Novel-In-progress: Sonata Allegro

I am a genius at sleep.

I easily fell asleep the night before my interview at Lakeside Logo, and now I'm employee of the month, celebrating my five year anniversary there. I also slept well the night before I played Rachmaninoff’s variations with the London Symphony Orchestra, when I was a performing child prodigy. No matter what is happening or where I am in life, I am fantastic at going to bed and staying there all night long, I don't even need the toilet in the middle of the night. Forget the piano, forget business acumen, my real talent is sleep. 

Until Matthew Hinton- composer, conductor, violist- moved down the hall. 

Now I lay in bed restless, racing, curious, tired but energized, lecturing myself to stop thinking. It's 9 p.m., late for me.

When I heard a distinctive knock on my door, I knew it was Matthew, no one else has come by in a year. I raced to put on my robe before wondering why he’s stopping by at this hour. “One second!” I said through the door, unlatching three locks before pulling it open. 

“Clara,” he paused, taking in the robe and bare feet, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think…I apologize, I must have disturbed you.” 

“It’s hardly late, come on in.” My heart thumped around unsteadily as I took in the details of his crisp clothing, whisper of cologne, polished shoes; I felt desperate he take me up on my offer and tried to look alert and easy, as though I was merely in a robe for comfort and not at all that I went to bed an hour ago.

“I’m just getting back from a date, I thought I’d offer you a nightcap, but you look settled in for the evening.” He lives only two doors down the hall I wondered if I would feel comfortable walking to his apartment in such a state of undress.

“The date can’t have been good if you’re offering me the nightcap.”

He grimaced, “it might have been the worst I’ve ever been on.” 

“Sounds like you need that drink, I have some Penderyn,” I offered.

“Is that the Welsh bourbon?”

“From back home, yes, I brought back a bottle last Christmas after visiting my mother.”

“On the rocks,” he settled onto my couch, his movements commanding and oddly formal for an American, reminding me of the piano teacher I had for most my childhood.

My piano takes up most of the room, so I handed him his drink and sat on the piano bench. “Would you like to tell me about it?” 

“I had so much hope for this one, she’s in grad school, but going back to school after several years, so she not just a kid. We met on campus, talked several times before I asked her out. She mentioned her mom lives in Kessler Heights, so it wasn’t unreasonable to expect some level of sophistication from her.”

“Uh-oh, what did she do?” I was already familiar with Matthew’s strong opinions on etiquette and manners, especially as it relates to meal times; we met at one of his neighborhood dinner parties.

“She put her napkin on her plate when she went to the restroom, she began her meal when it was served though I didn’t have mine, she was a disaster about the bread basket, asked for the check while she still had wine in her glass…it’s shocking she didn’t speak with her mouth full.” 

“She does sound rough around the edges,” I admitted, thinking she didn't sound much different from most Americans. Matthew's standards were old fashioned, maybe a little European, slightly out of place for his own time and space. “Maybe those manners can be learned, though it might be uncomfortable to discuss. Did you at least enjoy the conversations with her?” 

“She knows nothing about classical music. When I told her I’m a conductor, she asked if orchestras really need those, all they do is wave their arms about.” 

He was so offended that I found it almost comical, and lifted my drink to cover a nascent smile. “Well, isn’t that all you do up there?”

He didn't it was funny. “You know better and we both know it. You’re so lucky your parents recognized your talent and let you be a musician. You grew up in the world I’ve had to fight my way in to, every step of the way. My grandmother played piano for her church but no one else in my family even cares about music, much less knows what a score is."

We seldom discussed my childhood. After Matthew's initial shock at discovering Clara Evans of classical music fame is his neighbor, we jumped right into talking about the music world as it is today, not what it was ten years ago when I left, or why I left. He never pressed me for explanations, and I was thankful for that space. If he asked me right now how I became a piano star, I would have very little to tell him. I can't even remember my first concert.

“It’s not a perfect way to grow up, most of the time I just wanted to be normal, once I was old enough to understand my life wasn’t normal.” 

“But I want what you had, for music to be my everything, my friends, family, job, recreation…”

“Then you need to date musicians,” I offered, sitting in front of him, by my grand piano, obviously a musician. 

He looked pensive. “You’re right." I am! I held my breath. "That’s probably why none of my relationships have worked out. Annabelle only cared about status, her job, the corporate world. I found it so shallow, I didn’t even want to ask about her day when she got home.” 

“Sounds like an unhappy marriage,” I asked almost as a question, wanting to confirm that they are through. I saw her a few times in the spring, Matthew said they were trying to work things out. Then she went away and I never wanted to pry into their relationship status. 

“I’ll never be happy without a musician,” he declared. I wondered if I should lean back on the piano, emphasizing my cozy relationship to the instrument. Silence and stillness stretched between us. I sipped my drink, remembering all the unhappy classical musician marriages I knew of, including my own parents when my dad was alive. Then wondered if he was leading up to asking me out. I had been hoping for this moment for ages, but found myself surprisingly ambivalent about it now. I didn’t want to be asked out like this, thinking of my dead father and his numerous affairs while Matthew was disappointed by another bad date. He looks so handsome, I thought, but what this man really needs is a friend.

“It can be hard to meet other musicians, and you definitely can’t date within your own orchestra. And don't date the soloist either,” I cautioned.

“No, that’s too messy. And conductors sleeping with soloists is a lowering cliche."

I felt a wave of relief, not that it should be any of my business.

"I need to find a nice flutist," he mused, looking into the near-empty glass of Penderyn."

I felt my heart sink a little.

“And there's something tidy about dating in score order. I need to make this organized. I’ll find a woman from every instrument section, date in order, and report back to you.”

Oh wow, he must be drunk. I assumed I was pouring his first drink of the evening but dating in score order and treating me like his best friend, a buddy...he's not thinking clearly. This plan felt absurd, other than the part where we spend more time together. And being a pianist, he'd be asking me out after a timpanist- if he somehow found a female timpanist. But I also didn’t want to tell him no and turn down a chance for friendship, being brought into his confidence. 

“Okay, but we talk in the morning, brunch on Sunday to dissect your Saturday night dates.” I might have sighed aloud, I felt like I was being rejected by him even while planning to see each other for Sunday brunches.

“Agreed,” he grinned, “unless the date goes really well.”