Sing for Me

By ryanalicia

CHAPTER ONE

Christine made her way around the moving boxes to a small spot she had cleared on the coffee table in her living room. She put down her grocery bag and pulled out a baguette, some cheese, a bunch of grapes, a bottle of wine, and one of the plastic cups out of the packet she had purchased. Dinner was served.

Outside her floor to ceiling windows, twilight streamed pink ribbons across the sky, and the Hudson River reflected them back to her eager eyes. She vowed to love this new place – new apartment, new city, new country. New York was her home now; there was no going back. Paris held nothing for her now but bitter memories.

She took a seat on the rug the moving men had been nice enough to roll out for her, and opened the bottle of wine. It probably wasn't wise; she knew her drinking had contributed to Raoul's willingness to give her the divorce. But she'd vowed to turn over a new leaf in her new home, and she could think of no better way to christen her new life.

Behind all the boxes was a nice sized, one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of her building with an area off the living room for use as a study. That area she intended to make her music room. Somewhere in a long, flat box was her electric keyboard. The sound was good enough for her to practice with. It wasn't like she could really play, but she could pick out pitches and chords well enough to be a vocal coach.

And Julliard had been glad to have her – a real opera singer.

Well, an opera singer no more. Music in her life had died two years ago, along with her son. Now, she was trying to bring it back.

As if obeying her silent command, before she could clear away the remnants of her meal, she heard music. Touching, glorious music played by a piano virtuoso. She wondered if it was a Julliard student. Whomever it was, it seemed she had a musical neighbor.

She frowned, wondering if her neighbor's practice would interfere with her own. And if his piano carried through their shared wall, surely her voice would as well. They would just have to learn to tolerate each other. Though if he intended to play all night, she'd have to have a word with him. Sleep was her only respite from grief, and she took it seriously.

She carried on with her unpacking, looking specifically for the box of linens so she could put sheets on her bed. The music was even louder in the bedroom, as that was where the common walls met. His living room must abut her bedroom.

The bed wasn't the one she'd slept in for the last ten years; that one remained at the chateau in Paris. She could have packed up some of the guest furniture, but she wanted everything to be new. She'd given Raoul the house and all its contents in exchange for a totally cash divorce settlement. She'd no longer be a countess, but at least she wouldn't have to live as a pauper – or try to live on the salary paid to a vocal coach. No, she was comfortably taken care of.

She wound her way back into the kitchen and started unpacking dishes and glasses. All the boxes had been placed in the right rooms thanks to the labels on their outsides so she didn't have to go far. It was just tedious work to unwrap each piece. The dishes were the only thing she had brought with her, aside from her clothes and her keyboard. The dishes had belonged to her grandmother, and she'd no wish to leave them with Raoul, who couldn't care less.

The piano from next door kept her company in her thankless task, and she began to hum along when he came to an aria she recognized. Her voice was so long unused that it sounded strange to her. Would singing come back naturally? She knew she'd have to work at it, but she wasn't sure yet how big a task it would be.

The next target was to unpack all her clothes. She had scads of them, many for social functions that she was sure she would never wear again. That wasn't her life anymore. Now she was a simple music teacher.

When that was finished and she'd broken down the boxes and left them next to the trash chute down the hall, she declared victory for the day and decided to take a hot bath.

As if he could sense the change in her mood, her invisible accompanist changed to slower, more languishing sets. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to just drift in the water and in the music. It was comforting when little else was, and she suddenly began to wonder about the mystery man behind her wall. She didn't know when she'd become certain it was a man. The music just had that feeling – a certain aggressive perfection. Would he be a prima donna? A recluse? A self-taught prodigy or the product of an endless stream of the best music schools?

She dried herself off and donned a long t-shirt and climbed into bed. It was eleven o'clock, and he still played, but abruptly switched to a lullaby. Christine had the strange sensation that he knew her every action. She laughed at herself, settled in, and went to sleep accompanied by light strains of Brahms.

The next day, she made it easily through her first day at Julliard. She had only three students, each for an hour and a half. One was a goth girl, Astia, who dressed all in black, had black hair with a turquoise streak down the side and had a pierced lip. Christine had made her get rid of the lip stud. The girl aspired to be a pop singer, and was attending Julliard solely to mollify her parents. Christine had told her to save the lip stud for her music videos. None of which is to say she didn't have a lovely voice; she did. It was deep with a respectable high range and had a sort of bluesy quality to it. Christine hoped to expand her musical horizons some over the course of their time together.

Next was a thin, plain, girl with sandy hair who aspired to be an opera singer. Her name was, appropriately, Sandy, and she couldn't stop telling Christine how honored she was to be there. Christine gave her a workout, pleased to find a lovely, lilting soprano. Not strong enough yet, but that was where Christine came in.

Finally, her last student of the day had been a young Asian man, Kee. He was tall and thin, and wore a hot pink linen jacket over a black t-shirt and skinny black jeans. He didn't have a career direction in mind, but he had a beautiful, mellow tenor that Christine aimed to explore with him.

With her day complete, Christine stopped for Chinese take-out and had dinner again on the floor in front of her coffee table. There was a proper table with four chairs that she'd managed to fit into the kitchen, but sitting there only heightened her feelings of isolation. The coffee table with the tv on in the background was better. Then she tackled the remaining boxes in the living room – pictures, vases, lamps – all things to make her new house a home. And nothing to remind her of the past.

With her sofa finally clear of boxes, she sat down, propped her feet up on the coffee table and grabbed the remote. A 'chick-flick' was what she needed – an excuse for a good cry.

Two hours later, she noticed upon entering her bedroom that her neighbor had switched to the violin. A Mozart concerto convinced her he was equally adept on that instrument as on the piano. She stood staring at her bedroom wall through the entire piece, longing to see the source of such a beautiful serenade.

Then something happened that Christine would later put down to the trying effects of her first day back being exposed to music and her heightened emotional state. Her neighbor began the introduction to the love aria from Tristan and Isolde, a tale of doomed passionate lovers. Christine couldn't help herself; she began to sing. She started softly, letting the notes merely echo out on her breath. But at the first crowning high note, she laid her hand on her bedroom wall and began to sing in earnest. There was a noticeable hitch in his playing on the other side, but he recovered his place in an instant. She noticed his playing had a new passion, and she tried her best to rise to the occasion, straining her voice that had gone so long unused.

When the aria was over, she put both hands against the wall and slumped to the floor. It seemed music still had her in its grip. No more sounds came through the wall, and Christine surmised her unwilling accompanist had decided to call it a night. She promptly decided to do the same.