clair de lune
Celeste had the piano shipped from France, from her Parisian estate, the moment she found what she deemed to be ‘the perfect spot’ for it. Our new home in Shreveport filled up quickly with an assortment of furniture brought in from the four corners of the world and I gladly entrusted her with the task of decorating. Words being my vice, color schemes, furniture arrangement, and Feng Shui were all concepts lost on me. So long as I had a desk to sit at in a study, I would not be found complaining about anything else. Especially when an artist demanded a corner of a room filled a certain way.
I passed by the instrument several times a day without giving it much thought. At first, the polished grand was one of those fixtures which blends into the background, something we glance at without really seeing. I set papers on it when I found myself within its proximity and leaned on it while conversing with another, but none of these actions ascribed any real appreciation for the piano on my part. It never once complained about my apathy or neglect and sat in its perfect spot throughout the days which passed. I did not pay it any mind. Until the sheet music appeared out of nowhere one day.
A brisk stroll punctuated my movements through the room it slumbered in day after day. My head buried in a book, I finished reading one page and turned it to continue in my literary journey. As I did so, though, I caught sight of something light-colored contrasting against the dark wood. I paused my steps at once. Perking an eyebrow at the strange vision my eyes took in, I recognized the notes and symbols arranged on the page. Walking closer brought out the title of the piece. “Clair de Lune” by Claude Debussy. A memory swelled immediately from the recesses of my heart and I placed the book down while sliding onto the piano bench to take a closer look.
Surprisingly enough, the music on the page stirred recollections I thought had died a long time ago. I recognized the arrangement of each note, the time signatures, each little dot and italicized Italian term to indicate the pace and feeling of the measure. My eyes welled up despite myself as the vision of a tall, German woman with chestnut brown hair surfaced from the depths and brought with it her voice. Her accent was a blend of German and British. Born in Bavaria, moved to Manchester, England just as Adolf Hilter’s name began to be whispered amongst the shadows in her native land, she met an American soldier while volunteering as a nurse during the war and followed him to the United States. They were wed as the war drew to a close.
She had a love for music that her headstrong son often bucked against. On countless evenings, she would sit in front of the much more modest piano she owned and strike the keys, making even the out-of-tune notes sound magical when she added her voice to the piece. It did not matter if the song she played contained lyrics, she would hum with the melody or make up words herself. “Peter,” I could still hear her say, “Come here, let me teach you this song. I used to play it for your grandfather Wilhelm, it was his favorite.”
Begrudgingly, I would sit beside her and watch her fingers glide over the keys, my own thoughts straying toward whatever she was keeping me from doing. Creating mischief with my friends. Riding my bike or sitting down in front of our black and white television. I did not mind in the slightest when she kept me from my chores around the farm. I could not be bothered with her otherwise, however.
I had no way of knowing the car accident which would claim her life. Or the solitude of becoming a thirteen year old orphan, forced to live with my aunt and uncle until I came of age. I could not have foreseen the darkness leading me to that fateful decision to become a vampire, half-tricked into immortality by a woman who saw the lonely man I became. I saw no murder in my mother’s music, only the bittersweet tranquility of a woman who found happiness through the trials in life she faced.
So, as I sat at the piano and stared at her song, I lifted my hands to the keys and tried to recall the few lessons she imparted upon me, regarding the world now through the eyes and ears of an immortal. The keys sounded vastly different than I remembered when I pressed down on them, the notes all tuned and sharper, my senses more honed and aware. Eyes lifting to the sheet music, I struggled at first to find the right places for my fingers, but as I settled into the piece, something strange began to transpire. It was as though recalling the sound of my mother’s playing echoing throughout the small farm house forced it through my fingertips. I played onward, allowing the piece to enrapture my soul.
I thought about the past. I thought about the present. A full page worth of notes flew by with my mind focused on my current reality and although the tenor of the piece remained solemn, I began to realize how music touched the souls of those I love. I saw Celeste dancing in Luna’s light and Maestro playing with the instruments he favored and felt an instant bond to both. I wondered if this is why my mother liked to play; if she could touch the soul of her deceased father through each key touched and each note relived.
By the time I reached the very end, I found myself realizing I had come full circle. The wistful echo of the final notes resonated and I sat staring at the sheet music, the vampire touching the mortal I once was. Only, as I stared through the looking glass at the young boy who rolled his eyes at his mother, I realized he was still learning who he was at the time. He had yet to have his leg broken in his parents’ fatal car crash. He had not endured a day of medical school or twenty-six years of craving blood until his very soul lit on fire for one decadent swallow.
In some ways, I was not too different myself. I yet had experiences waiting for me on the horizon. I knew better who I was now, however. I felt it in the marrow of my bones.
“Beloved?”
My gaze shot up from the sheet music and over to the woman standing in the doorway, looking at me. I smiled at the raven-haired vixen I love and turned away from the piano. “What are you doing, Poet?” Celeste asked, regarding me with eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly agape.
I glanced at the piano. Then I looked at her, seeing my present before me and the future yet to come. A smile traced across my lips and my hand rose to rest on the top of the piano. “I think you were right,” I said with a wink. “This was the perfect spot to place a piano.”
