During the Concert

A Candy-Candy Vignette

By Josephine Hymes

I wrote this vignette on a sleepless night many years ago. I shared it with a small group of fellow-fans at the time and then forgot about it. If you stumble with it as you visit my site and decide to read it, bring your tissue, your favorite drink, and play the music linked below:

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The light fingers of the pianist seemed to glide over the ivory keys, as if caressing the slow melody he was playing . A young woman rested her golden head on the back of her wheelchair as in a sleep-like state, half bliss, half spleen. Her sweet-pea blue eyes swept across the room in search of the one object that her heart was always prone to seek. He was just a few feet away from her, silently standing by the mantel piece. There,  as a marble statue both equally immobile and impossibly overpowering to the eye, a young man of no more than twenty-five years was following the musician’s execution with upmost attention.

She wondered once again at his keen passion for music. She could not relate well to that, since her education had not been quite complete on that quarter. In a way, she always felt a bit left out every time they attended one of those musical soirees, for he seemed to escape to a private world out of her reach. Moreover, there was something in that blank expression he wore that made her suspect he was lost in his memories of the one they would never speak of.  Her undying jealousy began to eat her insides with a biting pang. Nevertheless, experienced actress as she was, the young woman kept her reactions in check and pretended to listen to the piece with undivided attention. She wished for him to be closer to her, so that at least she could hold his hand to make her presence known to him. Unfortunately, just a few minutes before the performance started, he had moved to another spot of the room to talk to one of his colleagues and had remained there ever since. In a more focused effort to keep control of her reactions, the young woman moved her sight away from him and directed her attention to the pianist.

The gathering was intimate, a special treat from a well-to-do art patron for a selected group of intellectuals, artists, and other bohemian New Yorkers. The atmosphere was relaxed, unlike a formal concert, hence the absence of more orthodox seating arrangements. He enjoyed those occasions immensely because they allowed him to retreat to a partly secluded corner of the room, and when the dimmed lights permitted it, he could even flee from the salon to the shelter of an adjacent room or a balcony.

So far, he had remained civilly integrated to the rest of the bunch, in his place by the mantel piece. However, when the first tearful notes of Nocturne No. 8 in D flat major started, he eyed the corner of the room where his fiancée was seated. She seemed to be absorbed in the music, or at least pretended to be so. At that cue, he quietly opened the door behind him, managing at last to steal a moment of utmost privacy. He simply welcomed the partial darkness of the room to which the door led. Only the October moon timidly illuminated the darkened shapes of the small seating room.

He quietly moved towards the window, reaching with his fingers to feel the cold surface of the glass. It was a gelid fall evening, and the chill of the night had already crept to the window panes.

“Where are you tonight?” He asked in a silent, painful sigh, which only his mind could hear. “Are you by chance sad or lonely, perhaps missing someone just as much as I miss you? Or is that unforgettable smile of yours lighting up the evening for him?” His breathing stopped for a fraction of a second, “That unknown man whose existence I only suspect . . . fear . . . perhaps even hate against my better judgment?”

Unconsciously, his brows frowned in discomfort, while his fingers tips felt the freezing cold even more acutely.   

“ . . . or is it, that by an unfathomable coincidence,  you are thinking . . . thinking of me?” His eyes lifted to contemplate the crescent moon above, “. . . and if so, is that memory pleasant to you . . . or painful . . . or unwelcomed . . .  or only a passing, random thought that you sweep away in the blink of an eye?

He nodded in the darkness, reproaching his outlandish, selfish thoughts.

“There is no use,” he chastised himself, “why wasting the music in such a way, when I could simply enjoy her memory, that piece of her that is only mine to the end of times?”

He left his place at the window, plunging himself on a nearby armchair, his eyes closing as if cued by his more relaxed position. It was easy then to conjure her image.

The door suddenly opened and summer-like light seemed to irrupt into the room. A well-known feminine laughter followed suit when her sunny presence invaded his musings.

“What are you doing there, you bore!” She chided him jokingly, “Will you lie on that chair the whole evening? It is not bedtime yet.”

“Will you scold me now, Candy?”, he asked smiling back in his reverie. “Come with me, will you?” he asked, and in his imagination, he extended his hand inviting her to sit by his side.

“There’s only place for one in that chair, silly man,” the imaginary woman retorted with a giggle.

“You can sit here,” he replied with a roguish smile as he tapped his right leg.

“Goodness gracious! You’re such a scoundrel, Terry.  I will do as if I hadn’t heard that preposterous suggestions and sit here instead,” she said pretending indignation while seating on the couch in front of his chair, “You can always sit by me, if you wish,” she added as she busied herself taking off her long evening gloves.

“No, I will not do so. You don’t deserve it,” he said faking indignation.

“As if I were going to take offense because a boor does not want to keep me company,” she riposted, “anyway, you know well we cannot be here for too long. She´s going to be searching for you as soon as the nocturne ends,” she added in a whisper, and he observed that her eyes had been suddenly clouded. Were those tears?

Not able to resist her, he stood up and moved by her side. Immediately, he was rewarded by one of those smiles that made his head reel.

Once next to her, he relaxed his shoulders and leaned on the back of the loveseat.

“You look tired,” she whispered, looking at him intently, concerned drawn in her eyes.

“It’s been a busy season,” he avowed, matching the hushed tone of her voice.

“You should take care of yourself, Terry,” she replied, moving to brush away and errant bang of dark hair that fell on his forehead. The caress was light as feathers, but it burned his skin.

“I know it, Freckles,” he replied looking at her adoringly, “But the pain is less if I work until I feel numb . . .  it is safer than drinking, you know?”

“It is not so safe if you work to the point of exhaustion, Terry,” she insisted, her now naked fingers slowly sliding across his cheek, until her index reached his chin and rested there for a brief, delicious instant.

He would have moved to trap that little hand in his, but he knew too well that, had he dared to touch her, his imagination would not cease at that point. He would entangle himself in a tormenting dream, led by his frustrated lust for her, to a point where his most excruciating desire demanded to be satisfied. It was useless to let those hidden passions awake in him, when he could only aspire to a meager fulfillment of his own doing  . . . to wake up later to the bitter reality of his loneliness, in a dark corner of his bedroom. There was no use to taint such idyllic moment in that way. So, he remained motionless as he drowned in her eyes lit by the moonlight.

 “I wish we could stay like this forever,” he told her huskily.

“You always say that, Terry,” she replied with a new smile, “but you really shouldn’t be disappearing in such an uncivil way from your party. Really, Terry, mingling with real people cannot be that bad.”

“I only want to indulge here with you,” he pleaded a bit childishly, “just a little bit longer . . . if only we could . . .”

“Hush!” She interrupted him, putting her finger on her lips, “You hear those chords? It´s coming.”

He knew the Candy of his dreams was right. In just a few more bars Chopin’s music and his fleeting fantasy were going to dissipate in thin air. So, he didn´t say more. He just kept quiet, looking at her with his eyes closed, until her image began to vanish. When the last chord languidly died and he opened his eyes again, he was back in the dimmed, lonely room, still sitting on the same chair he had chosen since the beginning of his fantasy. The moonlight had suddenly been eclipsed by a passing cloud, and the brief silence after the last note had been baffled by the audience’s applause. She was gone . . .

NOTE

A translation to Italian of this vignette is available at the following forum:

Gli Amici di Candy Candy, Terence's Angels