The Composer...

The Composer: A Confession of a Dream

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For the lion, and the blue boy

Simon and Garfunkle,
“For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her”

I found myself standing before a mirror in an antiseptic, all-white room, wearing an unfamiliar, midnight blue, sleeveless velvet evening gown that laced up the front of the bodice. My hair was long and piled on top of my head; a wealth of jewelled silver pins held it in place. Still, a few strands escaped the intended artistry, and I tucked them behind my ear. I turned as a door behind me opened onto an empty hallway.

The corridor outside of the room was as sumptuous as the other room had been Spartan. The walls were painted gold; a plush burgundy carpet with an oriental pattern ran the length of the floor, with white marble beneath, just visible on the edges. Spun silver and crystal chandeliers, lit by hundreds of white tapers, hung from the ceiling at regular intervals. The door from which I had emerged was at the end of the hallway, so I followed the carpeted path towards an archway.

Passing beneath it, I came to a huge room, again unpopulated and sparsely furnished, yet lavishly appointed with tapestries upon the walls, marble floors, an enormous wrought iron chandelier in the centre of the room, and a long mahogany table against one wall. Scattered across the table were several sheets of hand-written music, a sheaf of blank staves, and an inkbottle.

I looked about for the pen, for it suddenly seemed very important that I find it. I needed, wanted some connection to the composer, some tangible piece of him that could put me closer to him, a compulsion whose source I neither could identify nor understand, but it was not there. A small breeze ruffled the papers; voices, and the far-away strains of a piano floated into the room through an open window.

I gathered the sheets, one by one, in what I hoped was their proper order, holding them to my chest, and ran across the great room to the other door. I ran down a flight of marble stairs; the wall to my left was cut from stone into high arched windows with spiralled columns between, looking out and down into a courtyard with a fountain, to which I came when I reached the bottom of the steps. I clutched the sheet music to me, thinking only that I must find the composer, whom I knew must be the same person playing the piano, and return the sheet music to him. I turned in circles, trying to catch again the music that I had heard.

The courtyard was paved all in grey stone, the manse I had just exited rising on three sides, towering over both the fountain and I, in my bare feet, casting a long shadow in the late afternoon sunlight. I felt small in the shadow of the house, and I raised my face to the breeze, closing my eyes, listening again for the music.

I felt a touch at my elbow, and turned to find a man in his middling years, in a tri-corn hat and wig, wearing the typical clothing of the colonial Americans. Bowing, with his hand held out as though to guide me, he said, "Madame, your carriage is ready." We walked out of the courtyard through the arches on the fourth side of the square, and rounded the corner of the house. There was a large stand of evergreen trees bordering the lane that wound down the hill from the manor. From here I could see a vast expanse of forest, and a lonely track winding through it to a city on the edge of the horizon.

The coachman placed his near hand at the small of my back and helped me in to a large black coach-and-four, pulled by matching black horses. The inside walls were covered in a rich burgundy brocade, and the seats in a matching shade of velvet. Heavy curtains were drawn to either side of the four small windows that looked out the sides.

Snapping the reins, the driver clucked at the horses and we began to move. We passed out of the courtyard and out onto a lane that wound down the hill; the shadows lengthened and merged into dusk as the sun sunk behind us. I clutched the music to my breast, looking intently out at the falling twilight, as though by staring I could invoke the truths I sought.

Half-across a bridge, near the edge of the wood, with the perils of full night upon us, the coach lurched suddenly and the horses reared and screamed. There were voices shouting in the dark. The carriage rocked violently, and the snap of the carriage driver’s whip cracked the sky. The right wheel slipped into a ditch, pitching the carriage to the ground. When it came to rest, I know not, for I had struck my head rather sharply against the door.

I awoke in a tangled heap, my head pounding. I crawled out of the wreck, wriggling up through the door, and looked about. There was no sign of the driver or the horses, and it had grown perilously dark with the extinguishing of the lantern in the crash. The woods around me whispered ominously, the trees conspiring. Ahead, about a half a mile, there were the lights of a small city. I headed toward it. My dress was more of a hindrance than a help in this place, as it snagged upon every passing root, branch, and questing bramble, so I tucked the sheets of music inside my bodice, against my belly, in order to have my hands free for holding my skirts.

There were marble statues and fountains everywhere in that fair town; the streets were lighted at intersections with torches or burning lamps, but all was silent, save the sound of my bare feet, padding upon the stone streets. I began to feel uneasy in the heavy silence, and though it was not cold at all, I wished for a shawl or sleeves, and felt naked and vulnerable. I crept along the city streets like a vagabond, keeping close to the buildings.

All at once, as I passed an alley, a man descended upon me, and, covering my mouth with one hand, wrapped an arm around my waist and dragged me into the street. I fought him, but his grip was like iron and I was afraid (absurdly, it may seem) that he would damage the sheets of music. And so I was carried, struggling and tossing, into a house, where I was held down by the man, who shouted something unintelligible as he struggled with me. His partner entered from another room, pulling a dirty bit of cloth out of his pocket; I was blindfolded, and tied to a chair.

I heard the two men talking in a strange, harsh language and laughing. Discussing what they ought to do with me, I thought. I shivered. Waiting for the inevitable, I sawed at my bonds, rubbing my wrists raw against the rough twine they had wound ‘round them. No matter how much I struggled, the bonds held fast. At length my chair was lifted and I was carried to another place.

I then heard a bang, as of a door being thrown suddenly open and hitting the wall. The two men who had captured and bound me gave shouts and there was much shuffling and grunting as they fought whomever it was that had come in. I fought with my bonds again, whilst there was no attention on me, trying to escape the chair I’d been tied into. There followed a scuffle, with much shouting and grunting, though in truth, I heard only the voices of the two men who had captured me. There were two cries, in rapid succession, each followed by the death rattle of a man’s last breath.

I stilled, listening, but heard nothing, not even the sound of breathing. Someone had come in and two men were dead, and yet, after such a struggle, there was no belaboured breath, no sound of feet shuffling against the stone floor.

I was frightened, and shaking. I yelped as I felt two hands gently fall upon my shoulders. I jumped as I felt lips against my ear, and a whisper, "Shh...." Sure and delicate fingers removed the pins that had not fallen from my hair in the initial struggle in the street, and I was keenly aware of the feel of my hair tumbling about my shoulders. I could hear the breath of my new captor, now that he was closer, moving around in front of me. Swiftly, those fingers danced along the laces at the front of my dress as I struggled, uselessly; he loosened my bodice, freeing my breasts, and revealed the sheaf of music. I bent my head forward, tumbling my hair over the front of my dress to cover my nakedness. My captor laughed, an unpleasant and gravelly sound that sent a thrill of fear up my spine.

I felt the hands between my breasts and jumped again, moving as much as I could in my bonds, struggling in protest against the touch. Involuntarily, I cried 'no!' and the hands ceased, pausing against my skin, just at the top edge of the paper. I could feel the amusement from my captor, as he snorted a small laugh, and a tear slipped from my eye at the realisation of the futility of my action - I could not enforce my denial. One finger tipped my chin up, wiped away my tear.

I sensed my captor move from in front to behind me, felt my hands loosened but not freed. I was released from the chair, but not unbound. I attempted to untie the knots as he moved to my ankles, but this effort was met with a harsh slap that sent stars in my eyes. My ankles were hobbled, and I was lifted to my feet. An arm came about my shoulder, and I walked forward hesitantly. The hands turned me around, and pushed gently at my shoulders. I fell backwards onto a large, soft surface, like a bed.

Suddenly terrified, I tried to get my knees under me, tried to crawl away, to protect myself from this unseen one. The arms came about my waist again, the hands spread across my belly on top of the music, and I was crushed against the hard chest of a man. I felt his muscled thighs against mine as he leaned over me, the stab of a belt buckle into my lower back. Again, his lips brushed against my ear and he whispered, 'I believe you have something that belongs to me, and I mean to have it back!'

I was trapped, and I knew suddenly that this man possibly did not want to harm me, was toying with me, and I was at that moment very aware of his body against mine, the press of his chest against my back, the rasp of his stubble against my face. I gasped, 'I will yield to the composer, and no other!'

I felt his lips against my neck, just under my earlobe, his breath hot against my skin. I shivered, and he laughed, low and smoky. I caught my lower lip between my teeth and went still, for I had just realised the position of my hands, bound behind my back as they were, our bodies pressed so closely together. I felt the heat rise in my face and neck.

Carefully, slowly, I let my body relax just a little bit, as though I were softening under his touch. If this man were an enemy to the composer, he would want to have something that belonged to the composer. Not just the music, but a much larger prize. I moved my hands slightly, and heard him also become aware of their position. I smiled and brushed my shoulder back against him.

His body language changed to that of a man in desire. I took advantage of that while I could, allowing my lips and breath to imitate the response of a woman.

He ran his hands down the sides of my breasts, and I struggled internally not to shrink from him. The little bit of slack he’d left on the bonds at my ankles allowed me to creep my leg up the inside of his thigh. He took in a sharp breath, then laughed, harshly.

“It’s a dangerous game you play, wench.”

I sighed, letting a smile play about my lips, turning my face toward his and trying to capture his lips. He kissed me, harshly, the disgusting tongue of one who is unclean invading my mouth. I curled my fingernails into my palm, pressing until it hurt, to keep from gagging. I smiled again as I felt a pulse against my thigh.

His breath caught, and he turned me around by my arms to face him, pulling me against his chest by my hips. I fought to keep the smile on my face as I tried to seduce this disgusting lout. I could smell the fumes of rum upon his breath, as he leaned close to my face. I rolled my left hip forward, pressing it against his, and he grabbed my bottom. I felt the throb again, this time against my hip.

I took a deep breath, making sure that this action pushed my breasts against him. He gasped again, and I giggled a little bit.

He bent to untie my ankles, and I sighed, “Wouldn’t it be so nice to feel my hands wrapped around that thick, hard cock of yours?” He paused, and I kept the smile on my face. Evidently blinded by lust, he untied my hands as well, and I leisurely reached up and pulled off the blindfold.

A disgusting spectre of a man loomed before me, and I almost lost my nerve as my stomach rolled. But that plastic smile stayed in place as I carefully reached up and pulled the sheets of music from my bodice. Looking at him out of the tops of my eyes, enticingly, I moved around him to the bedside table, as though I were just going to set the papers down.

Instead - as I kissed him again and ran my hand up the inside of his thigh - I grabbed the brass pitcher that stood there, half-full of wine, and cracked him over the head with it, knocking him out.

I hastily redid the laces of my bodice, re-adjusting the papers to keep them safe. I gingerly stepped over the bodies of my original captors and fled out into the night.

I bolted blindly down an alley and stumbled out into a main street. Still, there was no one around. I ran until I had a stitch in my side, taking random turns, hoping that the man I had knocked out would not come to his senses for some time. Or, if he did, that I would be far enough away from him that he could not find me.

At the end of a long street, I found myself in a large square where a dry fountain dominated the centre. I took the opportunity of respite, sinking onto a bench in front of the fountain to catch my breath. Looking down at my lap, I realised that the skirt of my dress had become hopelessly tattered, the velvet covered in dirt and blood, the hem frayed and torn. I rubbed at the marks on my wrists as my cheek began a dull ache that told me the slap I had been delivered earlier was going to shape into a bruise. Lovely.

I rose from the bench, determined anew to end my quest. Again, I turned in circles, casting about for the piano; something told me that it, and thus the composer, had to be nearby. I heard the faint sound of a woman's laugh, and turned in that direction. I saw nothing special, but headed that way regardless.

I spent a small eternity running through a maze of streets, hearing the piano, now closer, now farther, until finally, when I was at last exhausted and close to the point of despair or madness, I arrived at a large, palatial manor which sat far back from the street, in front of a small forest of its own.

I walked across the vast, green lawn, in front of the house, the cool blades soft upon my bruised, bare feet. It was dotted with arbours, rose bushes, hedges, fountains, and other such finery. Ahead of me was a house of stature, much like the one I had left initially. The massive, paned glass doors to the grand hallway stood open to the summer air. The piano grew louder as I approached. I ventured within those halls.

Rows of great, fluted columns supported an immensely high ceiling, which was painted with scenes of cherubs and angels like the Sistine Chapel. Delicate tapestries adorned the walls, stained glass dominated the windows. The angelic faces of some unknown, benevolent beings looked down upon me as I passed within those walls, seeking the song.

I rounded a corner, unconsciously following the line of a deep blue and jade art nouveau style vine-and-flower pattern in the floor tiles, when I abruptly came to an enormous pair of intricately carved wooden doors. The doors held likenesses of women in the pre-Raphaelite style; one held a harp, the other was dancing, and both of them larger than life. I stepped back, astonished at the artistry. It was then that I became aware of the two guards standing to either side of the doors, who had levelled wicked-looking spears at my breast.

'Who are you, and why do you come here?' one of them barked at me, startling me.

I froze. The other guard shook his spear at me. I said, 'I seek the composer' and pointed toward the doors, behind which I could hear the piano.

'And why should we let you pass, nameless one? I ask you again: who are you, and what do you do here?'

'Who I am is of no concern to you,' I replied, - for indeed, I had no idea who I was, only that I was me! – ‘and my business is my own.'

'Then you cannot pass.'

'I will scream,' I said, 'and he will hear me.'

'No one would hear you but us four,' said a gruff voice from behind me, 'The doors are thick and the composer is lost in his own music.' I turned and beheld two more guards, with spears levelled, who had come up behind me. 'In any case, the composer does not take on charity cases; if you are hungry, there is a mission just outside the city gates. I am sure you can find what you need there.'

I lifted my chin in defiance. 'I am not a beggar,' I declared, 'I have come a long and perilous way to see the composer, and I have something to give him.'

At this the guards laughed. 'Lady, lots of women have something to "give" the composer.' one said, leering. I could see this assumption was held by all of the guards. 'We've spent enough time talking here, come along, woman. I'll guide you out.'

I drew myself up, mustering as much dignity as I could, and looked coldly at the guard who had insulted me. 'You presume too much. I have something precious that belongs to the composer, and I have had a harrowing journey, during which I was nearly killed twice, and was even kidnapped, all for want of what I have kept safe! And now I arrive, only to have my way barred at his very threshold simply because of my state of dress!' My voice had steadily risen with each sentence, until the indignation I felt was nearly palpable in the air.

The guards were momentarily taken aback, and eyed each other warily, none wanting to make the first move.

'Why don't you give it to us, and we will deliver it,' one guard eventually suggested.

I wanted to scream at them. Instead, I said through my teeth, 'Have you heard nothing I have said? I must place it directly in his hand.'

The guards looked at each other, and then back at me. The gruff guard reluctantly said, 'We will take you to him, and see what is his judgement. But be warned! If you disturb the composer needlessly, things will not go happily for you.'

The rear guards kept their spears aimed at me; the door guards opened the doors and the four boxed me in. We passed through a long hallway into a spacious room that made me think of a grand ball. I felt my pulse begin to race, and my breath caught, for there, in the very centre, at the foot of a grand staircase, a grand piano, and sitting at its keyboard, was you. You had long hair, half black, half white, tied in the back with a black velvet ribbon. In the passion of your playing, the shorter hair of your bangs had escaped, the tips brushing your chin. You were wearing a white poet's shirt, half unlaced in the front.

I felt the sharp jab of a spear in my back, and only then realised that I had stopped dead, simply watching you. I noted that there was no sheet before you, all that you played came from your mind alone. The sonata you played that had called me from across the city made me want to weep at its beauty. The guards shoved me forward. As we drew nearer and you noticed us, your music faltered and died. Again, I had to fight back the tears, for its sudden halt seemed, in that agonising crash of silence, to be worse than a thousand nights of torture.

The guards brought me up near your bench. Two moved to standing positions facing me; the other two, who had been behind me, each placed a hand on my shoulders and forced me to kneel before you.