I stood at the edge of the expansive stage. The bright circular lights flooded down on me and all the other musicians dispersed across the wooden boards. Beyond the blinding light that illuminated my eyelashes, complete darkness. But I knew they were out there, a few people that came to see the dress rehearsal... and him.
Part of me was wondering: Was he walking thorough the rows of seats? Was he sitting or standing? Was he looking at papers and penciled-in notes on his sheet music? No. I sensed he was looking up. He was looking at me.
The quick tempo of the music on the pianoforte had already begun. A young, strong-looking, and quick-witted tenor stood along the side of this well-loved and ubiquitous instrument, prepared to sing Beethoven's
Adelaide. The narrator and emcee for the evening had already told us all that the song was about Beethoven's great desire for a young and unattainable woman.
"Mild vom lieblichen Zauberlicht um flossen," [Gently bathed in lovely magical light,]
The tenor's voice was so clear and genteel, like the kind of young men I had hoped once lived in Beethoven's day. Still it was not as sweet, as vulnerable, as tender as one other voice I had come to know...
"In Gefilde der Sterne strahlt dein Bildniss," [In the fields of stars thy face beams forth,]
Somewhere in the dark, eyes like the blue sky at noonday were looking, rimmed by impossibly black, long eyelashes that fluttered and expressed the hidden romantic- and thoughts were behind those eyes. What were those thoughts? I knew there was only a small chance that they could be of me, still I looked out into the shield of light that draped the shield of dark which enclosed this soul.
"Wellen rauschen und Nachtigallen flöten:" [Waves roar and nightingales sing]
Part of me wondered what the translation to these words were, the lip-caressing
W's the sighing, almost secretive
Sch's. I felt knowing what the words meant would add to the power of this moment, where he was potentially looking at me, and I was thinking of him. And older man pouring out his heart about a young, unattainable woman. Still I dare not turn my back on him and look at the lyrics on the projector behind me. No, that would only spoil the moment.
"Adelaide!"
Five syllables that increase in pitch, volume and intensity of emotion, building up to the threshold of the human voice, teetering on the precipice breaking and losing all control. The summer ended, the autumn stoked hot enough to feel cold, then the real cold came. Now the buds of pale neon green burst forth. In the near year that passed, I can not forget that "Ah-deh-lie-ee-duh!"
I can't forget the still air that made my skin feel temperate, yet hot and cold. I can't forget how I was shaken back into reality when the music stopped, how I had to stand back in my spot and prepare to sing.
Nor can I deny that in that moment, had he in fact been thinking on me, I wished my arms were wrapped around his neck.
