Verklärte Nacht

Anne didn't cry easily. Not in real life, not in cinemas.

There was always a spark of irony in her eyes -- a need to keep things at bay. Even now, he could see how she controlled her tears with a smile.

Looking down on his own booklet, he wondered if it might be the text of the poem that upset her. It was an odd story, wasn't it, the man's part? It was written in 1910, a time when problems like this were hardly ever brought to public attention. Men were infallible, and women always got the blame when things got messy, didn't they? They were weak, hysterical creatures, out to seduce men and trap them.

The man in the poem said: "You will bear the child for me, as if it were mine."

Would any man in the early 1900's say a thing like that? Or even now?

Would he himself?

Peter returned his attention to the orchestra on the wide, lofty stage, realizing he lost a few precious minutes. The tumultuous storm of strings had abated. All he heard was one single violin weeping quietly into the void.

Or was it singing?

Everything seemed serene. It was so beautifully soothing. Was it about the man's incredible generosity? His love?

Or, was it about capitulation? Acceptance?

Ah, damn, where did those words come from? Capitulation? Acceptance? He never heard things like that before in this piece of music, did he? It was always about beauty, just pure music, but now? Acceptance of what? Capitulation for what?

The bastard child?

Bastard. Did he really think that word? It seemed so out of place; so... archaic. And yet.

Watching Anne again, he saw she was reading the poem, too. He couldn't see her eyes; a lock of her hair got in the way.

By touching her hand, he made her look up. She smiled.

He knew her smiles; she had many different ones. This one was her tired smile. She mostly used it to cover up genuine exhaustion, but also irritation -- or plain dismay.

Was she dismayed by the poem?

The thought entered his mind without logic or reason. Why would the text dismay her? Or, was it the music?

The single violin was, by now, drowned in darker instruments. The entire orchestra stretched the music into something bigger, wider, building majestic landscapes -- forests? Night skies?

But then, the thin-sounding violins started scratching; jumping around like insects -- or were they nails on a blackboard? What did it mean? Betrayal? Pain?

Oh fuck, Peter thought, he should never have seen the damn poem. It spoiled the way he'd always interpreted the piece, robbing him of what he'd grown fond of; its romantic, innocent beauty.

He moved in his chair, trying to sit more comfortably. The booklet slid off his knee to the ground. He didn't pick it up.

Closing his eyes, he tried to get back into the music.

The single violin rose again from the darker background -- sweet and lovely, he'd always thought. But soon, the nasty creatures returned, jumping, dancing, buzzing, screeching -- gnawing into the innocent violin. He'd always taken them for mysterious forest-dwellers -- harmless fairytale creatures like trolls and elves.

Now they sounded evil, trying to overwhelm the beautiful violin.

He opened his eyes again, suddenly afraid of the dark. The first things he saw were the blue eyes of his wife. They seemed almost purple under her frowning eyebrows.

It was his turn to smile.

***

Anne.

Just as Peter knew how to judge Anne's smiling, she knew what was behind his.

Of course, being Peter, he often smiled just for the cause of smiling. He smiled a lot, but, as she soon discovered, there was one more smile he used -- the smile of reassurance; the big brother 'all is fine' smile. The smile he used to cover up potential discomfort, danger, or even panic.

It was that smile she saw now. It made her ask if he was fine.

He nodded, but the smile didn't waver.

She turned her attention once more to the music. It really made her nervous, by now, and she didn't know why. It was lovely, wasn't it, painting the clear, cool moonlit night out of the poem?

And yet it scratched at her nerves.

Anne was never one to let herself be totally conquered by music. Like a child of her time, music was a vehicle to dance to, or the wallpaper of her daily life -- rock music, disco, even bubblegum pop.

Classical music only got her attention after being with Peter, but what attracted her most was the ritual. To her, it felt like going to church while never having been brought up with religion. It made her feel like a pagan visiting Saint Peter's, in Rome.

Saint Peter. She smiled her crooked smile.

Men -- like music -- could never truly conquer Anne. They were useful creatures, funny and amusing at best; great company and an oasis of honesty in the tiring world of women, where intrigue and dishonesty wriggled under a coating of sugar and sweetness.

Living with Peter had proven her right -- he was honest and open; like a breath of clean air in a polluted world. Once, she used to call that naïve and would feel irritated by it -- the up-beat happiness, the boring straightness.

But not now, not with him.

She knew he admired her -- he embarrassingly often told her so, preferably in public. He was blinded by her; his love was a shamelessly open book.

She should have asked herself: how could a grown-up, intelligent man be so naïve? But she didn't -- she was blown away by him, completely. She, the queen of irony, the champion of second thought.

His naiveté didn't just win her over, it was contagious.

The first few months with him turned her into a besotted little girl, following him with wide-open sparkling eyes -- totally and helplessly happy. Everything he said was the latest wisdom; everything he did was wonderful.

Then the doctor's news pulled her back to earth; back into her shell of careful reserve. In the end, she knew, life was about secrets and the wisdom of being on guard. She didn't belong in his simple, blissful world.

She had no right to it.

It was the saddest discovery of her life. But, in a perverse way, it was also like coming home. All the old furniture was still there; the stuffed chairs of smothering comfort; the deep rug to sink her feet into; the ignored wallpaper of music and rom-coms.

She cried when he wasn't around. When he was, her smile became ever more perfect.

Back in the concert hall, her weary, wary eyes returned to the poem, reaching its end.

"You have brought the glow into me," the man says.
"You have made me like a child myself.

"He grasps her around her ample hips.
Their breath kisses in the breeze.
Two people walk through the lofty, bright night."

No, she thought, as the music receded into the background. Peter could never do that -- 'be that child', forget and forgive, and go on. He would never, would he?

And if he could, could she live with a man like that?

The last thought shook her. Should she judge him if he accepted the child of another man -- consider him less for it? A cold finger touched her spine. Where on earth would she find the right to do that?

Nausea spread from the pit of her stomach. She leant towards him.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I really have to get out. Will you please come with me? I'm so sorry."

He looked concerned now.

"Of course," he said and rose to his feet.

As the final notes of "Verklärte Nacht" resounded in the concert hall, they mumbled their apologies to the people they disturbed on their way out.

Right when they left the hall, a big applause washed over them.

***

They collected their coats.

He felt how she shivered as he draped the warm wool coat over her shoulders, helping her into it. He embraced her from behind, but she stepped out of his arms.

"I need fresh air," she said, so they walked outside, where the humming city awaited them.

It was cold and clear. Over the dark forest of the tall buildings the sky bent its cloudless copula. A fat, distant moon floated by.

Peter raised his hand to call a taxi, but she pulled it down.

"Can we walk, just for a bit?" she asked.

***

Two people walked through a bare, cold street.

The moon raced along with them; they looked into it as it floated over tall roofs. No cloud obscured the light from the sky into which the black fists of the buildings reached.

A woman's voice spoke.