue to dance with hers in an erotic rhythm and he did not care he was at the birthday party!

    With these memories he moved in his chair, a little restless because his emotions balanced between relief and grief and he did not feel comfortable with both. Why did he marry her so soon? He surprised family, friends and society. Even the newspapers that never wrote about him before, headlined “Most desired bachelor found his Eva” (why on earth did his parents name him Adam...)

    She did not only have a beautiful mouth but also brains and organisation talents. In no time she organized their wedding and sent out numerous invitations to people he had never heard of before and who she called 'colleagues' or friends. If he had not been so very much in love at the time, inviting these people who were mainly in the showbizz, must have set off numerous alarm bells. But the bells kept quiet and only rang when it was far too late.

    It did not take her long after the marriage to convince him of her many talents like performing, singing and being an actress of high level. Well, not discovered yet but with his help (read; money and status, after all he did not only have a double barrelled name, no, he had three names and a long forgotten title) she was finally going to break through.

    Strangely enough he never heard her singing (not even in the shower but this might have been because the always showered together), nor seen her performing. And when it finally happened, in full public in the music room in his Manor, he was shocked. Not just a little bit but deeply shocked. At first he could not believe how a beautiful mouth and a warm sensual voice like hers, produced a noise that could only be described as an old unmaintained unidentifiable agricultural machine that tried to plough it's way through sticky clay.

    It was awful, terrible, shocking and above all embarrassing because she did not stop! She went on and on, looking over the heads of the poor spectators that were too polite to cover their ears wit their hands.

He wanted to crawl under his chair, fly to the ceiling, dissolve in thin air (maybe not a wise thing to do), everything to move away from her singing as far as possible. And by the look of their guests, every body had the same idea. And even so more the so called 'colleagues and friends' from their wedding party.

    Even after all those years his cheeks turned red in embarrassment. And what ever he tried to stop her, to convince her to search for other talents (she must have at least one he hoped), she kept believing she was The Star the world was waiting for. He sighed and was the producer that organized her first official concert, still thankful. Agreed, they planned it together to make her see that the large audience wasn't at all polite enough to let her go on. People who paid for her performance were most likely going to shout and whistle.

    Fortunately for her, it never happened. Yes, she was going to perform, people were waiting for her to enter the stage but when she did, her high healed shoe got strangled in her enormous dress of which the skirt was made of numerous layers of lace. Before someone could offer help, she fell off the platform in between the people of the orchestra and indeed, broke her neck.

Her audience still wanted their money back but not before the next day because they thought it was part of her act and applauded and laughed.......

Photo: @marshallubx (Instagram)

   

   In the old abandoned and forgotten Manor his now fading and decaying private theatre with the red chairs and curtains (the colour of her mouth) the blue walls and the large mirror instead of a scene decoration is the only witnesses of his desire to stare at the reflections of an empty stage, empty chairs and to absorb the valuable and admirable stillness.

Word of thanks: the photo of @marshallubx (Instagram)) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Marshall!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @marshallubx

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

Last Performance (short story)

   His body moved passionately with every note, absorbing the music.
His fingers kissed the ivory and ebony keys in changing tempo's. The violins in complete harmony; tender and loving.... energetic and impressive. Or in total silence, listening to the careful touches, waiting to join in.

   Beethoven was always his favourite composer, particularly No. 3 in C Minor, Opus 1, no 3:IV, Finale, Prestissimo. It was the first music he heard as a little boy of only 2 years old, during a concert at home, organized by his parents. He sat in a little chair in the corridor upstairs, looking down at all the guests in their beautiful clothes. Jewellery shone in the light of hundreds of candles which sent their warmth and the scents of all the different perfumes his way. It did not bother him, with his eyes wide open he listened and listened.
His little hands mimicked the hands of the pianist in the black suit. His head moved in the same rhythm, his blond and silky hair waved. His little body relaxed when the music was slow but straightened by a higher tempo. Although he was too young to describe his own feelings, he knew that he had never heard something as beautiful as this.
   His governess watched him, thinking she needed to talk to his parent. This beautiful child was born to play the piano and the lessons needed to start at a young age.
She did not notice the tears at her wrinkly cheeks. Tears because she knew the childhood of this lovely little boy was going to be different than that of other children. But how could she keep it away from him? Look at his face with the soft cheeks that coloured red by the emotions he felt.

   She was right, this evening changed his life.
His parents were delighted to learn about the musical gift of their child and looked for someone to teach the boy piano lessons. Their choice was Monsieur Augustin Joguet, a Frenchman famous for tutoring gifted pupils.
But M. Joguet never met a child as young as the little boy who was even at the age of almost 3, also very stubborn. A child that heard music in his head, music his hands wanted to play on the beautiful grand piano in the music room. His young attitude drove M. Joguet almost insane by the look of his behaviour; next to the child (the poor boy was never called by his name) he made little jumps on his chair, raised his white hands with the long pointy fingers in the air, dramatically shouting: "Mais non, non non!!! Ze child first needs to learn ze scales!! 'E can not play Beet'oven at once!!" Then shook his head, spreading desperate little drops of sweat.
   Arguments about his payment, patience and to his great annoyance also his competence, followed.
The little child did not understand what was said, he did not even hear it. His head was full of beautiful almost heavenly music where dissonance was not allowed; he closed his ears for the ugly music produced by the adult voices. Instead he let his little wide spread fingers search for the right tones of the performance he heard during that  beautiful evening. In his head the violins.

   M. Joguet resigned; thinking he might be too old for this which worried him far more than the future of this gifted child who played the piano in unawareness. Parents and governess wondered if he had even noticed his teacher left for good.
   A new teacher arrived. And another one, and another one until the very young pianist that understood the music in the child's head and the connection between these tones and his fingers performing an excellent translation.
Of course there were other lessons to follow and as long as the child knew the piano was waiting for him, he obediently listened to his governess and made his homework.

   At the age of five he had his first performance for the guests of his parents.
The sight of his little innocent body sitting on the chair, his back turned to the guests, was very touching and many ladies could not hold their tears.
The child's teacher sat next to the piano, his hands folded, his eyes fixed on the boy as if he read the notes inside that little head. There were no music pages to turn, the boy knew it all by heart.
   The evening was very successful although more realistic people agreed that this child should climb trees or play cricket instead. Though the parents were very proud.

   The years went by, he became very famous, his parents added extra space to the music room to entertain more guests because the only problem was that the child, a man by now, never wanted to leave the house. The sound of the outside world confused him, too many notes that did  not make sense, notes causing agony and disorder. He once described the sounds outside the walls of their stately home as 'ugly' and the way he pronounced it, left no doubt.
   A situation causing great concern with everyone involved, not in the least his parents. They shook their grey and wrinkly heads but could not avoid leaving this world when old and tired; like the guests. The younger generation the man wasn't familiar with, developed a different taste for music.
He wasn't aware of it and as long as people looked after him, he played and played until his body also bent for physical decay; his back round and aching, his knuckles swollen in pain. He did not want to give up, did not want to stop. He could not stop, there was so much music in his head.

   Still came the day of his very last performance.
The sight of his shrunken lean body sitting on the chair, his back turned to the non existing guests, was very touching and angels above could not hold their tears.

Photo: @glory.of.disrepair (Instagram)

The translucent posture of his long gone teacher was seen next to the piano, his eyes fixed on the man. There were no pages to turn, the fading fingers of the man found their way without thinking. Beethoven's No. 3 in C Minor, Opus 1, no 3:IV, Prestissimo was the man's personal Finale; he played with all the energy that was left. The tones echoed against the walls and ceiling, made the structure move; tearing the plaster apart until the tones slowly drifted away when the teacher reached out for the man who allowed the elements to take care of his beloved grand piano. His music travelled with him to never be heard again.


Word of thanks: the photo of @glory.of.disrepair (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Mathias!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @glory.of.disrepair

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

Dialogue (short story)

“We have always been close friends, haven't we?
And not just friends, often we were one person and neither you nor I knew the difference between our characters. More or less like twins although we don't look like each other. And we were 'joint to the hip'. We were so close that we could read each others mind!”

          “Indeed we have but I disagree about not knowing the difference between our characters!”
 
“Why? You are I and I are you! From the moment you created me or as I prefer, was born. I am not going to argue about it again! We have been down that road numerous times. You do not want to admit you created a copy of yourself. Oh yes, I do now you so well! You had hoped for a totally different person but (and here I giggle....) I became your wicked you!!!”

          “Yes, yes, you do not need to rub that in my face. I made a mistake uh?”

“I do love that broad smile on your face. It is so good to have fun together. You did not have much to laugh about lately. It is my duty to bring back the twinkle in your eyes! Come, give me a hug! Good boy... Like in the old days, isn't it?” 

          “It is and here is your hug. By the way, do you still remember our performance in Glasgow?”

“I do, I do!! I thought you were so brave; the first time in Scotland. The Scots are famous for their wicked sense of humour and I was very certain they were not going to laugh about us. Yes, we were good but there is a difference between good and very good. And nobody knew our names. And our performance was not exactly in The Theatre Royal. Actually we did not know where it was, we only had an address.” 

          “And the address was not very promising either but we had to start somewhere. And the fun already started in the train because you did not behave. Again....”

“So sorry, so very sorry! But not. You wanted me to sit on your knee which I did not mind of course; I love travelling and seeing the landscape and towns passing by. And it was not my fault that the train was full of schoolchildren on a day out. We both love children, don't we."

          “Yes, we do. They are less complicated than adults and easy to please.” 

“Particularly when we start singing, our famous duet 'Somethin' Stupid' although I agree with you that we should really leave that to father and daughter Frank and Nancy Sinatra. You can hardly call us father and daughter!” 

          “No, not even father and son."

 “Not even a little bit father and son? Sometimes I wished we were, I would still be lonely but as your legitimate offspring and living another life.” 

          “Alright, just a little bit father and son. I don't think I have children. As you know I have been in love a few times and I have spent nights with different ladies but do I have children?” 

“Don't ask me!! Remember that you always left me in the hotel or where ever we stayed when you were seeing a temporary lady friend! I was not allowed to take part in all the fun. No, instead I was on my own, not even with a light on, waiting for you to return and that was often early in the morning. Can you imagine how boring that was for me?” 

          “Please, don't. Do not mention that again, I have suffered enough for it already without you telling me. I do blame myself for it, honestly. Please smile again, I want to have fun and not feeling sad.”

“You are right, I am sorry but I am the victim here as well. I promise not to mention it again. Back to the train in Glasgow. All those children that almost stood on top of each other not to miss the fun. The ticket collector did not think it was fun, the whole corridor was blocked. But who can resist laughing children on a day out? A memorable journey that ended with all the passengers singing 'Old MacDonald had a farm...'” 

          “And the ticket controller snoring like a pig! Teachers mooing and bleating! Do you think the children will still remember that day?”

“Certainly they do. They are now grown ups with hopefully children of their own and I bet it is occasionally a bed time story. At least we still remember that day. Not knowing our performance in Glasgow was going to be such a huge success that we stayed there a whole week instead of one night. The people kept coming to listen to us.”

          “It was indeed a good start of a career. We never became very famous but we made good money and travelled a lot.”

“Shame isn't it that we needed to spent most of the money on travelling, trains did not come cheap, nor hotels although we never stayed in the Ritz. And you of course also spent it on treating ladies on nights out. No, no.... I do not start again but it is true!”

          “Hush, I do not deny this, I know I did. But how could I have spent money on you? I bought you new clothes but you only needed to wear them during the performances. You and I kept your clothes nice and tidy, you did not wear them off like I did.”

“Well, well, that was a long sentence! I must have upset you and I am sorry for that. By the way, can we stop saying sorry over and over again? Life went how it went and we can not reverse it.

Then..... after a lifetime of performances you fell in love again....."

          “Yes but this time with someone I wanted to marry. I loved her so much!”

“So much that you did not listen to my warnings. I knew immediately what kind of 'lady' she was. She thought you were famous enough to be rich and she was going to spend all your money. You know what I learned there and then....???”

          “I know, you learned not to argue with someone who is deeply in love. You learned that love is blind.”

“Indeed I did. First I was jealous, knowing I was never going to meet a nice lady of flesh and blood, warm and comfortable. Never. But my jealousy changed into deep concern. How could she know I understood everything she said when you were away for a moment, leaving me with her. She mentioned you a lousy lover but as soon as you had married her, she was going to run off with your money. Off to her next victim. I still do not know why I never found the courage to tell you these exact words.”

          “Please calm down, I do not blame you. I know now that I would not have believed you, thinking you were jealous indeed.”

“Most terrible of it all, you did not even had the time to end in poverty with me. You did not have much time at all but both of us did not know. She forced you to buy a house and expected a villa. When you showed her the house, proud and pleasantly nervous, she acted if she liked it though she did not and you did not notice.”

          “No I did not, I thought she liked it and I went on decorating. Making it a nice and welcoming house." 

“You even bought me my own chair, I was touched. I still am but goodness am I lonely after her new boyfriend followed her one evening and pointed his gun at you! It is hard for me to say what happened next but you and I know. Our future together ended. I am glad we can still talk but I will never sit on your knee again, joint to the hip. We will never make people laugh again. I will never make people laugh. I am all on my own in this by everyone forgotten and abandoned house.

Still sitting on my own chair, staring out the window with that stupid, useless perdition smile at my face......”

Word of thanks: the photo of @jasonbakerphotography (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very thankful. Thank you Jason!

Link: please  visit the beautiful Instagram account of Jason Baker.

Note: the story is (of course) pure fiction! A figment of my imagination.

Helen