Fic: If music be the food of love..

Sorry, couldn't resist..=D

If music be the food of love..

How can anyone describe the euphoria, the passion, the longing that is so easily set into music?

It was just another day, at least for the streams of people that swarmed by. For them, it meant a day of routine, of toil, of struggle; it was another day of work and labour, of a lifelong blood toil. And in a sense, for the violist, it was the same.

This day would be when her years of effort would be put to test. How unfair, one may cry, that immeasurable hardwork be judged - be commended or negated - by a few mere minutes' performance. But this was how things worked.

Music can be a lonely affair. It meant long hours spent hidden in practice studios, trying to perfect those fancy upbow staccato scales written by that sadistic composer. It meant turning down people when they call you a week before your exam and say, "Hey, let's go for a movie and spend the rest of the day shopping". And, as she looked over at her viola, she knew it meant being alone.

Everyone had their music to be busy about. Anyone else would never understand what music was about. That was the way things went. Even today, the one who would accompany her on the piano for the examination would not be able to stay with her before her turn, nor leave the venue with her after the examination. Somehow, that rejection seemed to mean a lot to her, even though she was sure he did not mean it that way and whichever the case, he had no obligation towards her - after all, they had only met a month ago and truth be told, they barely knew each other.

The wind rustled the trees around her. The small yellow leaves rained down on the street, carried further by the wind. Beside her, a couple was brushing the leaves off each other's shoulders. She sighed and absent-mindedly brushed away the few that landed on her viola case. This was yet another traffic junction where scores of people waited impatiently -- people, most of whom would not mean anything to each other; people all more concerned with reaching home for that good stretch after work, or perhaps with reaching the pub before that friend started complaining.

She walked on against the general flow of the crowd.

The pre-examination registration was a simple and quick process, and she spent the rest of the time looking around the area. There was a reception area just beside the lift, and although there were comfortable chairs placed in the area, she did not feel at ease with them. They seemed too big and imposing. Further on were some music studios. Someone was playing an organ. She thought it sounded rather tense, almost worried. From the opposite room, some piano playing filtered out. Apparently the person had been working on that section for quite a while; the impatience was there in the music. She tried to peek into the rooms, but expectedly, saw nothing of interest. There was a poster on an otherwise empty wall, but that was all.

She went over to the registration area again. The person slated to go before her was taking her final piano exam. Her boyfriend was talking to her, trying to help her calm her nerves, placing his hand on hers. She watched on as he leaned closer, then she looked embarrassedly away.

People nowadays, she thought.

But her thoughts kept straying, moving emotionally into the realm of feelings, remembering the moment when he had looked at her as he played a short piece on the piano, remembering the waltz where he raised his eyebrows in an almost teasing manner as they tried to play in time with each other. She had grown rather fond of that piece. It was playful, and she loved the challenge of chemistry especially as they added those quirky little changes in tempo. They did not spend much time together in the way non-musicians did, but the connection between them as they played, the smiles and nods, the shared music...

Today would be the seventh, and most likely the last, time they played this set of examination pieces together. Even more than ever, she wished he were here now.

She wandered over to the registration counter and started a conversation with the rather enthusiastic assistant, who seemed very willing to share about her children. Her son was in the army, and her daughter was busy in university.

"I wish my daughter were like you," the assistant concluded, "you spare a thought for others and understand so much."

She looked at her viola and blushed, because in her heart, she knew how untrue it was.

"You'd better call to check where your accompanist is," the assistant went on, "it won't be good if he's late."

She looked at her mobile phone, feeling her heart beat faster. Her phone rang.

"Is it him? Go on, pick it up. Maybe he's here."

Her fingers almost tingled with excitement as she answered his call.

"Hello?"

"Hey, I'm facing the carpark now. How do I find you?"

She almost laughed. "Just take the lift up! It's behind you."

"Ok," He laughed in his cheery way, "see you in a bit."

"He's here?" The assistant asked.

"Yes, he's on the way up," she said, "I'll go over and wait."

The lift seemed to move so slowly. 1... 2... 3... There was a soft chime as the door opened. She smiled.

"I didn't expect you to be so early," she said, noting how breathless he was.

"Neither did I," he said as he adjusted his collar, "you've settled everything?"

"Yes."

Somehow they had walked over to the music studios and they leaned on either side of the corridor.

"Wrong note," he remarked, humming what the organist should have played. His fingers twitched in time with the music.

She laughed softly at the mischievous face he gave.

"You know, I've always wanted to play the organ," she said.

"I think you're too small," he grinned, "you won't be able to reach the pedals!"

She gave him an amused look and pointed to a book on the shelf: So what do I do with my feet? A Pianist's Guide to the Organ.

They laughed.

The assistant came by, informing them that she was to standby to enter the examination room. She would go in first to complete the other components of the examination, after which he would join her for the pieces.

"All the best," He whispered.

She turned, surprised to find that he had followed behind. She smiled and nodded gratefully.

It went badly, though she knew she would pass. Before long, the examiner stood up, and went over to the door to call for him.

He entered, nodding encouragingly at her. She adjusted her music stand slightly so they could see each other while playing.

The piano was at such an awkward position, she thought, the room must have been set up for the piano examinations.

And then, the music began.

There was no way she could describe it. She felt herself struggling with the technical demands of the piece, but almost suddenly, she was struck with the realisation -- this might well be the last time they played together -- and nothing else mattered. Nevermind that she had not done as well as expected for the other components. Nevermind that she was getting quite some notes wrong.

She poured out her soul, and she knew he felt it, for he responded and she felt their music being driven to greater intensity. This opening piece was fertile ground for emotional passions and she let it all be. She only knew, it was a tale of longing, of wishing someone were there, a tale in which loneliness was overcome by sweet companionship, in which she had a glimpse of heaven.

She closed her eyes as the last note resounded. She looked over and they ended together. She realised that she was almost panting.

He gave her time to compose herself before they started on the waltz. It was brilliant fun, she reflected. Somehow, she felt every nuance more acutely than before, more meaningfully than ever. The rest of the examination went by in a blur and he left quickly for his next engagement.

She wiped the viola slowly, meditatively. She could remember the mistakes she had made, but above all, was the memory of the first two pieces. In those fleeting moments, so much seemed to have taken place. She wondered if he felt the same, but she knew he would be well exposed to these, possibly even to the extent of being jaded.

She walked out of the building, over to the bus stop, resting her arms gently on the viola case. It was probably too short to be truly comfortable, but it offered an unexplainable form of support.

A text message came in on her phone.

"Thank you for your gift and sincere words," he wrote, referring to the small box she had rather awkwardly handed to him earlier, "I will keep them well."

She did not know how to respond.

"Thank you, for everything," she finally managed.

How could she be able to convey everything that went through her? How could she thank him for bringing joy and lightness back into her life, for being the one who would stop and not walk by, even for the briefest second of time; for showing her what it meant to share musically, emotionally? How could she say that she already missed the times they shared?

Some puzzles can never be solved. Because music is lonely. You are in it, on your own. You might find fellowship, but in the end, you would still be on your own, alone. It was the way things work.

If music be the food of love, play on...