I played her first note on my flute, and I could almost watch her listening to it. Obviously, she had not been lying about her previous musical training on the viola. As she gathered herself to sing out, I discreetly pressed the button that would record our session.
“Laaaaaaaaaaaaa,” she sang. She hit the pitch perfectly, without ‘searching’ but the note was barely adequate. No magic to it, no spark.
“No! No consonants. When I ask you to sing a note or a scale, use the syllable ‘ah.’ Now, again.”
I expected the first temperamental outburst of the day from her as a response to my shortness, but there was none. I have never taught a singer, even my darling Madeline, who could not refrain from childish tantrums and pouting during lessons, nor witnessed a lesson taught by another without disruption. But, I could see her struggling with herself, perhaps the master such an impulse, but suddenly it ceased, as if she had reached a conclusion, and she opened her mouth to sing again.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaah.” Again, she had hit the pitch perfectly, but her voice was muddy with a bit of a burr in it. She was neither breathing nor standing properly, though I could tell she was trying her hardest to do everything in the manner she thought was ‘right.’ I would have been better off teaching her if she had never sung a note in her life. Good habits are easy to form when none exist, but almost impossible when you have to break old bad ones.
And, I had to get her to do all the necessary physical adjustments in herself while still respecting her desire to not be touched. I wasn’t sure if even I was equal to the task before me, but it had to be assayed. I withdrew a small conductor’s baton from inside my jacket and used the end of it to adjust the angle of her throat, very slightly.
“Again.”
Sorcha sang the note again, and I noticed a very slight improvement in the tone. Perhaps this task wouldn’t be impossible.
So, we plunged into the lesson. After each note she sang, I would adjust her with the baton, or advise on some correction I couldn’t indicate with the baton and ask her to try again. Every few times I would play the pitch on my flute, but it seemed unnecessary. Her pitch never varied; I had at last been blessed with a student with perfect pitch.
I walked around her countless times as the morning wore on, both to watch her technique and just to watch her. After a few minutes of the lesson, she suddenly improved drastically, and I realized she had arrived in my music room still sleepy from a long night. When she began to pay attention, to watch her stance, position and breathing in the mirrors, her improvement was sudden and marked.
Then, slowly, I watched the growing frustration in her face and stance, and listened to it affect her voice. I awaited the outburst I knew was coming. She wanted to sing something other than a single note over and over. But, I kept the course of my lesson calmly as if I did not notice these things. At the first protest, she would be quickly reminded who was Maestro and who the pupil in this room.
“Again.”
But, the outburst never came. Suddenly, she calmed again, and I wondered what could possibly be going on behind those witch eyes. After her voice showed the improvement of her cleared mood for a few notes, I released her to walk around the music room, and take a sip of water. However, it was not so much for her rest as to see if she would remember all the improvements and changes we had already made to how she sang. Sorcha astounded me again by remembering most, though not all. Either she was concentrating harder than I thought or the girl had superb muscle memory.
Several more times I saw the struggle against frustration rise on her features and calm itself again. Each time, when she had re-mastered her voice, I sent her to walk and sip some water, hoping she might subconsciously see the break as s small reward for her good behavior.
Eventually, the frustration stopped surfacing. Instead, she watched my baton with the single minded intensity of some great cat watching its prey. The focused concentration seemed to be doing well for her voice, which was still improving, so I paid it no mind.
At last, her voice cleared. It would always be breathy and alto, and would never have the innocent clarion of a true soprano, but to me it seemed more mature and beautiful for it. It had lost the burr, and there was now some indefinable character to her voice that had not been there before. It was as if, by clearing out the cover of the burr and shake, it had allowed a bit of her soul to shine through, and it was beautiful.
I had her sing the note some two dozen more times, just to fix the posture and breathing well in her mind and body. I knew that I’d have to do a good half of my teaching over again tomorrow, but that was quite normal, especially for the first several lessons.
“Again.”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaah.” I gestured for her to hold the note out for as long as she was able, and to my joy, her voice neither wavered nor shook, and the dynamic and tone both stayed quite steady.
The strangeness of a smile crossed my face again, and I ended our lesson. “Enough.”
I chuckled inwardly as she took another breath to sing, and let it out in a confused puff as she realized I had not been indicating for her to repeat her note. I settled on the organ bench, facing outwards, toward my gypsy guest and indicated she should seat herself. I expected her to flop down in exhaustion, but to my surprise, she sat rather primly, still memorizing her posture.
I relaxed and uttered the first praise I had spoken to her all morning. “You are a far better student that I thought you’d be.”
It had the opposite of the intended affect on my new student. Where all the pushing and demands of the lessons had not led her to snap, this did.
“Good student?! How can I be a good student? Obviously, I’m not even good enough to progress beyond singing one note, much less being a good student. It seems quite clear to me that I am an exceptionally bad student!” Her eyes snapped at me as she railed from her chair. I expected her to rise and pace, but she didn’t.
A scathing reply was already on my lips, to remind her who was teaching whom here, but then I realized that her frustration was stemming not from the fact that she wasn’t singing anything more complicated that a single note, but that she thought I did not consider her good enough to sing anything more.
That was quite far from the truth. Several times during my lesson, I had to force myself to stay on our planned track and not accelerate her teaching. I knew her voice would be the better for the slow pace, but I was so eager for a musician worth singing with, I almost ruined her teaching myself. Soon, she would be a fine singer.
I did my best to smile reassuringly at her. “That is precisely what I mean. We have accomplished in today’s lesson what would normally take a week, with none of the theatrics, ranting, cursing, complaining, pleading or whining that would accompany any other singer being forced to sing a single note over and over. I had expected you to snap at me quite some time ago. I was pleasantly surprised.” I wanted to tell her I was proud of her, but I felt that emotion might seem too intimate from her music teacher and host.
My little speech did not have exactly the effect I was hoping for.
“I wanted to break your baton so badly I could taste it,” she mumbled sullenly.
I could have laughed. But you didn’t, I thought, many would have. “I had figured you’d want revenge and desire to prod me with it.”
“That too,” she replied with a slightly guilty smile, but no dissembling.
“Entirely understandable.” I made a show of putting it away so that she would not get any ideas, but restrained the urge to wink at her. The new aspect of our relationship as Maestro and pupil was still too new and untried. However, I could think of a way to cement it, perhaps.
“I have a surprise for you, having done so well. Close your eyes and listen.” After a moments hesitation, where she watched my closely, Sorcha did as she was bid. I wondered again what had happened. She had gone from trusting the man who threatened to kill her by staying in his house to being afraid to close her eyes in my presence. But, I could not imagine she had noticed my checking on her, and even if she had, I wouldn’t think it would produce this much change in her.
Nevertheless, she had still closed her eyes, and I quickly manipulated the recording of our lesson to the beginning and played her first note.
“Laaaaaaaaaaaaa.” After all the improvements she had made during the day, I couldn’t help but wince a bit at her raw voice. I hurriedly adjusted the recording again.
“Now hear this.” I played her last note, smiling slightly at the pure tone. I turned to see Sorcha’s reaction, some happiness, or amazement, but I saw her face crumpled and her posture dejected. I rushed to her side, and stopped there, helpless to fix whatever ailed her.
“Erik,” she half-whispered, “can you really make me sound like that?”
Stunned, I stared at her, concealing the laugh that was bubbling up in my chest, knowing if I let it pour forth, she would take affront.
“You already do.”
She opened her eyes, and did not start away to find me so near. Disbelief clouded her green orbs and she started a feeble protest. I stopped it with a gesture.
“Sorcha, that was a recording of your last note, only a moment ago.”
Her transformation, as she believed me, was beautiful to behold. All the sorrow and stress left her form and her smile beamed out, sunbright. I could have sworn it was a smile for me and not her voice. It was too much, and I fell back to what I was familiar with.
“But of course, that was only one note, and one note does not a song make. Tomorrow, using everything you have learned today, we will begin work on scales and dynamics.” I waited for another outburst, a plea to sing a song or to work faster, proceed faster. Instead, she astounded me, for a change.
“That sounds wonderful,” she smiled at me. I’m pretty sure what she was really saying was I respect you as my teacher, and will trust you.
This, I was on familiar ground with, and felt I, too, could let the worries and stress from the lesson go. I heard a stomach rumble, and could not be totally certain that it was not my own.
“Then, let’s get some breakfast going. I imagine you would about kill for a cup of coffee now?” I rose from my crouch and began walking towards the door. I didn’t have to turn to watch her, the mirror on the wall provided enough of a view, but I figured it was courteous to. She was following me.
“You have no idea,” she laughed, and followed me eagerly down the hall to the kitchen.
On the brief walk through my house, I marveled how that laughter took my home, which I had always thought was morose, somber, and stately and transformed it to something merely cozy and protective.
Breakfast, or brunch, as it turned out, became almost a jolly affair. I tried to insist that as her host I should cook, but she pointed out that she had promised to cook at least once, and couldn’t very well do that if she didn’t know her way around my kitchen.
So, with the pleasant smell and sound of brewing coffee surrounding us, we worked together in the kitchen. I was still very careful not to touch her or even brush against her accidentally, which was difficult in the small confines of the kitchen. But, she made very pleasant company, aside from being lovely to look at. Her humor was quick and warm, and made an excellent foil to my more acerbic wit. And slowly, I could see the knots that held her restrained from me, the fear she had demonstrated so briefly in the music room fade away.
Amidst the domestic chaos that results when two people try to work together in a small kitchen, I came to a stunning realization. I knew already that she respected me as her music teacher and she pitied me as the Opera Ghost. But from the warm curve of her lips as she smiled at me over her coffee, and the soft, fearless way she moved near me, she was my friend as well. I could easily imagine her telling someone, “Yes, one morning while my friend, Erik, and I were making breakfast….” I had a friend.
And as I looked at her in this new light, despite the impossibilities of hope and fear this represented, I wanted to weep. It still wasn’t enough. Her friendship was a glorious and magical thing; a better gift than I had ever received in my entire life. But as I looked at her and my head said ‘friend’ my heart wanted ‘lover.’ She was perfect in all the ways Madeline had never been: open, compassionate, mature, and unafraid. And one thought echoed loudly in my mind, overpowering music, love and Sorcha’s voice asking me something inconsequential.
She must never know.
It was only when I revealed my love for Madeline that things had begun to go wrong between us, and she had fled me. I would not risk forcing Sorcha from my house, from my presence in that manner. If friendship was all she could ever offer me, I would drink every moment of that with all my soul, and not risk a second of it.
And it was still infinitely better than what ‘relationship’ I had once had with Madeline. She had feared me, hated me even, except when it came to matters of her voice. No matter what else, I had always been her Angel of Music. But Sorcha had not even offered to come to my home for her voice, or indeed for anything I understood. She saw I was lonely and wanted to give me a friend. So she gave me all she could offer. Herself.
Apparently, Sorcha had been speaking to me for some time and my distraction finally concerned her. She reached out and poked me in the mask with the clean whisk she had been about to use on the eggs.
“Hallo, Erik? Anyone awake behind that thing?”
The fact that she joked about my mask, rather than staring or avoiding staring somehow comforted me, made me believe her assertation that she would not try to see what lie behind it, that it was just another part of me, to her.
I shook my head as if coming out of deep water. “I apologize, I was thinking…”
“Here,” she slid a mug of coffee across the counter to me. “You need this more than I do. Obviously.” She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation, and then took a sip of her coffee, leaning her elbows on the counter and eyeing me frankly over the rim of her mug.
“What was it you were thinking so hard on?”
It was more than just an idle question, and I felt I could lie to her, so I resorted to a half-truth. “You, me, this!” I included the coffee, the kitchen, the eggs in the pan, my whole house in an explosive gesture. “I don’t know what to make of what’s going on here. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.” Behind my mask, I felt small and fragile, like an abandoned boy again.
She smiled, a bit lop-sidedly and shrugged apologetically. “Why does everyone always say that around me?”
Daring to follow the fragile feeling to the core, I almost whispered, “I’ve never had a friend before. It’s…strange.” I couldn’t meet her eyes and studied the counter.
“Yes, I know. Isn’t it wonderful, though?” I looked up, and her eyes sparkled with such genuine emotion, I could not retrain yet another smile. Sorcha was going to make them common in me, even if inside, I wanted to tell her how I loved her.
“Yes, that it is.” And we returned
to work on our eggs.