Caitlin stood at the bus stop holding the large cello case, wondering if her boyfriend, understood anything she had just said.
It was a Friday in March, and classes were finishing up for the weekend. The other students hurried through the halls as though summer had already arrived.
Kaitlin didn’t want to be late for her arrangement, so avoided her friends after the last lecture of the day. She gripped the cello case as the wind tousled her red hair. The bus turned onto the narrow campus road and stopped. It was on time, which was rare, and free of passengers, which was rarer.
Kaitlin lugged the cello case down the passageway as the bus took off. She sat at the back and let the case rest between her knees. She looked out the window across the barren industrial estate to see numerous cement boulders and neglected bags of sand piled up high. These were supposed to be people’s homes, but you couldn’t even make a shelter out of the material in the state they were in.
Kaitlin turned away, unbuttoned her red woollen coat, and resisted the urge to check her phone.
It was her fifth session at the house, but she preferred to see them as mini concerts. They were the ideal form of practice, with a quiet audience and a generous fee. If anyone asked she said she was giving lessons, but when she mentioned it to Connor he had a different reaction. It was as though she spoke in a foreign language. He tried to humour her but couldn’t dispel the look of embarrassment in his eyes. She knew the more she said, the more awkward it would be.
‘I know it sounds odd, but it’s not what you think.’ She said.
Connor, with shaggy brown hair and a sleepy face, held Kaitlin close, but he couldn’t look at her. He wanted to say it was strange and that she probably shouldn’t do it, but in the least confrontational manner.
‘Is there anyone else there when you’re playing?’ He asked.
Kaitlin looked up and with a cheeky smile tried to reassure him, but she knew he already had the wrong idea.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘there’s a maid, and his daughter is there too.’
‘A maid?’ He repeated, ‘What is it, Downton Abbey?’
Kaitlin laughed, but the joking only emphasized the awkwardness that would accentuate her departure, and make it seem more like a betrayal than a temporary goodbye.
Connor pulled away as Kaitlin leaned in to kiss him. The wind blew her hair across his stubbly chin and tickled his mouth. He smiled but couldn’t bring himself to look at her directly.
Kaitlin knew that no amount of embellishment could mitigate the feeling of intimacy implicit in a one-to-one performance. What she thought of as a kind gesture, Connor imagined was a sexually charged engagement that reeked of perversity. If he had shown an interest in her music, she might have told him sooner, or it may not have come to this at all. The question had been on her mind since the first session weeks earlier. Before she knew how, she was posing it to him.
’If I went away, how long before you’d forget me?’ She asked.
Connor tried to look intrigued with a raised eyebrow but it seemed as though every utterance implied the opposite of what the words meant.
‘Why, where are you going?’ He asked.
‘Nowhere,’ she said, ‘I was just wondering. What do you think when you think of me?’
This was sounding like a breakup.
Connor pulled back, finally separating himself from Kaitlin’s embrace. A sigh escaped between his lips that grew more hurried as he sought a quick exit.
‘Is there a right answer to this question?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I feel like you’re setting a trap.’
They were only nineteen, and too young to be concerned about a distant future - Connor certainly wasn’t - but Kaitlin couldn’t help feel like there was nothing memorable between them that would solidify their relationship across time.
‘It’s not like that,’ she said, ‘I just…’
Connor picked up his bag and gripped her by the arms.
‘Listen, it doesn’t matter,’ he said, ‘I’m not angry or anything.’
‘I just thought you should know I’m not sneaking around.’
He zipped up his jacket and kissed her cheek before turning away.
‘I get it. We’ll talk later, I have to run.’ He said.
Before Kaitlin could call after him, he was disappearing among the other students exiting the canteen. He would probably spend the night playing XBOX and guzzling energy drinks. If that didn’t go too well, he would go out with friends.
It could be another two days before Kaitlin saw him again. Maybe she would be over it by then, she thought, or maybe he would. She looked at her phone. There were no messages or calls.
The bus left the motorway behind and ascended the bushy hills overlooking the bay.
Five minutes later, Kaitlin exited the bus and carried the cello case up the winding driveway, passed the yacht and blue outhouse. She looked up at the large brick façade and Viennese windows. There was something antiquated about the grounds that made her feel older. The house was like a secret buried amid the trees and surrounding verdure. Kaitlin wondered how long you had to work before affording a house like it.
Bree opened the front door and smiled, her short black hair and straight teeth as perfect as Kaitlin remembered. She could take a dozen guesses and still not know how old Bree was. Her flowery blouses and satin pants were equally modish and classical. Kaitlin presumed she was a stage actress before taking time out to nurse her father.
‘Come in,’ she said, ‘Dad’s just sitting by the fire.’
Kaitlin removed her coat and carried the case down the hall. The smell of smokeless coal and vegetable soup pervaded the house.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ Bree said,
‘Thank you,’ Kaitlin said.
She entered the reading room, stepping gently on the thick carpet as the fire crackled under the mantle. He sat facing the window in a furnished brown armchair, his rumpled body nestled in the threadbare fabric. She only saw the left side of his white face where the light shone through the window.
‘You’re back, ’ he said.
He didn’t speak at the end of the previous session, and Kaitlin assumed he was unimpressed. No sad pieces, was his only request. Kaitlin thought there were no other pieces you could play on the cello, as it produced a uniquely haunted sound. But he never complained. It was easy to appease an audience with Bach if you played properly, and Kaitlin never doubted herself.
‘Sorry I’m late, ’ she said.
The man did not respond, but sat silently facing the window.
Kaitlin lifted the cello from the case and walked to the hardwood chair a few metres behind him. From where she sat the sun appeared to set in front the man’s chair. She didn’t want to put him asleep but thought he wouldn’t need any help.
There was a notebook and pen on the small table beside the window apron, and ornamental picture frames on the bureau drawer. Kaitlin wanted to look more closely at the woman in the black and white photograph, but didn’t want to invade his space. Other frames showed pictures of children playing, seaside frolics, a wedding party.
He could have asked Bree to buy a radio or record player, but there must have been something about a live performance that stirred him. Kaitlin didn’t know and was afraid to ask. She would probably notice new things even on the one-hundredth session, if she lasted that long.
The man made a ruffling noise and cleared his throat. Kaitlin sat forward and noticed he was folding a piece of paper numerous ways.
She waited a moment before playing a few stray notes and gauging the feel of the bow in her hand. He would settle down once she began. Soon she was in the middle of Mendelssohn’s first sonata, eyes closed and the feeling of security spreading through her. Kaitlin thought it was an ambivalent piece, suggesting both joy and sadness. She imagined an aging woman finally reuniting with her lover only to realise the passion they shared has diminished. It wasn’t the same without piano accompaniment, and the pace was quicker, but still the man was restful.
A few minutes passed and Kaitlin forgot where she was. It was just her and the music. An hour could have passed, or two, she would not have known. It was only when thoughts crept into her mind that she lost concentration, but there was nothing stopping her now. It had been ten minutes since Bree promised to bring tea, but there was no sign of her.
After Mendelssohn, Kaitlin played Rachmaninoff’s sonata in G minor. It was contemplative, suggesting nostalgia and gentleness. She played quickly through the piano solos, and soon felt the music envelop her. She was never more aware of herself than when playing and yet the music allowed her to escape the present uncertainty of her life.
There was a mysterious quality to the cello that always appealed to Kaitlin. The first time she heard it, it was as though another piece of her had been added. Composers didn’t put their emotion into the music, she thought, but took emotions from it, and shared it with listeners. Communication seemed easier through the instrument.
Now there was another noise, not sudden, but subtle, rising up like a plume of smoke. It was the man, muttering to himself, testing out the words like soup on a spoon. Kaitlin continued playing, but her concentration was lost. She tried to hear what he was saying, but she didn’t want to cease playing and draw his attention.
The sun had now disappeared behind the chair and Kaitlin could only see the shadowy outline against the window. She had reached the section where the piano took over the main melody. There was a moment of silence when she heard the man speak louder.
‘That’s what happened,’ he said, ‘I’m sure of it.’
He was somewhere else, or in a different time.
Kaitlin wanted to stop. This was the first time she heard him speak during a session. Maybe he wanted something. It became clear as Kaitlin listened that his mind was elsewhere.
‘It was after we got back,’ he continued, ‘you said you would.’
Kaitlin sat quietly with the bow dangling between her fingers. The music had left her, but the echoes remained. She didn’t know what the man was talking about, but the insistence of his words rang true. It must have been his wife. Her photograph was on the bureau next to the chair.
Kaitlin thought about Connor. He was probably sitting in the library scrolling through his phone. She wanted to ask him again what he remembered when he thought about her. It was important that she occupy a piece of his mind before the feeling between them soured. He never listened to her play, and she didn’t know what else to do about him.
‘How could I forget?’ the man said, ‘We promised each other.’
In the four previous sessions, Kaitlin didn’t know what the man wanted from her playing, but now she had made him feel something vital. She wanted to know precisely what it was, and wondered if she inspired the same feeling in anyone else.
Bree knocked on the door, entering without a response.
‘Is everything okay?’ She asked.
Kaitlin turned fast, and with tears in her eyes tried to find the right words to explain, but there was nothing she could say. The music spoke for itself, and although it wasn’t hers, it gave some consolation.
About the author
Justin Aylward is a writer from Co. Dublin, Ireland. He has published short fiction, poetry, a novel, and film criticism for numerous online film outlets. He is currently writing a three-act play inspired by the current fuel crisis in Europe.
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