Thick and Thin (an atypical romance)

FOUR

The conductor with hair groomed by DC voltage stood on his little platform, baton in hand. Like a checkered flag at a race, his slender waving stick indicated musical engines were to start.

I flipped through my program and began to read. Symphonie Fantastique, according to the program notes originally written by Berlioz himself for its premier in 1830, part one titled “Reveries - Passions” stated,

The author imagines that a young musician, afflicted by the sickness of spirit which a famous writer has called the vagueness of passions, sees for the first time a woman who unites all the charms of the ideal person his imagination was dreaming of, and falls desperately in love with her. By a strange anomaly, the beloved image never presents itself to the artist’s mind without being associated with a musical idea, in which he recognizes a certain quality of passion, but endowed with the nobility and shyness which he credits to the object of his love.

This melodic image and its model keep haunting him ceaselessly like a double idée fixe. This explains the constant recurrence in all the movements of the symphony of the melody which launches the first allegro. The transitions from this state of dreamy melancholy, interrupted by occasional upsurges of aimless joy, to delirious passion, with its outbursts of fury and jealousy, its returns of tenderness, its tears, its religious consolations – all this forms the subject of the first movement.

With that in my mind, I eagerly lost myself in the music. Sat with my eyes closed to the hall and its little cloud of clear acrylic sound reflectors above the stage, to the audience, to everything but sound. Strings and horns, flutes and bassoons, all wove a tapestry as the music’s plot line expanded. When I opened my eyes, I looked to the orchestra. A flutist really seemed to be grooving her part, while the woman next to her seemed to be giving the gyrating seated performance a side-eye above fluttering fingers and pursed lips. Eyes of the musicians flitted from the scores on stands before them to the wild-haired conductor gesturing with vigor.

Except for Finn Xaviar. His eyes locked on mine, and his lips quivered into a quirk before settling into a smirk. I gave him a little nod of acknowledgment before closing my eyes to the soundscape. Part one settled into silence for a few moments before the start of part two, entitled, “A Ball.” Per the program notes,

The artist finds himself in the most diverse situations in life, in the tumult of a festive party, in the peaceful contemplation of the beautiful sights of nature, yet everywhere, whether in town or in the countryside, the beloved image keeps haunting him and throws his spirit into confusion.

Two harpists took the stage before a waltz-like number flooded my ears. Sprightly, one could easily imagine a ballroom full of colorful dancers, with the beloved woman threading her way between the whirling invited, not knowing her movements were watched by a love-struck admirer. The one flutist kept her intensity, whilst every one seemed almost statuesque as the melody became more lively. It then petered into quiet to make way for the third part, called “A Scene in the Fields.”

One evening in the countryside he hears two shepherds in the distance dialoguing with their 'ranz des vaches'; this pastoral duet, the setting, the gentle rustling of the trees in the wind, some causes for hope that he has recently conceived, all conspire to restore to his heart an unaccustomed feeling of calm and to give to his thoughts a happier colouring. He broods on his loneliness, and hopes that soon he will no longer be on his own ... But what if she betrayed him! ... This mingled hope and fear, these ideas of happiness, disturbed by dark premonitions, form the subject of the adagio. At the end one of the shepherds resumes his ‘ranz des vaches’; the other one no longer answers. Distant sound of thunder ... solitude ... silence ...

The harpists left stage right, and then the haunting lament of an oboe filled the symphony hall before violins took up the cry. Then flutes, and finally all but the percussion section. Gentle, lulling, the music evoked the sensation wanting more; of what, I can’t say, but a sense of longing and unease. That, and prancing centaurs from Fantasia.

And there sat Finn, blatantly looking past the conductor every now and again to my upgraded seat. He sat rigid in his chair, the cello held between his knees, the bow in hand, arching over the strings. At times in short staccato bursts, but always in a controlled manner. I found myself enthralled by him as he played, only relenting in my seat as brass and woodwinds took center stage while the strings faded away. During these lulls, he relaxed his pose, flipped the score’s page before striking his ready-to-play stance and diving back into the melody. Then came the drums, simulating the atmospheric addition of thunder, before the part finished on a dark and somber note.

As each section of the symphony had its turn, I felt an overwhelming sensation of being nothing less than frisky. Was it the music? The attractive cellist with obvious interest in me? The necklace Dane said he enchanted? An elixir of all three elements? Wish I knew. About forty minutes into the show, and the start of “March to the Scaffold” prompted me to check the program. I found the notes to be helpful in setting the mindset of the work.

Convinced that his love is unappreciated, the artist poisons himself with opium. The dose of narcotic, while too weak to cause his death, plunges him into a heavy sleep accompanied by the strangest of visions. He dreams that he has killed his beloved, that he is condemned, led to the scaffold and is witnessing his own execution. As he cries for forgiveness the effects of the narcotic set in. He wants to hide but he cannot so he watches as an onlooker as he dies. The procession advances to the sound of a march that is sometimes sombre and wild, and sometimes brilliant and solemn, in which a dull sound of heavy footsteps follows without transition the loudest outbursts. At the end of the march, the first four bars of the idée fixe reappear like a final thought of love interrupted by the fatal blow when his head bounced down the steps.

The symphonie took a sinister twist, before triumphant sounding trumpets towered over all, quieting for strings and then coming back with vigor. Could almost envision it being a part of an Indiana Jones soundtrack. Cymbals clashed, drums beat, horns blared and strings sang. This movement seemed short, and Finn never looked my way. Kept his eyes on the music and conductor, and it intrigued me. What was it about this section of the symphony that had him ignoring me? Could he have been silently called out by the conductor for not focusing? Or maybe he’d had enough eyehumping for now. Either way, the last part loomed, and I found myself eager, for afterward I could bask in his immediate presence and enjoy the sandalwood scent he wore.
Titled, “Dream of the Night of the Sabbath,” the notes in the program relating to this movement seemed most interesting of all.

He sees himself at a witches’ sabbath, in the midst of a hideous gathering of shades, sorcerers and monsters of every kind who have come together for his funeral.
Strange sounds, groans, outbursts of laughter; distant shouts which seem to be answered by more shouts. The beloved melody appears once more, but has now lost its noble and shy character; it is now no more than a vulgar dance tune, trivial and grotesque: it is she who is coming to the sabbath ... Roar of delight at her arrival ...
She joins the diabolical orgy ... The funeral knell tolls, burlesque parody of the Dies irae, the dance of the witches. The dance of the witches combined with the Dies irae.

Strings took the floor first before brass and woodwinds joined in, and the music grew in intensity and disharmony, then breaking into an almost whimsical refrain, before reveling in brash, angry sound. Then bells tolled. Stings and the bells, then tubas. This time, Finn looked my way only when at rest. The first time of his interest renewed itself in my direction, I felt blood flood my face and gave him a fucking wink. Yes, I went there, and I will own it. Forlorn, with an overtone of excitement, the symphonie wended its way to a boisterous end, punctuated by applause. Can easily say it is my favorite concert to date— how many times does a woman get to flirt with a performing musician on stage in a lifetime?

I found out the answer: not enough.