A stopwatch?
She picked up the note. On the envelope it said, Do not open until you are sitting in Q31.
What the absolute fuck? Q31?
She tucked the watch into her coat pocket. The car dropped her in front of a concert hall. Concert hall?
She found seat Q31 in the balcony. She sat and pulled the stopwatch and the note from her pocket. Down on the stage, an orchestra tuned up while the conductor flipped through some sheet music. Wincing at the discord coming from the stage, she opened the note and started to read.
Happy birthday, Little One. I have two gifts for you on this most blessed of days. First, look down onto the stage. This is one of the orchestras I play with when they need a pianist. In exchange for my services, they’ve kindly agreed to play a specifically chosen piece for you on your birthday.
The piece will begin as soon as the orchestra is tuned. When the conductor raises his baton, start the stopwatch. Listen to the music, but pay attention to the watch. My first gift to you is this—shortly after the five-minute mark (five minutes and eight seconds if the orchestra stays in time) you will know what I felt the moment I saw you the first time. I’m not as gifted as you at expressing my feelings with words. Perhaps the music will say what I can’t.
I will give you my second present soon.
I love you, Eleanor.
She read through the note one more time before picking up the stopwatch. She slid out of her seat and knelt at the balcony railing.
The discordant sound of tuning died away. The conductor tapped his music stand.
He raised his arms.
She hit the start button.
The music began.
First came the initial blast of sound. She hadn’t expected such a powerful beginning. Then all went quiet again. The sounds danced a little, skipped down steps and back up again. One long note lingered in the air before it rolled down the steps after the other notes. The piece started to dance again. Sometimes playful, sometimes somber.
A high note, it floated above her head. Quiet … How could an orchestra of so many people sound so quiet?
And then she heard it. The hint of a familiar melody. Where had she heard it before? A hymn. This was a hymn. Wasn’t it? It didn’t matter. She kept listening.
At two minutes and fifty seconds, the melody came again, whispering over the floor like a secret the composer wanted to keep. She strained her ears to hear more.
It grew louder then, but only a little louder as another section picked up the melody and carried it to her. She accepted it with open arms.
Her hands shook and her toes tightened in her shoes. The music backed up like a river dammed around her.
At five minutes and seven seconds the world turned into music. It erupted around her, went off like a bomb that showered joy and happiness all around her. Tears ran down her face as sounds more beautiful than she’d ever heard in her life wrapped around her and lifted her like hands to the very roof of the concert hall and higher and higher until for one brief second she looked into the eyes of God.
She sensed footsteps behind her but she ignored them. The music had her now and wouldn’t let go. The melody disappeared and came back with a vengeance. She couldn’t get enough of it. No alcohol had ever intoxicated her so much. How did musicians stand it? How did they stop themselves and put down their instruments long enough to eat or drink or sleep? If she could make sounds like this, her hands would never leave her instrument. She would play until her fingers bled. She would make noise like this until they locked her away.
The piece hit a final swelling note that left her aching for something … not something, somewhere, before it died. The conductor lowered his arms, turned and looked up at the balcony.
The applause of one humbled young woman filled the hall.
“Thank you,” she called out to the orchestra.
“Happy birthday,” the conductor replied.
She turned around and saw Søren sitting behind her.
“If only Beethoven had written a piano part for his Ninth Symphony, my life would be complete,” he said with a wistful sigh. The symphony started a new piece now, beautiful but less arresting. She turned the stopwatch off and rested her chin on Søren’s knee.
“That was Beethoven?”
“The Ninth Symphony, Fourth Movement. Otherwise known as the ‘Ode to Joy.’”
“No piano part?”
“I believe Beethoven simply felt the other instruments would be overpowered by the piano. It’s a large instrument. Some people find it intimidating.”
He winked at her and Eleanor laughed, grinning up at him.
“It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I think I saw God. He smiled at me.”
“I never appreciated the Ninth Symphony until I met you, Eleanor. When I saw you I heard it for the first time coming from inside my own heart. I was seventeen when I first dreamed of you. Kingsley and I were talking, fantasizing about the perfect woman. Green eyes and black hair or black eyes and green hair, we didn’t care, as long as she was wilder than the both of us together. Only a dream … and then you.”