Transitional Chords

by Ada Hoffman

Don’t look at me – I was just the accompanist. Honest, officer, I’m not even a real dedicated accompanist. Not the soulful artist type. I like the music, don’t get me wrong. But I’m mainly in it for the chicks.

And she was a chick! You know, the little cute kind, blonde, with the pointy little mousy face, the shy walk, the skinny arms, the firm little breasts. Pretty, but doesn’t know she’s pretty. Hardly says a word, unless she’s panicking, but the music comes right from her soul. They’re my favorites. After the audition, I was going to ask her out.

No, officer, it doesn’t usually work. But at least I get to play the piano for them.

—

Her name was Cecilia. She called me up Wednesday night. First I’d ever heard of her. Trying out for double-credit performance classes Saturday evening, she said.

“Short notice,” I said.

“I know,” she said. She sounded so nervous and breathless. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I should have got it together earlier but I had to get all my stuff to the dorm and everything was just crazy and now everybody on the list is too busy except you, and I really need this audition, and I know it’s awful but do you think you could possibly -”

“Sure,” I said, cutting her off. I don’t normally do short notice, but for that kind of cute, I make an exception. “It’s fine. Don’t worry. We just need to get together and practice once before Saturday. When do you have half an hour?”

We compared schedules. Hers was pretty much full, but we figured something out. No, I didn’t notice anything weird, officer. No Thursday night destroying-the-world club. Nothing like that.

—

We went over the normal pieces first. Easy arias, a Bach and a Mozart. Boring-standard. No, she didn’t sing them in a weird way. Good, but not weird. Honest, officer, she had talent. Music in her soul, like I said. But nothing jaw-dropping. I didn’t know if she’d make it into performance or not. If she did, I figured I’d call her and celebrate. If she only got into the regular program, I figured I’d call her and console her. it worked for me either way.

She got there late, and it took a while to wrangle over tempos for the Mozart. We were running out of time when we got to the third piece.

“Woah,” I said. “What’s the name on this?” It was a bad photocopy, and we were in a tiny concrete practice room with a mediocre piano and ugly fluorescent lighting, and seventeen other students were practicing with other instruments in the next rooms over, and the composer was just a smudge.

“I don’t remember,” she said. She was a lot quieter in the practice room than over the phone, and when she wasn’t singing, I could barely hear her. She put a hand to her mouth and looked guilty, like they were going to kick her out of music school because she couldn’t remember.

“Let’s make something up,” I said. “Jones.”

She nodded in a mousy sort of way. “Jones.”

I looked at the notes. They were easier to read than the name, at least.

No, I didn’t suspect anything weird, right then. Well, there’s weird and weird. I mean, it was one of those modern pieces with the notes all over the place, and I didn’t recognize the language, but that’s not weird, by music school standards. I just figured, okay, I’ll have to get my fingers into gear. I flexed my hands and got started on the first few bars. It was crazy, like human hands weren’t even built to do this stuff. But that’s not weird, either, by music school standards.

“What’s the tempo like?” I said.

“I don’t know,” she said. She still looked guilty.

I sighed. Performance might be the wrong program for her. “Okay, let’s pick something that works for my fingers, then. Like this . . .”

I played it real slow, which is the only way I could get those notes on the first reading I still didn’t get them all.

She shook her head vigorously. That startled me. I hadn’t seen her do anything vigorously before.

“Not like that,” she said. “Faster.”

I played it at little faster and botched the notes.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll get it for Saturday. Just need to practice.”

“It’s about three times that fast,” she said.

I stared at the page full of incomprehensible notes.

“Right,” I said. “Three times. Yep. I’ll work on that.”

“Like -” she said. She sang out all the notes in the first arpeggio in the right hand, in a rapid line. It didn’t fit any scale I’d ever heard of, but it was about three times that fast. “Like that. I think.”

“Um, do you want to try it a little slower, just for now, just so I can get a feeling for -”

She checked her watch. “Oh! I have to go. It’s Lego club in two minutes. Sorry.” She blushed with regret – oh, officer, it was the cutest little blush – and started to gather up her things.

“Well, I’ll see you Saturday,” I said. “I’ll have it then.” I didn’t want to see her go. It made me nervous. Maybe she’d figure out I was crap at this before Saturday, and she’d call the whole thing off. I told myself that was silly – who else would agree to play for her on three days notice? – but it nagged at me.

“Yeah.” And she was gone.

—

So, what does any accompanist do? I practiced. I blew off my friends for a couple of days – they’re all busy with auditions and admissions anyway, that time of year – and sat in that crappy concrete practice room with the mediocre piano, hours on end, and went over the notes. Slowly, at first, just trying to get my fingers to reach them at all. Then a little faster, and a little faster. Then in the wrong rhythms, on purpose – that’s an exercise, officer, it helps you get the intervals solid, you’ll just have to take my word for it – then faster again. Then I looked at dynamics. I made it quiet where it said quiet, loud where it said loud, espressivo where it said espressivo – although I always kinda hated that one, as if we weren’t going to play expressively unless they reminded us -staccato where it said staccato. I owned that piece. I got those crazy impossible all-over-the-place notes and I made them mine.

And while I sat in that practice room wrestling with all those notes, I started to understand.

See, I wasn’t quite sure at first what it meant. I just knew the piece almost made sense to me. Almost. Like there was something still missing, something I wasn’t quite getting. But if only that little thing fell into place, I was going to know things. Big things and deep things and – I don’t even know.

I played it over and over again for a long time, trying to figure out that little thing, and it never came. But I think, deep down, I didn’t care. I was just so excited. I’d never felt like this about a song before – not in all my years of playing the piano. I thought maybe I was finally getting what everyone else here already has. Maybe I was finally going to be one of those people with music in their soul. Not just a crap accompanist who does it for the chicks. Maybe I was going to be a musician.

When I was too tired to play anymore, I realized the building was silent. No trumpets burbling in the next room over, no students gossiping, no singers doing runs, no timpani rumbling. Just nothing.

I’d lost track of time, I thought. It was the middle of the night.

But I checked my watch, and it was only six thirty. Later than I planned, but there still should have been people around.

I packed up my stuff and opened the door, stepping out of the practice room, and there everybody was. Just sitting by the door, with rapt listening faces – you know the kind, officer. Well, you would if you went to music school.

“Woah,” I said.

“Oh, sorry,” people said, and they started scrambling up, getting back to their regular lives, making excuses. Half admiring, half embarrassed, like I’d caught them ogling some chick they’d been pretending not to like.

I spotted a friend of mine, Marley, a bassoonist. I’d picked her up at auditions back in first year, and that didn’t work out, but she thinks I’m funny, so we’re still in touch. “What’s going on?” I said.

“Nothing.” She pulled anxiously on one of her cornrows, trying to avoid my gaze.

“Look it wasn’t that good,” I said. “Was it?”

“‘Course not,” said Marley. She punched me in the shoulder, trying to be friendly, but her eyes were darting and nervous. “You’re still crap. Nothing to worry about. Shit, I’ve got to get to paleography, like, five minutes ago. Talk to you later, ‘kay?”

I let her go. I had a funny feeling for a moment, like this was the last time I’d see her, or any of the people there. Like everything was going to change.

Then came Saturday.

—

I was nervous as hell on Saturday, and I’m not usually nervous at these things. My fingers knew the Jones now, but I still didn’t know if this was how Cecilia wanted it. I told myself that was all I was nervous about.

People were sitting around outside the audition office. Not just other frosh waiting to audition, but people like Marley who had no business being there. Marley was looking at a textbook, but she wasn’t really reading, just moving her eyes back and forth restlessly, fidgeting with the beaded bracelet on her wrist.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” I said.

“No, no,” said Marley, waving me on. “I’m just studying here. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but why here -”

“I’m busy,” said Marley. She crunched up into her textbook. “Can’t talk now.”

Cecilia got there two minutes late. Bad impression. But she smiled this really cute, apologetic smile at Dr. Greene and me, and that made it okay for a minute.

Do you know who Dr. Greene is? She’s head of the voice department. Not the big, friendly type of singer, but one of those prim short-haired ladies in starchy blouses. She took the repertoire list Cecilia handed her, and looked pointedly at her watch.

“Well, I’m glad you could make it, Cecilia,” she said. “Are you warmed up?”

“Yes,” Cecilia squeaked. I turned around and focused on my music. The piano’s always been awkwardly placed in that room, facing away from the action. You can’t really see the singer from there. I’ve tried to do it before, but both times I lost track of the notes and made an idiot out of myself.

“Good,” said Dr. Greene. “Could I hear the Bach to start with?”

We did the Bach. I’m good with Bach, and I had enough brain power left over to think about Cecilia. She was nervous, too, more than I was. It showed up in her voice. I mean, she still sang with her soul, but it was a nervous soul that made the notes thin and wobbly. I was said for her. She’d done a lot better when we practiced before.

“Hmm,” said Dr. Greene when that was done. “All right. And now the . . .” She squinted at the repertoire list.

“Jones,” I supplied.

“The Jones, please,” said Dr. Greene.

I got out the music I’d struggled with for three days. I couldn’t see Cecilia from where I was sitting, so I just waited for her cue.

“Okay,” she said, after a pause.

I went ahead with the Jones. Three times as fast as before, just like she said. Cecilia took a deep breath, and she started to sing.

Remember how I told you, officer, how it felt like there was something missing? Like if just one more thing fell into place, then I’d know everything? I found out what was missing that day. I was Cecilia. Her notes and her words fit mine like a key in a lock. She knew it, too. Her voice wasn’t wobbly anymore.

I felt like my hands were flying. Like they had minds of their own, and all those crazy impossible notes were coming out of them without any effort at all. That’s an illusion, officer. It always happens like that on the best days, but you still have to keep your eyes on the music and your brain engaged.

But the notes, officer – how can I explain? They weren’t just notes anymore. They were the secret codes of the universe, and the universe was opening for us.

Not for us.

For her.

I don’t know what happened after that. Like I said, I had to look at the music. If I looked up to see what was going on, I would have lost track of the notes. I know Dr. Greene made a surprised noise, and the door opened after a while, and everyone who’d been waiting outside came in. I could hear their footsteps, slow, like people in a trance. More footsteps than I thought could have fit in that room, but they just kept coming and coming and it wouldn’t stop. God, officer, I wanted to see what was happening, but I was too terrified to look. And more than anything, I wanted the music to keep going. Cecilia’s voice had gone high and exquisite and it did things I didn’t think a girl that size could do with her voice, and it filled the whole room. It filled everything.

After a while I stopped being terrified. There wasn’t any room for terror. There wasn’t any room for anything in me, except those notes. I had to keep them going.

I don’t know, officer. A few minutes, I guess, if time even applies. As the last chords resonated, I turned around on the piano bench and looked just in time to see . . . well, I don’t know exactly what. It was like she was glowing so brightly I couldn’t see her face, but there wasn’t any light, only . . . sort of a nothing. A hole in the universe. Like someone had drawn back a veil, and behind it, there was beautiful, terrible things, things I couldn’t quite see with my eyes. It all died out at the same time as the chords did, and when the room went silent, it was just Cecilia again.

“What are you?” I said.

She looked frightened and shaky, like a lot had gone out of her. She looked just like a mousy little blonde chick again. For a second, I just wanted to give her a hug.

“I don’t know,” she said.

But there was this mountain around her, officer, and it’s one of those things that was so wrong it took me a minute to see it. All around her there were bodies. Too many bodies for that little room, piled on top of each other every which way, blank rapture on their faces, careless and unmoving.

I remember I saw Marley’s hand, with her beaded bracelet, sticking out of the mountain, dead like the rest of them. I remember gagging. I remember scrambling back on top of the piano bench, like it was a life raft. I think I was shaking. It’s hard to remember.

I do remember Cecilia was suddenly beside me, and she touched my arm, just gently, to get my attention.

“Look again,” she said, and a tiny echo of the Jones moved in the air, like mist.

I opened my eyes.

They weren’t really bodies. No, no, no, I know what the police report says, but they weren’t. You remember what I said. A drawing back of the veil. They’d all just gone outside, officer, out where the music took them, and they’d left a bit of carbon behind. They knew they wouldn’t need it again.

I wasn’t shaking anymore.

“Do you trust me?” said Cecilia, taking my hand.

“Yes.” I said it without even thinking. I guess it must have been true.

“Wait here,” said Cecilia. “I’ll come back for you.”

—

That’s why I’m still her, officer. That’s why I didn’t call for help. That’s why I didn’t go hide, or kill myself, or whatever else your forensic psychologists are saying I should have done.

See, I’ve figured it out. Cecilia needs me. She can’t do it without an accompanist. So she’s coming back for me. It’s been maybe a day, right? She’ll be here real soon now.

No, I’m not scared. No, I’m perfectly sane.

There are other things, officer. I think I understand what’s out there, beyond the veil. I think I understand how the music works. Why it had to be those notes. And I understand why those people wanted it so bad, when they heard it. Why I want it so bad, now.

I’m done talking now. I’ve told you what I can tell you in words. There’s only one way to make you understand the rest, and I’ve been practicing that one.

Come here, officer. Come and sit by the piano. I’ll show you.

—

Ada Hoffman is a Canadian university student who spends her time writing, gaming, worrying about things, and teaching computers to think. She occasionally sings, but alas, it hasn’t killed anybody so far. This is her third published short story.