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PART I. London, England. 1849:
I walked along a stone sett walkway behind an unfamiliar monastery. My companion, an astute and collected man, had a terrible power over me. Through his gentle and cool demeanor, I could not ignore his resolve over my destiny. His name was Anton.
I walked slightly ahead of Anton, looking through the row of open arches. The crisp unseasonably cool summer air blowing through the pointed openings stirred the hair of those inside. The sweet honey smell of beeswax candles and frankincense mingled in the breeze.
Further down the monastery, someone was playing a piano. It sounded more like curious wandering of notes, than anything formal. I walked towards the source of the oddly familiar broken melody.
Inside, a beautiful slender figure with soft black hair was playing. I could see from her profile that she had a gentle, yet focused face. It seemed from her expression that she was searching for some forgotten tune. As she turned her head towards the lower end of the piano, I could see a pain in her eyes.
I rested against a cold stone column a few feet behind her. She was too lost in thought to notice my presence. Anton rested against another column further down the monastery, watching over me with a look of amusement.
I could tell by her slender hands that the woman had a mastery of the piano. Her fingers rippled in wave like motions and slapped precisely in rhythm, yet the expression of sounds were halted and broken, as if unsatisfied.
I could also tell by her hands she had a hard life. They were raw, calloused, and cracked by labor and the cold. But she mastered them so gracefully, it could hardly be a mark against her beauty, more a merit to her indomitable spirit.
My observations were broken by a series of notes she played. She played them again, slower. She played them at different cadences, finally settling on a rhythm. She was about to continue exploring before I interrupted.
“What is that you just played?” I asked.
She paused for a second, as if roused from a dream, then she turned to me. She stared in surprise and puzzlement. She did not answer.
“Those notes just then, you played them repeatedly. What was that? It sounded so familiar.”
She looked towards the floor, searching for a recollection. After a moment, she looked backed up to me. “I can’t remember. An old Russian lullaby I think.”
I pondered over the familiar tune. “I remember those notes, but it had something else, like it went all over the piano. I can remember seeing someone play. Sorry, I don’t know anything about music.”
The young woman turned back to the piano. “I don’t know, that’s all I can make out.”
“Could you teach me those notes so I could learn to play it?”
“Yes, come here, it’s easy.”
I sat down on the bench next to her. She proceeded to show me the keys.
“That’s all I can remember.”
“Are there some keys I can play next to you while you do it?” I asked.
She looked aggravated. “No, it’s just these keys.” She grabbed me by the shirt and slid me closer to her. Then pulled my hand over the keys, making my finger strike them one by one. She then let go.
I felt embarrassed at my total lack of skill. “Okay, lets see.” I struck the keys a few times. After I engraved it in my memory, I looked towards another area of the piano. “I remember something right there, like multiple keys hit at the same time, you call that a chord? It was a chord over here at a rhythm. Like this…”
I started hitting different keys, it sounded like a dying animal. Yet I could make out some of the sounds correctly. I kept trying different combinations until the woman pushed me over.
“Like this?” She asked. A much nicer sound came out, but not quite what I remember.
“Like that, but like a little more down and closer together, if that makes sense.”
“This?” It was exactly the sound in my mind.
“Yes, that. It was at a steady rhythm with the rest of the piece.”
She placed my fingers over the keys. “Show me.”
I hit the chord a few times before it sounded tight. Then a few more tries before I got the rhythm “Then here,” I said. Hitting the first set of keys. “Then another set a little higher.”
We experimented in such a manner, making slow progress. All the while, Anton stood over us, leaning casually over the piano, taking an interest in our endeavor. I felt a sense of urgency in learning this ‘Russian Lullaby’ with what precious time I had left in the world. The young woman at the piano seemed to pick up on my worries. She occasionally looked at me with a troubled expression, placing a gentle hand over mine when I made mistakes.
It may have been a quiet eternity in my mind that I spent in the solace of that moment. The piece itself I learned to play, it was an expression of my regrets left in this world. So many unfinished works squandered in my pitiful ways. Yet the young woman’s steady hands guided my heart as dexterously as she mastered the piano. The music formed a barrier to my grief.
With time, her work created a melodious expression of my memory. I fumbled determinately with the keys to a point of competence. It was a beautiful unfinished work that I feared would remain incomplete.
I was startled by the cold sensation of a blade piercing my back. Anton stood behind me with a good-humored expression. “I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it at that,” he said.
It was a small puncture, but enough to let a trickle of hot blood roll down my back—enough to understand the meaning. I stood to leave.
The young woman grabbed my wrist with a troubling force. Her eyes were focused and determined, with a hint of terror. “You haven’t finished,” she said, pulling me towards the keys. She must have seen Anton’s blade pierce my back, or perhaps read my expression.
I pulled her hand away and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, but that’s all the time I have. I promise I’ll practice.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Adam, what’s yours?”
“Monique,” she replied.
“Monique, that’s a beautiful name. Take care of yourself. Goodbye.” I turned to walk away, Anton following close behind.
Looking back, I could see those haunting hazel eyes. Sitting at the piano, she had an expression of quiet desperation, yet a glimmer of defiance and determination. There was something powerful and beyond human in her demeanor, as certain as the dawn or the stars in the sky.
A short distance away, I could here her call out, “Adam, I will see you again.” She said it with such confidence that I almost believed it. I could only let out a weak smile in reply.
Down a series of questionable Avenues, Anton and I progressed. We reached a particularly seedy alley well suited for murder when Anton walked beside me, in the manner of a consoling friend.
“Too bad, she was so pretty.” Anton lamented. After a pondering a moment, he continued. “You know, I could save you, let you get away…”
Shocked, I looked into his eyes. His smile seemed warm and sincere. I began to work in my mind the possibility of freedom, the life I might live again. My hope was so far gone that I never considered it before.
“Just kidding,” he said jovially as his blade artfully sped to my throat, my artery sufficiently severed to quickly cause blindness. A giddy weakness settled on my body. I laid upon the blood stained brick with a feeling of profound heaviness.
As I felt my life force spill out, an image appeared before me as vivid as a daylight. Monique’s determined eyes and elegantly forceful hands guided me to the piano where we played our ‘Russian Lullaby.’
“See you soon,” I said as death enveloped me.
PART II. Brooklyn, NY. 1911
Outside the window, a small group of children were hauling scrap metal down the street. Their gaunt figures and tattered clothing did not detract from their playful mischievousness. They raucously passed the tightly grouped brownstone row houses, disappearing around a corner. Soon, the unbroken line of masonry swallowed any trace of their presence. All that remained was a tepid quiet.
The stuffy upper level of this particular row house appeared as unassuming as the rest, yet to some, it is a terrible place to pass, let alone dwell. I envied those children who had no sense of the terrible crimes that pass daily in this building. They walk this street with impunity, just as I did as a child. Perhaps they would one day make enough bad decisions too.
“The doctor will be here,” Jude Baker stated as he entered the room. “Red wants to see you.”
Like myself, Jude Baker was a scrap hauling child once. He grew into various criminal enterprises. His specialty was surviving savage beatings. Although not notably cunning or strong, his will to live pushed him through whatever mischief he was assigned to.
He waited at the door for me. His brown eyes scanned me malevolently, then moved to the open window. He pondered for a moment perhaps any possible plots I might concoct. I walked towards him slowly and plainly, as not to provoke action. He seemed satisfied, walking ahead of me towards Redley’s sitting room.
We walked down a dingy white hallway, the thick pine floorboards creaking under our weight. From the first door on the right, I could hear a single piano key being struck occasionally. It halted as we passed. It must have been Redley’s daughter. Jude paid no interest.
We stopped at the second door on the right. Jude listened for a moment to the voices behind the door. I could not make out the muffled words. The voices halted abruptly while we stood listening. Jude slowly opened the door.
Behind Jude, I entered the room. A metallic taste of fear entered my mouth as Redley Mason came into view behind a wisp of blue smoke. His eyes appeared to glow amber as he drew deep from his cigar. He was happy to see me, as a cat is happy to see a mouse.
“You surprise me,” Redley said as he looked over me. “I thought you would have run.”
I thought for a moment. “I didn’t see a choice.”
Redley chuckled. “There is always a choice. You just chose not to keep your eyes. I told you I would have to take your eyes. Now here we are. Have a seat.”
Redley motioned to a chair in the corner by the door. I sat down while Jude leaned against the doorway. Nearest to me, Redley sat alone in a loveseat. His son, Martin, sat in a chair next to him. We shared a coffee table with a bottle of brandy and glasses. Redley poured me a tall drink. I sipped it to calm my nerves.
Redley looked me over quietly. Martin looked off at the wall, seemingly uninterested in the business at hand. His impatience was of a violent and ruthless type. He’d rather kill someone than ask questions. That is why he would never live up to his fathers reputation.
On the coffee table was a small pile of papers. Redley gathered them in his big calloused hands. He continued to look me over. My left eye began to twitch. He smiled.
“It’s amazing what science can do these days. You can take a man’s eyes out of his head and he can still live. Isn’t that something?” Redley asked. He waited patiently for a response.
“That’s really something Redley,” I replied with an undertone of sarcasm. In the interval of silence, I could make out a piano being played in the other room.
“My daughter,” Redley stated, reading my gaze towards the other room. “She’s a real apple, a lovely young woman now. Always at the piano. She took up a new tune today. I do love her playing. That’s why I keep her close to my work.”
Redley looked at the papers in his hands. “Doctors..” he lamented. “They always need their paperwork. Dr. Malthus wants you to look over this.” Redley’s bulldog face leaned in as he handed over the stack of papers. “Liability, you see. Instructions for recovery.”
I was perplexed by what Redley handed to me, a stack of papers with a detailed description of the operation I was to undergo. The risks involved with removing my eyes. Instructions for long term care, medicines I was to take. Redley was never known as a sloppy butcher, but this seemed excessively elaborate.
I thumbed through page upon page of indecipherable jargon. My cheeks glowed red with frustration. My last moments of vision, and probably life, had to be squandered reading clauses and conditionals. Part of me raged against this farse, yet part of me felt comfort in these pages. As if this were an official, even routine procedure, and I had rights as a patient.
As my mind clung to the paperwork, I caught a familiar series of notes on the piano. It was sad and oddly appropriate for the moment. I could tell Redley’s daughter was struggling to find the tune. I felt as though I were struggling with her, trying to find that next series of notes.
Redley took an interest in my fixation. “Mr. Baker, why don’t you bring my daughter in here. Our guest has taken an interest in her playing.”
Martin snapped out of his restless indifference. He sat at the edge of his chair, looking at me with a sense of rage and inconvenience. “You’re not bringing her in here with him!” The sharp angles of his cold face contrasted with the large, reddened features of his father. Yet their steel blue eyes shared a common malice.
Redley never took his eyes off me. “I think our guest can be trusted to behave. We can always take more than his eyes if we have to, isn’t that right?” Redley asked of me. I made no reply.
Martin looked at Jude with a menacing gaze, but Jude was unaffected. He went into the room to summon Redley’s daughter.
Martin had a murderous look in his eyes as he sat back in his reposed state. I knew he would kill me if he could. Even he could not disobey his father, though. Redley had a quiet mastery of this play. I could not determine what his intent was in bringing his daughter in. Some intricate game of human emotion played in his mind.
I could hear Jude knock at the adjoining door. Redley’s daughter stopped playing. Two steps of footsteps slowly made their way down the hall to the sitting room. Jude entered and stood to the side.
With eyes towards the ground, Redley’s daughter entered the room. She dared not look around, sensing death in the air, perhaps. She had a simple innocent beauty inside a graceful, elegant frame. Her skin was a creamy pale color, it seemed to glow inside the dreary smoke stained room. I was surprised to find a strand of grey hair draped against her cheek. Her dark hair otherwise looked vibrant and youthful, as did her delicate face. She could not have been more than 25, yet there was something old in her eyes. Her hazel eyes, though rested, were ghostly vacant. She shared small qualities with her brother, but nothing indicated she was Redley’s daughter.
“Our guest here was enjoying your music,” Redley said, “Why don’t you come and play in here. We’re just going over a procedure with our friend.” Redley smiled cordially as he looked over to me.
Redley’s daughter looked timidly to her father. She nodded respectfully in understanding. She followed her father’s eyes to me. She stared at me with a look of surprise and concern. She looked to the window briefly and then back to her father’s eyes. She pushed her streak of grey hair behind her left ear and walked to a piano against the wall in the sitting room. She opened the cover but did not play anything.
Redley looked over to his daughter. “What was it you were playing earlier that caught our guest’s attention?”
His daughter spoke softly. “I do not know, it’s something I learned from long ago.” Her eyes never left the keys as she spoke.
The scene seemed oddly familiar. I tried to reach back to my memory, but could not discern. Redley broke my concentration.
“You know what she was playing?” he asked me.
“I just barely remember it a long time ago. I can’t remember how it goes…” To my own surprise, I got up and walked towards the piano. I could hear Jude walk towards me, but I saw Redley wink at him. Martin clenched his fingers malevolently.
I sat to the left of his daughter on the piano bench. I looked at her and felt as though I remembered her. “My name is Nathan,” I said.
She looked over, not surprised but smiling, as if seeing an old friend. Her grey streak of hair fell to her cheek again, where she gathered it back behind her ear. “I’m Amber.”
Something beautiful happened then that not even Redley had domain over. It was as if the world were cleaved at that piano, and the rest of the sitting room was an eternity away. Nothing else could explain the countless moments we spent playing the piano together. Amber became animated and focused, bringing color to the surrounding grey. Though I never touched an instrument in my life, that piece was engraved in my fingers. It was a nameless beauty that shined brighter than the dirty struggle on those Brooklyn streets. It gave meaning beyond life itself, and I finally felt that my soul was calibrated to the right star.
Though our composition came to an end, the sense of purpose and clarity remained. Amber smiled as we held hands, both sensing an endless chain of hardships coming to a close around a destined moment.
As the cleaved world slowly stitched itself back together, and quiet shadows of terror and reality weighed back on the room, Amber touched my cheek gently, not with a look of sad determination, but of a warm caring joy. “I’ll see you again,” she told me.
“I’m sure of it,” I replied.
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