October 26, 2006

• And so it continues…

  For those of you who have been following it, here is installment four of my mini-memoir.  It stands alone pretty well for those who are picking it up now.  Earlier installments can be found on the 10/8, 10/10, and 10/11 entries.

       Lori grabbed my hand and seated me next to her, she at the edge of the soprano section and I at the end of the altos.  The sopranos were on the right, the altos in the middle, and the second sopranos on the left.  Debbie introduced me to the choir and I gingerly stood, gave a quick wave, and sat down.  Lori whispered in my ear, “don’t be shy doll, we’re all here to make music.”  Her effusive manner put me at ease and she laughed as she nudged me as if we were old friends.

       Debbie instructed us to pull out an arrangement of “For the Beauty of the Earth” by John Rutter.  I thought I would miss the shine and ring of tenors and the robust depth of basses, but there was an ethereal quality to the sound of three-part treble.  Lori’s voice was a wonder, lucent and pure with an aching sweetness.  My ears dissolved like sugar in the downpour of her singing, and my body melted, liquefied, and floated away.

       My instrument was brown velvet to her delicate lace, and I loved the way our timbres blended together.  I imagined us in evening gowns made of sumptuous fabric performing The Flower Duet from Lakme, her light against my darkness.  The sound killed me and brought me back to life.

       Soon my whole world was Lori as the summer went on.  Everything about her absolutely confounded me.  She could be so mature, unbelievably sophisticated, headstrong, confident, oozing self esteem and enigmatic cool.  Other times, she was a petulant child, wheedling, manipulative, and I would hate her just a little, but always gave in to her demands.

       Simple activities like getting coffee were suddenly glamorous.  She always managed to arrive before me.  I would find her seated alone, reading a book by someone like Ayn Rand, Jack Kerouac, or J. D. Salinger.  Her cornflower eyes would crest the horizon of her literature and her countenance radiated sunlight, illuminating the cafe.  Springing to her feet, she would lay the book face down and meet me halfway, absorbing me in an intimate hug before planting her voluptuous lips in a place that seemed to be made just for her, where the corner of my mouth and cheek met.  She would link her pinky finger in mind and we would swing our arms like little girls in pigtails.  As we made our way to the table, all eyes would be upon this creature and she would gush, “Janette it is so good to see you.”

   

  • 8:32 pm
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