The Orchestra - Sinfónia Lifsins - 56. SPECIAL CHAPTER 02 - INTRUDER

A quick note: this is not chapter 56, at least not yet.

This is the second of the two special (draft) chapters I’m posting as a thank you for those who didn’t give up the story despite 2016’s dire lack of updates.

This is Siggi’s first chapter in the story. He’s one of the characters who changed the most in this new version, as he’s now a trans guy (like in his Sonata for Siggi story). The only obvious allusion to it for now is the fact that he’s got a high voice (contrasting to how Gunni imagined him with a deep bass voice in the previous chapter). You’ll have to read chapter 4 to see more interesting implications of this change. *wink wink*

I’m trying to set Siggi up in a way that deconstructs all of Gunni’s wonderful imagination/expectations about him. See if you think you agree!

Enjoy this first gift of the New Year!

(...)

The door to the music room shook, pretending to feel the impact of my non-existent physical strength. Its white face laughed at my incompetence. Mocked my efforts to get past it with my hands full of cello and precariously bounded music scores. The handle loosened with pressure from my elbow, but it only opened when told to fuck off.

Arms protested at being made to carry two kilos of music sheets across the corridor. Burning pain resulted in said papers being dropped on the top of the upright piano instead of at the other end of the room. Any competent person would have placed the music there and it would have been the end of it. Yet, the whole thing came crashing the moment I turned away. Music sheets fell like an avalanche on the floor, the piano stool, and my cello. A block of them hit me on the back.

The cascade of pathetic accidents continued with my attempt to organise the sheets back into a playable order. The music stand next to the piano fell over, scratched the flowery wallpaper, and collapsed on the title page of Schubert’s Overture in the Italian Style.

And the rising sun chose that delightful moment to break through the clouds and hit me in the eyes. The glass balcony doors let in so much sunshine that the room glowed in blinding light. The mess of music sheets gained a life of their own as they too made my eyes hurt and gave me a headache just by looking at them.

I closed the curtains.

Fuck the scores. They were not worth the papercuts and the hassle of putting them back together. I could play from memory or make it up. The piano stool was already set to its maximum height. The cello’s spike came all the way out. The bow tightened with three turns of the screw. And my housemates’ voice echoed in my head with ridiculous lewd jokes while I applied rosin to it.

The first notes came from the C string: low, deep, and scratchy. Short, forceful bowings on the right hand contrasted with the light movement of the left hand over the fingerboard. The improvised stream of notes kept to the D minor key, but never moved as high as the D string. This was not a time for bright sounds. The cello rumbled like a volcano about to explode in the lowest depths of the C string. Earthquakes spread as fast notes in the G string. Volcano and earthquakes alternated with increased urgency until the tension broke half a dozen hairs from my bow. The music ended with three short notes leading to a long F-D chord, and to a soft knock on the door.

‘Siggi, can I come in?’ Arnar’s voice. Of course he could. This was his house. ‘I came to tell you Ágústa and I are leaving for the auditions now. You can wait for us here, but I don’t know when we’ll be back.’ He was already wearing his outside jacket, though he could not have put it on his own. It hid his injured arm and the sickening sling it had been confined to, but the empty sleeve hanging on the side was just as strong a reminder of his uselessness. ‘And I’m assuming your stormy playing means you haven’t changed your mind about coming with us.’

‘No. And you’re a hypocrite.’

‘What?’ Arnar closed the door and stepped closer.

‘You’re a hypocrite. You spent the last four years telling me I could get over the shit from my past and I shouldn’t give up no matter what, but you’re the one who’s giving up now. You should be going there to stop this audition nonsense, not to help them choose your replacement!’

‘Siggi…’ Arnar grabbed the desk chair from the other end of the room and sat next to me, so close that I was forced to notice the dark circles around his eyes. His good arm came around my back, but I did not let him pull me closer. Arnar let go. ‘It means a lot to me that you want me to stay with the ICO so much. I want to stay too.’

‘Then stop the auditions! Tell them to give you more time to get better! We’ll deal with guest leaders for the rest of the season if that’s what it takes to keep you around!’

‘No, Siggi, that’s…’ Arnar closed his eyes. He took too long to open them. They were red and watery when he did. ‘I’m not going to get better. The doctors said my hand will never be the same. I’ll never be able to play violin again.’ Tears rolled silently down Arnar’s cheeks. His lip shook and he gave up saying his next words. He never stopped looking at me. Arnar wanted me to see this pathetic version of himself. This weak, vulnerable person that was not like him at all. That should not be like him.

The Arnar I knew was gone. The Arnar I needed was no longer there.

‘That’s nonsense. The doctors don’t know what they’re talking about. They are the same people who thought I was going to die before I turned ten. They got it wrong for you too.’

‘I don’t think they did.’

‘And that’s why you’re a hypocrite. You believe their word without trying.’ The cello against my chest was the only thing keeping me from standing. ‘You’re giving up because they told you to.’ I tightened the grip on my bow and cello’s neck to keep my hands from shaking. But I had no control over the way my voice rose in pitch and volume. ‘You told me to never believe anyone who said I wouldn’t get over my shit! You told me to keep going, to prove everyone wrong! And I believed you, and that’s the only reason I’m still here!’ Cello be damned. I could no longer sit and look at Arnar like this was a normal conversation. The cello remained under my grip, but my eyes escaped to one of the bookshelves behind him. Even the ancient collection of violin scores was a better sight than his defeated face. ‘But how can I trust you now? If you give up so easily, what am I going to do? Should I give up too?’

‘No!’ Arnar stood. His hand stretched towards me, but hesitated. His voice rose to match mine, though it obviously could never get as high. ‘Please, Siggi, never, never think that!’

‘But what am I going to do without you? You’re the only reason I got this far. If you’re not at the ICO anymore, then –’

‘I’m not going to stop being your father just because we don’t work together anymore. I love you, Siggi, and nothing will change that.’

Damn Arnar’s ability to crumble my anger with a single sentence. ‘I don’t want you to go.’

‘I know. I don’t want to go either.’ Arnar made to hug me again. This time my body accepted the offer before my mind could consider it. ‘The ICO means a lot to me. You are more important to me than I can put into words. And that’s why I’m going there now to help them choose the new Leader. I want to make sure you’ll be in good hands.’

‘Nobody is as good as you.’

Arnar broke the hug and smiled. ‘As much as I feel really happy that you think this way, you have to get used to the idea that the ICO will have a new Leader soon. And since you’ve voluntarily decided to not be in the judging panel, you’ll have to learn to work with whoever we choose.’

‘We’ll see about that. A replacement will never be more than that.’

Arnar’s smile vanished. ‘Please, Siggi, I’m serious. It’s great you feel such loyalty to me, but that can’t get on the way of your professionalism. If it’s so difficult for you to adapt to the new person, maybe we should think about getting you extra counselling sessions, or –’

‘I don’t need more counselling. It’s already an annoyance once a week, I can’t stand more.’

‘Fine. But if you feel you need extra support, this house is always open for you. You can move back with us, even.’

‘Don’t tempt me.’ Moving back to Arnar’s would be like admitting I was too incompetent to live away from him. ‘It would only make things worse.’

‘If that’s how you feel, then I believe you.’ He smiled again, and his hand found my shoulder. ‘I have to go now. We’ll see each other soon.’

‘Actually, I think I’ll go back home after you leave.’ The ICO was about to take its first step towards its doom. No amount of cello playing could erase this reality. Better to spend my time waiting ages for a bus, and then be distracted by public transport’s failure to cater for people with long limbs.

‘Then we’ll see each other whenever you feel like it.’

Arnar squeezed my shoulder and closed the door softly when he left. His car drove away not long after that. The next time I saw him, he would no longer be the ICO’s Leader.

Maybe I should not see him for a while.

(...)      

The absence of my housemates at home should have been the one good thing about this fucking waste of a day. No Dmitri to greet me with hugs and gratuitous genital groping. No Karen asking intrusive questions about my weekend. No Gísli reminding me how shamefully high my voice sounded compared to his low bass one. But a few hours of peace and quiet meant shit when the reason they were not here was the same that drove me out of Arnar’s house.

Fuck this audition. Fuck the replacement.

With a cactus. And no lube.

Even the most horrible nightmares became easier to deal with when reality took over. But years of night terrors never taught me what to do when my worst nightmare became reality. All I wanted was to play cello until I could trick my mind into believing none of this was happening. My music stand and chair had been prepared in my absence with the score for Vivaldi’s Cello Sonata in F major and two bright pink post-it notes under the title. Dmitri’s messy handwriting was more recognisable than the words that came out of his pen:

‘We decided to get you a little thing by your soul-mate composer to cheer you up today. Hope your weekend at Arnar went well. Gísli made your favourite steak and mashed potatoes. It’s all in the fridge when you get hungry. PLEASE don’t forget to be hungry. The alarm is on the table if you need it,’ the first note read.

‘We’ll be back as soon as the audition is over. I’m not even stopping for condoms and booze (we should still have enough in our bedroom anyway). Then I can cheer you up in that way that only I can do! *wink wink* (You can plan the specifics). We miss you.’ Signed: ‘Your friends.’

Both notes crumbled in my hands and headed straight to the bin.

Dmitri should know by now that I did not “forget to be hungry”. I just had better things to do than remember to eat. Food was only necessary when my body became too slow to play at its usual standards. I managed two and a half hours before my eyes skipped lines on the score and my left hand lost its sense of rhythm.

Gísli’s promised steak and potatoes were in the fridge between Dmitri’s vodka bottles and Karen’s chocolate treats. The kitchen had none of the leftover mess indicative of Dmitri’s or Karen’s involvement in food preparation. No dirty pans occupied the counters; no wet plates clogged the drier. All that was left was a knife on the sink. A big, sharp, innocent-looking knife with the blade turned towards the wall.

That tore open my newest wounds.

The knife rested on the sink. The sink overflowed in blood. Blood leaked to the ground, marinated the half-defrosted chicken. Fresh blood on dead flesh. It carved a thin line on the counter and dripped a puddle on the floor. Arnar sat next to it. Crouching in pain, his eyes crying for the scream locked in his throat. His right hand pressed once-white rags against his left. Ágústa kneeled next to him. She shouted for help.

The rags turned red.

The knife rested on the sink.

And I could no longer eat.