Bird
by
Karen Schauber
It is mid-week in the quartier in front of the museum’s commanding staircase, and the cellist is playing a Sarabande. His tangle of curly Moroccan hair jumbles like Hokkien noodles with each rhythmic nod of his head. He is concentrating, eyes shuttered. The mournful melody is played slow, spare, and lonely. Lean sinewy fingers shimmy up and down the instrument’s neck. Notes yawn and camber. The sound is resonant, arcane, haunting.
He has performed this piece umpteen times before. Fingers and bow arm animate with independent muscle memory. The rest of his body idling.
The cellist busies himself with the audience. Scanning. He glimpses a woman in the crowd perched like a tropical bird. Tall, elongated sinuous neck curved in an S-shape, rainbow-coloured hair, spikey and barbed. He’s seen her before at open-air concerts. By the second movement, her eyes are glistening like sea salt, her chin trembling like an open flame.
Once upon a time he too felt something. Could feel the notes burrowing, stirring desires and furies, obsessions, and slings. Each note igniting an involuntary sound-to-colour burst of tourmaline blue, ballet slipper pink, antelope brown, disco purple, and hullabaloo red.
…. But that was then. Before he lost touch. Before he played by rote.
His eyes scrutinize the bird-woman over the black-horsehair bow as it zigzags across the fingerboard. Keeping the notes light and thin, like the whisper of a secret affair. Then abruptly nosedives down the instrument’s neck plunging to a dark cavernous C two octaves below middle C. Her avian limbs respond with a sudden flutter. He wants to know her story.
He imagines she comes to feel. The dark sonorous C impaling deep within, excavating buried emotions, memories, and experiences. She is overcome by the cello’s vibrations. The bow lurching, snapping, and shuddering, and for a moment, she is made whole. When it pauses, in a semibreve rest, she holds her breath. Folds up. It is only when the cello throbs, that she can let herself go. He plays for her.
The cellist leans in. The notes undulating, enveloping; serpentine. His lips pucker and purse, his mouth bursting with delicate tiny prickles. Something marvelous percolating. Something sudden, something altogether new.
With each note, he tastes a distinct flavour. Soon, a medley of sumptuous Maraschino cherry, black Mission fig, Malabar pepper, Saskatoon berry, Madagascar dark chocolate, and Kentucky bourbon, tickle his mushroom-shaped papillae. His head is swimming, saliva swirling. He is back. His performance astounding.
The concert, over. He packs up his instrument lasering through the crowd for a chance to meet her. But she has already flown away. A migratory bird.
He has performed this piece umpteen times before. Fingers and bow arm animate with independent muscle memory. The rest of his body idling.
The cellist busies himself with the audience. Scanning. He glimpses a woman in the crowd perched like a tropical bird. Tall, elongated sinuous neck curved in an S-shape, rainbow-coloured hair, spikey and barbed. He’s seen her before at open-air concerts. By the second movement, her eyes are glistening like sea salt, her chin trembling like an open flame.
Once upon a time he too felt something. Could feel the notes burrowing, stirring desires and furies, obsessions, and slings. Each note igniting an involuntary sound-to-colour burst of tourmaline blue, ballet slipper pink, antelope brown, disco purple, and hullabaloo red.
…. But that was then. Before he lost touch. Before he played by rote.
His eyes scrutinize the bird-woman over the black-horsehair bow as it zigzags across the fingerboard. Keeping the notes light and thin, like the whisper of a secret affair. Then abruptly nosedives down the instrument’s neck plunging to a dark cavernous C two octaves below middle C. Her avian limbs respond with a sudden flutter. He wants to know her story.
He imagines she comes to feel. The dark sonorous C impaling deep within, excavating buried emotions, memories, and experiences. She is overcome by the cello’s vibrations. The bow lurching, snapping, and shuddering, and for a moment, she is made whole. When it pauses, in a semibreve rest, she holds her breath. Folds up. It is only when the cello throbs, that she can let herself go. He plays for her.
The cellist leans in. The notes undulating, enveloping; serpentine. His lips pucker and purse, his mouth bursting with delicate tiny prickles. Something marvelous percolating. Something sudden, something altogether new.
With each note, he tastes a distinct flavour. Soon, a medley of sumptuous Maraschino cherry, black Mission fig, Malabar pepper, Saskatoon berry, Madagascar dark chocolate, and Kentucky bourbon, tickle his mushroom-shaped papillae. His head is swimming, saliva swirling. He is back. His performance astounding.
The concert, over. He packs up his instrument lasering through the crowd for a chance to meet her. But she has already flown away. A migratory bird.