The Orchestra - Sinfónia Lifsins - 40. Welcome Home, Arnar Sæmundarson

Reporters and newspapers were suspiciously (but not surprisingly) silent about our stunt of support for Dmitri. Nothing was said of it anywhere, but they did not bother with further defamatory attacks on him either. The silence of the media smelled of the coward tactic employed by humiliated losers trying to pretend their spectacular failure never happened: brush it all under the rug and hope everyone forgets. But this was not going to last. It was too good to be true. Too easy.

They did not surprise anyone when, barely a week later, they regrouped their army of infamy and makers of incendiary gossip and got right back to work. The new wave of attacks came on Monday, but this time their target was me.

The reason for their change in tactic was just as painfully obvious. They had already sucked all they could out of Dmitri’s story before being chased away by the ISO’s lawyers, so naturally they had to find some other easy target. In an orchestra of eighty-three, there was bound to be at least one more of those. The weak link. The perfect victim. In other words, that poor sickly Siggi, whose life was so miserable he had already tried to end it once. How could that not be a good story?

If that collective brainless scum that tried to pass as reporters had just a little bit more sense, though, they would have realised that picking on someone who had been an unwilling victim for his entire life would turn out to be more like shooting their own foot. Their laughable, infantile dramatization of my life in a newspaper article had the same emotional impact on me as Karen’s pitiful gay romance novels.

Which meant they were more pathetic than anything else, but still entertaining enough to amuse me for two seconds before I wiped my diarrhoea with their writings (figuratively, of course).

ICELANDIC SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA’S CHARITY CASE: ONE STEP TOO FAR?

Monday, 21^st January 2013

The Icelandic Symphony Orchestra (ISO), one of our most cherished national institutions, proved once again that it has some interesting (and highly controversial) hiring policies. The orchestra is already known for choosing a young and extremely talented (if still somewhat inexperienced) leader, and for sheltering a famous TV star from the echoes of his previous career. Most recently the ISO gained notoriety when it emerged that they feature a (former?) prostitute among its core members. With such an ensemble of unlikely characters, one would think the ISO has filled its quota of oddballs and undesirables, but the eighty-three-strong orchestra has one more surprise up its sleeve: a cellist on suicide watch.

Sigurður Jónsson was just seventeen when he replaced the acclaimed Bergdís H. Magnússdóttir, who retired after an impressive forty years of leading the cello section at the ISO. The fact that Sigurður was chosen at such a young age should be proof of his blossoming talent, however, two years down the line it is clear this is not the case.

Over the last two years, Sigurður has missed more concerts than any of his colleagues put together. Out of the one hundred and twenty-two concerts given by this ISO during his tenure, Sigurður was absent in forty-five. This lack of commitment to his job would have even the most talented player dismissed, but Sigurður enjoys a special privilege within the ISO that makes him immune to the afflictions of ordinary musicians in similar positions: he is the ISO’s very own charity case.

Sigurður’s story certainly aspires some level of sympathy. Thrown into foster care at the age of fifteen because of a complicated family life, Sigurður drew the lucky slot and was sent straight to the doorstep of Arnar Sæmundarson, then-leader of the ISO. Thus Sigurður enjoyed an early connection to the orchestra that would later employ him. He befriended his future colleagues long before the opportunity appeared to formally join them. And so, when Bergdís retired, no one at the ISO had the heart to deny Sigurður the position. It seemed like Sigurður’s tragic life just had the perfect fairy-tale ending. No doubt that the ISO thought so too. However, the ISO’s nightmares were just beginning.

Sigurður was not in the line-up for the concert on 23^rd November last year. Considering his appalling track record in regards to concerts, this should not come as a surprise. However, this single absence had a much darker motive: Sigurður had tried to take his own life. He lay recovering at home from this plunge to despair while the rest of the ISO played on to a blissfully unsuspecting public.

The details concerning Sigurður’s suicide attempt are not known, but reliable sources confirm he came dangerously close to succeeding. Despite this tragic setback, the cellist returned to his job the following week, and has since missed only one other concert. The obvious conclusion from this evidence is that the orchestra is apparently willing to put up with an irresponsible and deeply disturbed section leader because of his troubled past and privileged connections.

This kind of situation cannot be beneficial for the ISO. Sigurður’s mental instability puts into question his ability to lead the orchestra’s cello section, and his constant absences only strengthen the case against him. Sigurður has proven to be irresponsible towards his job and inconsiderate towards his colleagues. It begs the question: why is he still there?

Evidently, the ISO feels a sense of duty towards a player they came to know as a troubled youth. However, the quality of their work cannot be compromised because of a charity case. If Sigurður is no longer fit to carry on his job, then the ISO should rethink its choice of leaders.

Sigurður is the featured soloist for this coming Thursday’s performance of Haydn Cello Concerti 1 and 2. Here is hoping he plans to attend this performance and hold onto his life at least until the curtains are drawn.

“Holy shit, that was low!” After her initial disbelief, one exchange of glances was all that Karen needed to understand my opinion about the article. It probably helped that she had become so familiar with my annoyed look over the years. “…but you don’t give a shit about it, apparently.”

“No. If that’s really all they have, I’m actually quite disappointed.”

“You wanted them to talk even more shit about you?” As my so-called best friend, Dmitri should not be so surprised. He should have known me better.

“I don’t necessarily want anyone talking about me anywhere, but if they’re trying to go for a scandal, they should’ve at least bothered to publish something that’s actually scandalous. If all they have against me is that I missed a lot of concerts, anyone with half a brain can check and see they were due to sick leave and not, I quote, ‘irresponsibility’. It’s also very easy to check that I got my job fair and square, through auditions like everybody else.”

“But they talked about your suicide attempt.”

“And? I’m not denying it happened. I sank that low once, so what? I’m still here and I’m still doing my job. I’ll only do something about it if they start telling the details, because one: it’s probably illegal to publish that kind of thing, and two: it would be an easy way to get to you again. And I’m not allowing that.”

“Aw, Siggi’s trying to protect me!” Only Dmitri could manage to hug someone while squeezing their ass and fondling their genitals. “Look, he’s even hugging me back!”

“That’s for getting caught in my mess. You didn’t deserve that.” Saying such a thing without sarcasm probably qualified as one of those emotional milestones my counsellor liked to talk about. Or a miracle. If I believed such things.

“I could’ve stopped you. Or at least refused to go along with it.” And yet, Dmitri still felt guilty. He was almost as bad as I was. His arms closed around my back. His chin hurt my collarbone.

“Bullshit. I did things the way I did because I knew you wouldn’t be able to get away.” Someone would start crying soon, and it was not going to be me. “Which is a major arsehole move from me, and means you can’t blame yourself for anything.” Shuffling of feet, door banging. Karen and Gísli had the sense to leave us alone.

“I’m still trying to get over it.” The weak whisper that left Dmitri’s mouth was way too familiar. It was not something I wanted to deal with on a Monday morning, particularly once Dmitri gave up trying to keep my shirt dry.

“I know.” I knew it so well that my body was feeling it too, in the shape of wetness spreading over my shoulder.

“I guess the newspaper did have an effect after all…”

“I chose my encore, and you’re in it.” Change the subject. Wet shirts and overly-emotional friends were not in the plans for this Monday morning.

“Oh?”

“Vivaldi’s Concerto for Oboe, Violoncello, Strings, and Basso Continuo. It means the replacement will play too, but whatever. I wanted to play with the rest of the orchestra.”

“But why? Aren’t encores supposed to show off your individual, unaccompanied brilliance? Why give that up?” Distraction achieved.

“I think you know the answer already. Don’t make me say it out loud.”

“Aw. Is this one of those ‘I’m-not-ready-to-talk-about-deep-feelings’ moments?” Dmitri thought it would be appropriate (or cute, or caring, or whatever cheerful adjective his duties of friendship came up with) to hug me even more and play with my hair as he spoke.

“Pretty much.” And my answer to him had the kind of enthusiasm that had to be identified with a microscope.

Yet, he would not let go of the hug, even when the silence deteriorated into awkwardness. “If you want to use this as a chance to practice…”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then is it just a problem that you can’t say it, or you can’t bear to hear it too?”

“If you know, you don’t need to tell me.”

“I can’t be sure I know it until you actually give me a straight answer.”

“Can’t. I’m too queer for that.” The words might have come with a grin, but only because Dmitri could not see it. He laughed regardless.

“I guess you have a point, though your talent for telling jokes is debatable. Can I say what I think your reason is or not? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’, or I’m going to keep hugging you until the end of times.”

“…Yes”

“Aw!” Peck on the cheek. Someone was using deep emotional moments to blur any common sense of boundaries. “I’m glad you’re trying to open up to have your emotions thrown in your face.”

“Get on with it before I change my mind.” My throat managed to make a sound that just might have approached a threatening growl.

“Fine, fine! I guess I can’t push my luck too much…” He got the message. “I think you don’t want to play on your own because… because you would’ve never made it if you were on your own. You used to say that you wouldn’t have any reason to keep going if it wasn’t for your job. I remember how awful I felt when we were getting to know each other and you told me playing cello was the only thing that kept you sane. It’s something along those lines, isn’t it? You want us to play in your encore because we’ll always be a team. You want us to be always there for you, even when all eyes are supposed to be just on you.”

“I wouldn’t put it in those words, but…”

“I think we just established you wouldn’t put it in any words at all. That’s why I had to say it.” Dmitri’s trademark smirk was almost too gentle.

“Go fuck yourself with a cactus.”

“Aw, I love you too!” There was another peck on the cheek, an ass squeeze, and a rubbing of his leg against my crotch that was by no means accidental. There was a grin, a look of fake innocence, and it was somehow enough to make my own lips curl upwards.

(...)

“Ok, so for this week’s rehearsals, we’ll practice the cello concerti in the first half, and the rest of the stuff in the second half. I’m sorry, wind, brass, and percussion, but you can go have a three-hour long coffee break.” Gummi’s announcement generated both groans and laughter from the players concerned.

“No way! We’ll stay and watch from the audience! There’s no way we’re missing this!” Karen led the group comprising of roughly a third of the orchestra in a surprisingly organised procession down from the stage to the first rows of audience seats. “We’ll be Siggi’s mock-up audience so he doesn’t get stage-fright for the concert!”

“I don’t need an audience to control my nerves.”

“You say that now, but you’ll thank us on Thursday.” Karen was smiling far too much.

“What she means to say is that we enjoy hearing you playing, Siggi.”

This was one of those moments that would have put any good movie or book straight into the ‘marred by horrible clichés’ category. It ticked all the boxes for dramatic entrances of major characters during key plot development scenes. There was Arnar, having just opened the stage door, looking directly at me with his best confident smile. The scene would have been familiar, if Arnar’s arm had not been in a sling, and he was instead holding his violin. And if the replacement had not been sitting in his chair all along.

“What are you doing here?”

“You say it like you don’t want me around, Siggi.”

“You know that’s not true. I’m just surprised. What are you doing here?”

“I came to watch the rehearsal. I don’t really have anything to do with my life nowadays, so Gummi thought I should come help out.”

“Actually, I was planning you could do a little more than just help out.” There was a kind of gleam in Gummi’s eyes that my limited emotional capacity found hard to interpret, but that made half of the remaining musicians grin suspiciously. To my credit, at least Arnar looked as lost as I was. “If everyone here agrees, I would like to propose a last minute change to the week’s programme. Instead of me conducting you, I would like to invite Arnar to take over the baton, if he feels up to it.”

“Wow, are you serious?” Dmitri was the one who spoke, but everyone (Arnar and myself included) were definitely thinking the same thing.

“Only if you are up to it. I know Arnar is not a bad conductor, and I know you will be more than willing to help him out. And this is a rather special occasion…”

“I don’t object.” I wanted to say more, but with one look at Arnar the words plunged to their deaths in my throat. Santa somehow found them, however, and said everything I wanted to and then some more.

“It would be great to have you back, Arnar. Even if I’m not sitting by your side, I think all of us can’t wait to make music with you again. We promise we’ll be nice to you, and at least pretend to accept your newfound authority!” The orchestra’s laughter echoed in the auditorium like it was part of the programme.

“Is that really what you want?” In answer to Arnar’s question, the whole orchestra nodded as one, even the replacement. “Well, then I can certainly give it a try for today, but if it doesn’t work, you’re back with Gummi tomorrow.” Dmitri started a cacophony of whistles that half the musicians on the stage adhered to. Arnar took Gummi’s place at the conductor’s podium under noisy cheering and clapping. “Ok… I’ll give you the tempo with my good hand, and I’ll try to get you to notice the rest with looks and facial expressions. Keep your eyes on me as much as you can, and please don’t laugh.”

“Can’t we laugh just a little bit? Just once?” Everyone was already laughing before Dmitri opened his mouth anyway. Then came the puppy eyes. Even Arnar was not immune to his charms, apparently.

“Don’ let me catch you doing that, and don’t let it get in the way of the music.”

Having Arnar on the podium turned the rehearsal very much into what it used to be before the replacement came along. In fact, Arnar’s new supreme authority made it even better, because he actually outranked the replacement. And we were so used to playing with Arnar anyway, that his ridiculous facial expressions and meaningful glances were not difficult to interpret at all. In this rehearsal there were laughs, Dmitri was made to play the same two bars for five minutes until he stopped laughing at Arnar’s face, and for the first time I forgot the replacement was there. It helped that I was facing the audience instead of his chair, but with Arnar standing next to me the kid could have been sitting in the front row and I would not give a shit.

“I think we should rehearse the encore too.” It was the right thing to do if I expected the ISO to play it with me.

“You got something for the orchestra to play?” Arnar was not surprised. If anyone understood my reasons, it would be him.

“For the strings, and for Dmitri.”

“Argh, we’re not playing again! Siggi, next time pick a concerto that has more than strings, oboes, and horns! I’ll start to think you’re favouring Dmitri on purpose!”

“As a matter of fact, Karen dearest, I most certainly am.” Karen looked so mockingly-pissed from her place in the audience even I could tell what her feelings were. It was almost as entertaining as Arnar’s ‘play softer’ face (easily mistaken for his ‘I am constipated’ face). “And Dmitri, come to the front when we play it. Technically, you’re a soloist too.”

“Are you sure?”

“If you want me to say something embarrassingly sentimental to prove my point, I’ll…”

“No, that’s ok. I know it’s because you love me and because you like to sit close to my dick.”

“Children, behave. This is your workplace…” Though Arnar himself was half-laughing as he said that. Way to impose respect and authority…

“Let them, Arnar, we’re having fun!” Karen’s declaration was met with cheers from the rest of our ‘audience’. Someone started to laugh, and it spread like fire throughout the auditorium. We rehearsed the encore with Dmitri standing as close to me as he dared without being hit by my elbow (not for lack of trying on my part). Not bad for a first rehearsal.

My participation ended when Arnar called for a break. Just like my colleagues had stayed to see me even when they were not playing, I stayed to hear them too. The other pieces in the programme were Mozart’s Overture to The Marriage of Figaro and his Paris Symphony on the first half, and then Beethoven’s 8^th Symphony on the second half. I was going to play the first cello concerto after Mozart’s pieces, and the second concerto straight after the interval.

Gummi and I were the only ones playing ‘audience’ for the second half of rehearsal. The boss decided he wanted to talk to me, and because he was the boss, I had to answer.

“Arnar is not a bad conductor, don’t you think?”

“No, he’s fine. It helps that the orchestra knows him too.”

“Would you like it if he came back as guest conductor more often?”

“What? Are you going to hire him?”

“We’re looking into possibilities at the moment. It would be a shame to lose Arnar after everything he’s done for us, so we’re looking at ways in which he can still participate actively in the ISO. Conducting is one possibility, but if it doesn’t work out, there are others.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“Because you played beautifully today, much above your last couple of performances. I know that being the soloist would affect your playing in a more positive way, but everybody here knows you were the one who suffered the most with Arnar’s accident, and this rehearsal just proved how true this is.”

“Are you saying I haven’t been playing well?”

“Siggi, stop focusing on the bad stuff!” Gummi did not sound angry, but he shouted just as the winds played a series of loud chords, for added accidental dramatic effect. “I wasn’t trying to criticise you. I think, just as you showed us today, that you’re capable of much more than what you’ve been doing since Arnar’s accident, but I’m not blaming you for it or saying you didn’t play well. You were still good and our overall performance didn’t suffer, but I know, just as your fellow musicians know, that you have it in you to do much, much better.”

“Ok. If that’s what you’re saying…”

“I know you’ve been having a hard time. The newspaper today was like a reminder of that. Which reminds me, I’ll have to speak to the lawyers again…”

“You don’t know half the shit that went down since Arnar’s accident.” The Overture blasted enthusiastically in the background. Arnar was doing a great job of bringing it out. Yet, Gummi’s mood darkened immediately. There was one type of feeling I had always known how to recognise, and he was showing it now, even if subtly.

“What do you mean? Did something happen here that I don’t know about?”

I used to think telling my boss would be useless. I convinced all those involved to not say a word either. But two months had gone by since then. Things had changed. Even I had changed. Gummi might as well know what his soloist tried to do to his staff.

“Kresten nearly raped me at our dress rehearsal. I didn’t tell you because I thought you wouldn’t believe me after I had just tried to die by sex.”

“He what?” Gummi’s scream made Arnar stop the rehearsal. Musicians looked between him and Gummi waiting further instructions, but Arnar was completely facing us by that point.

“What’s going on?” Arnar made Gummi face him too. The boss had suddenly become so angry my brain had reverted to survival mode, and all I could think of was run and hide before something bad happened.

“Come here, Arnar, we need to talk. The rest of you can take a break.”

“What is it?” Arnar stood behind me, hand on my shoulder. There was not enough space among the rows of comfy chairs nailed to the ground for him to be anywhere else. Not that I was still aware we were in the auditorium instead of, say, the decaying living room where Jón Ásgeirsson used my body for target practice.

“Care to tell Arnar what you just told me?” The same anger.

“No, please… no…” This was no longer Gummi sitting beside me. I was no longer in the auditorium at the Harpa. This tone, this threat, they did not belong there. It was another man who spoke like this, and it always hurt, no matter what I did.

“Gummi, calm down.” Two firm hands on my shoulder. Breathing was hard. Surely the man with the angry voice was ready to lash out at any minute. Angry at me. Coming for me. Breathing was impossible. “Siggi? Siggi?” Arnar was shouting too. Shaking my body. The angry man left. Arnar propped me up against his chest. “It’s ok, Siggi. It’s ok. Gummi won’t hurt you. You’re safe. I got you now. Breathe with me, in and out… in… out… You’re safe.” His hand on my hair. The other arm, still in the sling, holding my back. “I got you. Nobody is going to hurt you.” Shaking legs. “You’re safe.” Those same words repeated until I started to believe them. Until I saw the auditorium once more, and worried colleagues around us. Until I noticed my sight was blurred from tears yet to fall.

“What happened?” The replacement tried to whisper, but the room was so silent everyone heard. Including me.

“Nothing you need to worry about. I’m fine.” Letting go of Arnar, but nearly falling on the chair, my legs were still shaken. “There’s nothing any of you need to worry about! Back to your rehearsal!”

Gummi did not come back. Arnar stayed. “What did Gummi want you to tell me? Did something happen? I promise I won’t be angry with you.”

“Not now. Ask Gummi. Go back to rehearsal. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I know your triggers. Gummi shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“No, I’ll be ok. Get them playing and I’ll forget about it.”

“Ok, I’ll trust your judgement, but I’ll talk to Gummi later. I want to know what happened.”

The Beethoven symphony had the exact mixture of cheerfulness and excitement to allow my mind to wander away from what had just happened. Gummi’s sudden outburst was the kind of thing I used to see every day before I grew enough backbone to fight my way out of that place. It had been four-and-a-half years, but my instincts were still just as sharp.

Arnar brought out the best of the ISO. No doubt he would. He knew us too well as a fellow player. He was familiar with our style and our sound, and he knew how to manipulate it to create the most incredible results. Not bad for someone who, until now, had never conducted a full orchestra. He got better every day of that week, and so did we.

(...)

Details of my attempt to die by sex never reached the media. Gummi’s lawyers were most likely involved. Still, that one single dip in my scandalous life proved enough to convince the easily-impressed public to buy nearly all the tickets to my solo performance. All eyes on me. All eyes judging the skills of this nineteen-year-old who dared to have mental health problems and still be a competent professional.

The ISO’s power to captivate the audience and take them on an exciting musical journey was evident from the first notes of the Overture. Waiting in the room next to the stage, listening without seeing them, there was nothing stopping me from imagining Arnar sitting in his old chair and conducting from there. Mozart never sounded so beautiful.

“Good luck, Siggi! We’ll be cheering for you from here!” Karen and the other third of the orchestra came to the side room when their participation was no longer required. The stage was being set up to accommodate me, my chair, and my cello next to Arnar. There was nothing for me to do but wait and hear my colleagues’ excited encouragement. It could have been worse.

“And now, ladies and gentleman, please welcome Siggi Jónsson, your soloist for the evening, and our dear friend.” Arnar’s voice carried over the concert hall with the help of a microphone. Dozens of hands patted my back until I crossed the stage doors. “You’ll do great.” Arnar no longer had the microphone. His words were whispered in my ear, only for me to hear. We shook hands as per protocol. He hugged me despite the protocol. And grinned.

“Good luck.” Protocol also demanded I shake hands with the replacement. His attempt at niceties was almost pitiful, particularly with his face insisting on getting a reddish hue in front of our massive audience.

“Don’t screw this up.” The kid could not ruin my night. Arnar was there to make sure it did not happen, but with overly-emotional children like him, all the care in the world might not be enough.

Haydn Cello Concerto in C Major. Technically, the more difficult of the two. Three movements, but barely twenty-three minutes long. Arnar conducting. The orchestra achieving a unity of thought and feeling rarely seen anywhere. Breathing life to a work created over two hundred years ago. And, just for those twenty-three minutes, bringing light and joy to a mind still so full of darkness and pain.

This was the reason I played. The reason that darkness had not yet taken over. The feeling that motivated me to get up every day and trod over sickness and nightmares. The feeling it was all worth it. Believing, however briefly, that failing to end my life had really turned out for the best.

Arnar hugged me again when it was over. Loud clapping reverberated all around the concert hall. Nearly thirty musicians awaited behind the stage doors with smiles and cheers. Arnar and I walked side by side to and from the stage three times to the sound of their vigorous clapping. On the third round, Arnar had to remind the audience I would be back after the interval, or they would never stop.

Cello Concerto in D Major. Somewhat easier. A little shorter. But the feelings were the same. Arnar’s presence on stage, being the one guiding us through the music, had such an impact it would have been difficult to describe even if I was someone used to doing this kind of thing. I understood what Gummi was trying to say about me not playing to my full potential before. Having Arnar next to me again gave me a kind of freedom and security I had not felt since the replacement’s appearance.

The clapping was louder this time. People slowly stood up. The players on stage stood up. But instead of walking me through the stage door, Arnar told me to wait. The doors opened, and Karen led the forgotten third of the orchestra out. They spread on one side of the stage until everyone could see me. All this time clapping just like the audience.

“We prepared a little thing for you,” Arnar whispered in my ear. “Just something to say we’ll be with you for whatever happens, and a little reminder that you have a family in each and every one of us.”

Dmitri came forward. A suspicious package had somehow found its way into his arms. “This is for you, for when the bad feelings refuse to go away.” The package turned out to be a music box with a cello carved on the lid. Inside was a picture of my first concert as leader of the cello section with everyone’s signature on the back. “This thing plays the Prometheus Overture, the first piece you played with us. Hopefully this can bring forward the memories from that day, so you can have some good thoughts to offset the bad ones.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” A hug from Dmitri, another from Arnar. Orchestra and public standing up. Santa crying. And Karen. And… the replacement. It took forever for the moment to end and for Arnar to announce the encore.

“Siggi wanted us to participate in his encore too, and Dmitri gets the double privilege of being co-soloist. We hope you enjoy this piece too.”

Vivaldi had become my favourite composer when I learned he was asthmatic and suffered with the Venetian summers. It was a level of personal identification that led me to look at his music with a new understanding. There was never any question I would play a work by him whenever I had the chance. For our little encore, the musicians who had invaded the stage when Dmitri gave me the music box did not move away. They watched from their places on the sidelines as Dmitri and I, with the help of the rest of the string section, did a little magic of our own.

“Ah, the perks of playing with your best friend!” Dmitri’s arm rested around my waist as we bowed one last time to the still enthusiastic audience. “You did great!”

“You too. It’s been better than I could’ve hoped for.”

Dmitri’s answer was a slight slap on my ass cheek. And the usual grin. And the usual flirt. “If you want, I’ll make your night even better.”

“Sorry, I’m going with Arnar tonight. Unless you want something quick at the party…”

“You know where to find me.” A wink, and our post-concert plans were settled. All sorted in whispers while the audience still clapped enthusiastically. If only they knew…

Beethoven’s 8^th Symphony, the last piece of the night, kept the high standard of the rest of the concert. Considering it was one of Beethoven’s lesser-known symphonies, they managed to make it sound as epic as the 7^th or 5^th, but also lively and fun. The absence of slow, dramatic movements meant they had all the freedom to go all out and enjoy the work.

As for me, I had my fun once the concert was over and all the woodwind players finally stopped lagging behind everyone else and joined us backstage for the mandatory after-work party. There was one woodwind player in particular that had promised me a special kind of entertainment, and I wanted it sooner rather than later.

The tiny room near the lifts and the instruments’ room could not have been built with any purpose other than providing a secluded location for horny, desperate musicians to engage in quick fucks. It only had space for a table, which in fact made for a good makeshift bed. There were no windows. It locked from the inside. With all these handy features, there was no way it could have been designed for anything else. Unless the whole building was the work of a really incompetent architect. But if that was the case, we would have to worry about much more than where to go to have my ass pounded by giant cocks.

Dmitri’s body pressed me facedown against the table. Holding my pony-tail. Biting my neck.

“You’re quite eager tonight.”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

“My point exactly. You want me to fuck you so hard you’ll be limping when you leave with Arnar?”

“If it’s all about what I want, then I would rather you fuck me until you have to carry me to Arnar’s. Let’s see how close you can get to it before we make a mess in our posh work trousers.”

“Challenge accepted!”

(...)

“I know you probably don’t want to talk about it now, but Gummi told me about Kresten.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” My night had been exceptionally good so far. There was no reason to spoil the mood.

“Then I’ll just tell you, first thing on Monday Gummi wants to talk to you, me, and anyone else who saw what happened.” Arnar’s wife started the car. He sat with me in the backseat. Dmitri, Karen, and Gísli waved as they passed by us. “But now for something completely different.”

“The weather.”

“No, the concert. It was great to be with you guys again. It was like coming home after a long holiday.”

“It was about bloody time your holidays ended.”

“I know. And you don’t have to worry, I’ll definitely be around a lot more from now on. Things will get better.”

“It’s the first time in ages that I feel good enough about everything to actually believe you.”

“Good. See, it’s already happening! If we’re lucky it’ll only get better from now on.”

Arnar was naturally optimistic. He would never have signed up to take on children in foster care if he was not. He would not have insisted on sticking to me if he did not believe things would improve.

The only problem was that those ‘improvements’ were not so linear and simple. Experience proved that extremely bad days could follow from good ones, and that one night of magic and fun did not erase a crap week. I could wake up tomorrow from a nightmare or with a new cold (or, knowing my luck, both). Happiness was always a passing thought, a quick visitor. Never a permanent guest.

But every now and then, I felt strong enough to ignore that experience. Instead of wasting my time trying to describe the significance of this night and its complex effects on my feelings, I allowed myself to match Arnar’s optimism. I dared going to sleep believing there would be no nightmares and no pain. And for once, all was well.