Suite d'Existence - 12. Atto primo - Scena I

He didn’t like going to sleep alone. The presence of another body in the double bed prevented him from falling in the trap of overanalyzing. Nightly thinking was disastrous; there was plenty of time to beat oneself down. Sleepless nights usually weren’t spent thinking about the pleasant things in life. No, those hours were saved for spiraling into – more than literal – darkness.

This night was dominated by half-awake dreams about Sigurd, a crying Mara and two arms hugging him into suffocation. The rest of the time Tristan puzzled over the events of the past hours. He missed his wife and their two beautiful children, but he couldn’t help but miss Ernest too. Luckily the latter came to visit him…today. It was already 5:30 in the morning, so he decided to wake up from his state of self-destruction. He didn’t have to go to work today, which left plenty of time to take a nap later in the day.

After having more or less tidied the wrinkled sheets, Tristan opened the curtains and faced the world. It was still dark outside, but living in a smaller village meant there were no high buildings blocking the early morning view. Instead there was the small difference between the dark pastures and the slightly lighter sky.

He didn’t feel like eating, reading or showering yet. Instead, feeling hypnotized by his constant restlessness, he climbed the stairs towards the small attic. The room mostly contained things from the past; photographs, books, clothes, notebooks and certificates from the time Tristan was still in high school. He wasn’t looking for those, though. Instead he went towards a shoe box that sat on top of a few larger crates.

None of the boxes had been opened since they’d moved here. Hell, he didn’t know what half of them contained, since they belonged to Mara. With the back of his hand, he wiped two years’ worth of dust off the carton lid, before lifting it.

He was greeted by an old photograph of him and his parents, but that wasn’t the thing he sought. Beneath the modest stack of pictures were his old diaries. Some of them were more recent, but the majority belonged to his time as a student.

Purposely he avoided a maroon one that was filled with notes and clippings. It belonged to the first couple of months after he’d joined the baroque ensemble. He had to buy a new one, because he’d flooded this copy with all of his newfound enthusiasm. The thought made him smile a little.

No, the journal he was looking for, was the next one in the series. It didn’t take long to locate the blue notebook with 2001-2002 written on its cover. Leafing through his memories, he realized he hadn´t opened any of his old diaries since his hospitalization. He didn´t know if it was a good idea to reread his entries, but it wouldn´t kill him. Or rather, he hoped it wouldn´t.

He stopped at a point where his handwriting became more erratic. Not wanting to be confronted with the beginning, he turned a few pages and began to read.

26/01

I’m dying on the inside. All the things about grieving I considered clichés are painfully true. Mum called me again this morning, to ask how I’m doing. I told her I’m fine, just like I do every time she calls. She probably doesn’t believe me anymore, though, because I cried.

It’s just over a month since the funeral. I haven’t played any music since. Everyone tells me I should, because it will help relieve the pain. It won’t. With every note I’ll see his movements, him gesturing to make a crescendo, to stop abruptly. Just like he did.

I can still smell him, you know. For some reason I’m unable to feel him, though. I can’t remember how it felt, being kissed. It’s probably for the best.

No one realizes why I’m acting like I do. They think it’s because I’ve lost a good friend. They tell me to cheer up, that he would have wanted me to be happy. It’s not just him I’ve lost, though. I think I’ve lost the ability to love.

Actually, I don’t want to love someone like that ever again. Because he’ll die. And I can’t handle that. God, I miss him so much. But it won’t help. He’s not coming back.

He should have taken his own advice. Here he was, shedding tears over someone he lost more than a decade ago. It was pathetic. Unable to stop himself lamenting the unforgotten death, Tristan stumbled back to the bedroom, clutching the journal.

I don’t want to fall in love like that ever again.

He’d broken his own promise.

 -

Only when he woke up from the sound of the doorbell, Tristan realized he had fallen asleep. He still hadn’t showered, eaten breakfast or read the newspaper, let alone put on some decent clothes. The worst thing, though, was the fact he knew who was at the door. It wasn’t someone he wanted to face in his current state.

Unfortunately there wasn’t another option, so he stumbled towards the door, dressed in nothing more than an oversized T-shirt and a pair of lounge pants. The silhouette behind the door window had turned and was now facing the street.

Ernest jumped at the sound of the door unlocking. “Tristan! I thought I’d… Hi.” Tristan could feel Ernest’s eyes darting over the sloppy nightwear and his pale face. Luckily smell was a bit harder to detect by sight. Out of habit, he started to apologize for his appearance.

“I’m really sorry. I haven’t had time… Well, I fell asleep again.”

“That’s okay. Do you want me to come back later?” Ernest replied, not trying very hard to hide the fact he was slightly amused.

“No, come in.”

“Thanks.”

Leading his guest towards the living room, Tristan glanced at the clock. It was already half past twelve; the broadcast was set on six o’clock, so there was enough time to dress a bit more appropriately. The problem, however, was that his colleague had already arrived.

“Eh…Ernest?”

His friend looked up from the couch. “Yeah?”

“Is it okay if I… Do you mind if I take a shower and put on some different clothes?”

“No, of course not.”

Phew…That went easier than expected. He looks nice, even after work. He smells nice too… I’m going to be sick. God, I’m not leaving the bathroom ever again…

“Thanks. Grab something to drink, you know where everything is, right?”

Ernest nodded. “Take your time. I promise I won’t steal everything while you’re away.”

Tristan tried to chuckle, but it came out as genuine as he felt; it sounded more like a series of attempted sneezes.

Embarrassed by his behaviour, he quickly left the room to go upstairs. To ease his nerves, he turned on the radio before stepping into the shower. Feeling the cold water streaming down his tired body was an instant pick-me-up. For a few seconds, it even took his mind off…

What am I doing? My god, what was I thinking yesterday? I can’t do this, this isn’t right. Mara will be heartbroken. I can just continue like I’ve done the past nine years, can’t I? Nothing that some pills and tablets can’t fix…He’ll probably understand that I was talking nonsense yesterday. This will just be a nice afternoon, with music and a good friend. Nothing more. Because it can’t be more…

Under the influence of his newfound pseudo-confidence, Tristan decided to trade his sweaty pajamas for a slightly nicer looking pair of lounge pants and a better fitting T-shirt. Though he was not supposed to care for Ernest’s opinion on his looks, he couldn’t help but feel self-conscious as he walked down the stairs.

Upon entering the living room, he was immediately greeted by a smiling Ernest.

“Hey. I got myself a glass of water, hope you don’t mind.”

“Well, if you keep doing that, you’ll make me poor.”

“You? Poor? Your luxurious scent tells me otherwise”, the guest winked.

Instead of looking at the comment as a joke, Tristan blushed at the back-handed compliment.

“Do you want something else to drink?” He tried to save himself from embarrassment, pointing at Ernest’s empty glass.

“What are you having?”

“Some tea, I think.”

“I’ll have some tea, then. Do you mind if I attack my lunch? It’s been a quite…eventful morning.”

“No, not at all”, Tristan replied.

As his colleague searched his bag for food, he looked up. “Aren’t you going to eat something? I’ll feel stupid if I sit here munching on my own.”

“Nah, I’ve just had lunch”, Tristan lied. Soon after, his stomach betrayed him; it made a loud gurgling noise, which caused Ernest to look up in surprise.

“You haven’t”, he stated with amusement.

“I…I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve had a huge breakfast or something?”

It took Tristan a bit too long to formulate a convincing lie. His friend arched his eyebrows, so he’d probably figured him out.

“Have you even had breakfast, Tristan?”

“Oh god, you sound like my mother.”

“Seriously, I won’t leave until I’ve watched you eat something.”

Tristan looked up in horror, just to face a broadly grinning Ernest. “Come on, just make yourself something. You won’t feel better on an empty stomach.”

He caved, without even trying to resist. “Okay then. But you still sound like my mother.”

“She probably wants to see you happy and healthy, just like I do.”

That’s so nice. He cares. No, don’t give in, it’s for the best.

Escaping temptation, Tristan left for the kitchen. The kitchen was separated from the living room by just a couple of sliding doors, though, so he could feel Ernest checking up on him. He threw together a sandwich as fast as he could, waited for the kettle to boil and proceeded to make his entrance. Carrying two cups of boiling water and a plate turned out to be more difficult than he’d thought.

“Here, let me…”, Ernest said while taking over one of the cups

“Thanks”, Tristan replied as he sat down next to him. “So, classes weren’t great then?”

“No. Nobody seems to understand the beauty that lies in physics. It’s frustrating…”

And so they sat for more than an hour, talking about the wonders of life which Tristan thought were hard to grasp. The next couple of hours were filled with more tea, a game of Scrabble and the sharing of musical memories. Ernest had tried to explain the technique used for playing the viola da gamba, after which Tristan attempted to clarify the principle of touché. Showing it didn’t work that well on a motionless table, though, so they moved to the piano.

“So just put your hand like this…” he explained, moving his hand into a correct playing position.

“Like this?” Ernest had put his fingers on the keys. They were slightly bent, like you would do if you’d play the piano. However, the harpsichord required a different technique.

“Um, just bend them a bit more. Try to get your fingertips as vertical as possible.”

His friend had curved his fingers a bit more, as told, but it still wasn’t completely right.

“Hold your wrist a bit higher…” Tristan said, slightly lifting Ernest’s wrist until it was in a straight line with his hand and lower arm. He hadn’t even realized he was touching him, until he felt his arm stiffen. “Um…Yes, that’s better.”

An unavoidable awkward silence followed. Both men were staring at the connection between hand and wrist. Surprisingly it was Ernest who pulled back first and cleared his throat.

“I…I haven’t played the piano before. So, thanks for the lesson.”

“Oh but you shouldn’t use this technique on a piano. Just on the harpsichord. I can take you to…” Tristan started, the overly enthusiastic musical nerd he was, before realizing what he was doing.

“Um…Just don’t play the piano like that.” was all he could manage.

“I won’t, I promise. Fancy another game of Scrabble?”

“Yes please.” Tristan smiled, glad he didn’t have to come up with an idea.

And so the mood was lightened, and all was forgotten. Or so it seemed, for about fifteen minutes. That was all the time it took for his brain to strangle his thoughts into guilt and shame. He had to excuse himself to go to the bathroom, which seemed the only way to get his feelings straight.

Following the lines between the bathroom tiles proved a welcome distraction. For some reason it made him switch his attitude once again, too.

This can’t go on like this. I know what I want, it’s so ridiculously clear. And I’ll have to live with the consequences. Just not…not now. I can’t do it now. I’ll lose Mara, and Daan and Sara. I cannot live without them. I cannot live without…without him either. For heaven’s sake, how am I supposed to do this?! I won’t choose, I can’t. I just…can’t.

The bathroom break had taken more than twenty minutes, when Tristan returned. Another hour or so, and the opera would start. Monteverdi’s arias had lost their attractiveness, though. Ernest quickly picked up at his changed mood, like he always did.

“Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all. Is it okay if I just cook something simple for dinner? I kind of forgot you’d be here around dinnertime.”

“No, that’s not okay.”

“What?” Tristan replied, unpleasantly surprised by Ernest’s reaction.

“You’re not cooking if you’re tired. I’ll order pizza or something. It’s on me.”

“No…No, you’re the guest, I’m going to –“ he protested.

“Do you like mushrooms?” Ernest interrupted him, while taking out his phone.

“What? No, don’t –“

“You’re not allergic to cheese or something, right?” his guest continued. The look on Tristan’s face must have been priceless, because Ernest clearly enjoyed torturing him.

“No, I’m not, but –“

Ernest gestured him to be silent, so he did without protesting. This plan of ‘not-giving-in’ wasn’t working at all.

“Hi, can I order a pizza? Great…Um…A vegetable pizza with mushrooms, please. Oh, that sounds great, add two of them as well…”

Tristan shot him a questioning look.

“Okay, great…Sorry? Oh, the address”, Ernest emphasized, returning the look he’d just received.

Without even considering the possibility of obstructing Ernest’s plan, Tristan answered.

“Rozenlaan 24”, he whispered.

“Rozenlaan 24”, Ernest repeated. “Okay, thanks. Bye.”

“What did you just do?” Tristan asked, still dumbstruck by his friend’s impulsive take-out call.

“I ordered us a pizza.”

“Well, I’m paying.”

“No, you’re not. Now sit down and I’ll get you a glass of water.”

And so he did, again, without making a fuss. It wouldn’t help to put up a fight, not to mention he didn’t want to either. This man made him not want to fight himself anymore. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

About half an hour later the pizza was delivered, along with two cannoli. Ernest had tried to convince him they were free, but judging by the amount he’d paid the delivery guy, they hadn’t been. He still didn’t make a fuss about him paying, though.

Finally, at six o’clock, the broadcast of L’Incoronazione di Poppea started. It was the premier of an interpretation by William Christie, with Danielle de Niese as Poppea and Philippe Jaroussky singing the parts of Nerone.

Ten minutes earlier, Tristan had managed to find the ‘record’ function on his television. He hadn’t used it before, but he knew he wanted to see the opera again, were it a good performance. Now he and Ernest were sitting next to each other on the comfortable couch, eating pizza, the scores of the opera lying in front of them.

Both of them had seen various interpretations of Monteverdi’s masterpiece. Even after seeing it several times, however, the music never failed to amaze.

“Deh, nasconditi, o Virtù”, Fortuna started. “Virtue, go hide your mis’rable face.”

Soon after those first words, both men found themselves whispering along the lyrics. This caused them not only to be impressed by each other, but made it easier to feel the pain and joy of the characters. The break came too quickly; since it was a live broadcast, there was no way to fast-forward the recording.

They used the thirty minutes to discuss the performance so far. Both of them agreed the costumes and make-up were weird; not necessarily ugly, but just weird. De Niese had disappointed a bit, but there was room to improve in the second part. Jaroussky, as expected, was brilliant. His clear countertenor voice suited the part of Nerone beautifully. The other performers were brilliant, as were William Christie and Les Arts Florissants.

Tristan made them a mug of strong tea to go with their cannoli and before they knew, the performance had started again.

“Hor che Seneca è morto”, Jarouskky began. To Tristan’s surprise, Ernest sang this line along out loud. He smiled, and received a warming smile in return. The night wasn’t so bad at all.

“Since old Seneca’s dead now, we’ll sing, we’ll sing Lucano.”

Lucano, his part sung by Mathias Vidal, now joined the duet. Both voices complemented each other in an amazing way. The scene depicted Nerone and his servant Lucano playingly composing songs about the beautiful Poppea, while celebrating Seneca’s death. Some interpretations, however, stress the ending of a relationship between the two men, now Poppea’s available.

Vidal and Jaroussky certainly seemed to incorporate the latter. What first seemed some playful touching and moving, soon turned into a hand between two legs and the touching of naked skin.

“Bocca, bocca, che se ragiona…” Lips of coral, if they are pouting…

- “Ahi!” Ah!

“…se ragiona o ride…” …if they’re pouting or smiling…

- “Ahi!” Ah!

“…con invisibil arme…” …they have an unseen weapon…

- “Ahi!” Ah!

“…punge, e al l’alma dona felicita mentre l’uccide.” …they use and granting happiness to the soul, with joy they kill.

- “Ahi, destin!” Ah, destiny!

Both friends knew what was going on, for they had seen the opera more than once. Never had it been this emotional or sensual, though. Never had it been so incredibly suitable for the moment. It was extremely painful, but beautiful at the same time. Neither of them whispered along with the lyrics anymore. The space between them seemed incredibly small at the moment. However, the scene wasn’t over yet.

It ended with a sung monologue from Nerone. Lucano was lying down, defeated by the greatness of love they’d ended their conversation with.

“Son rubin amorosi, I tuoi labri preziosi”, Jaroussky sang while caressing Vidal’s head. The words that followed were more or less a declaration of love.

“Di care, di care gemme ha fabbricato Amore”, he told him. Of care, of the gems of care, Love is made.

And then they kissed. Nerone and Lucano kissed. Jaroussky and Vidal kissed.

It wasn’t in the scores, but it fitted the scene. Both Ernest and Tristan had frozen upon watching the moment. The first sign of defrosting had them moving closer to each other. Their hands touched, their knees touched and they were emotionally touched. There was no way they could stop this from happening.

Even when their eyes were only centimeters apart, Tristan didn’t doubt his actions. When he felt a warm hand on the small of his back, he moved forward until his lips touched the pair in front of him. The next scene had begun, but they didn’t notice. Ottavia planned to kill the queen, but they didn’t break their embrace.

“M’inebria il core. Nettare, nettare, nettare divino.”
My very heart is drunk. Nectar, what nectar, what nectar in her kisses.