The Notes You Never Heard

You shield yourself from recognition. You shield yourself from becoming more than you can cope with. Always take the most convoluted route home. Instead of walking along the main road from your workplace, Ciccones Ristorante and Taverna, you double back on yourself and traverse back streets and alleyways.

Eventually, you stumble across a door, inconspicuous in design and aesthetics. It barely stands out from the dusty grey walls around it and the broken pavement that runs beneath it. That is, if it wasn’t for the light illuminating the edges and the entrancing music emanating from beyond its threshold.

Jazz, or maybe gospel, or some eclectic blend of the two with an old-school 70s funk bassline that the door seems to bounce outwards along with.

You really should be getting home and sticking to your routine. Busy day tomorrow, and you need to be at the restaurant early for a large function you are catering for, but the music is intoxicating and drawing you towards the door.

Paralysis holds you right there as the door bursts open and a goddess — you reckon it must be a goddess, or witch, or siren — steps out from the rising dry-ice smoke with a little black dress on. Her hair is big and proud. The scent of lavender and whisky catches your nose as her peachy lips pout before curling into a wicked smile, her front teeth slightly overlapped.

“You’re that fella, right?”

Her voice is as sumptuous and velvety as you might have guessed or hoped, only higher than expected. Not comical, just... You don’t know how to describe it.

You shield yourself from recognition. You shield yourself from becoming more than you can cope with. But.

Her voice and her question.

“Yes.”

You hear your voice say the word before you think of it and before you have a chance to avoid this confrontation you didn’t plan for.

She approaches you and walks around you twice clockwise and twice anticlockwise. Runs her hand through your long, frayed and embarrassingly sweaty brown-and-grey hair. Strokes your cheek and tilts her head, gazing into your eyes.

“Well. Are you going to stand out in the cold or join us, Marty?”

She says your name and it feels like recognition wrapped in expectation and something you can’t name.

As she disappears into the smoke beyond the door, your feet make up their mind for you and you follow her through. Despite all the light that had leaked around the door, once beyond this ominous entrance you are surrounded by thick darkness and the ever-present dry ice.

You can feel your skin cooling, drying and prickling all at once.

The darkness tapers into an intriguing blend of purple and yellow. As you walk further into the colours, a room unfolds — intimate, but with space for a stage, several tables and a long curved bar that looks like a curved spine, you muse.

The woman has vanished.

Well, not vanished. But in the sensory overload of walking into the club, you lose her in the crowd.

The bartender whistles for your attention. Tentatively, you sit on a stool shaped like a hand — or a hand shaped like a stool — and caress the bar, noting how it feels more and more... human.

No. You didn’t just think that.

The bartender pours you a whisky.

“Your usual, sir.”

You try to explain that this is your first time, but he has already moved on to the next patrons: two blondes, one male and one female.

As you sip the whisky, your right hand idly caresses, strokes, maps the grain. Soft and warm like flesh.

But that’s ridiculous, of course.

A voice booms through the PA system and you spin around on your stool to see the woman from before on stage alongside a gentleman who looks... no, it can’t be.

Before your brain has time to register it, the first notes of In a Sentimental Mood begin, with the woman behind the piano and a short silhouette, maybe a man, playing the sax.

You know the song, you feel the song. But right there and then, right now, it feels different. You feel drawn to the stage, noting the familiar posture of the silhouette. You feel yourself exhaling and inhaling, while tilting and swaying almost intuitively before the notes have reached you.

The pathway to the stage is busy with patrons dancing, kissing and appreciating the music, but they let you through with no fuss or suggestion of you being in the wrong.

You stand at the edge of the stage close to the woman from before as you watch her fingers perform magic on the ivory keys. Your attention is again taken to the sax player and you feel a sense of warmth towards him that doesn’t make sense.

A barmaid hands you another drink, a cocktail this time. Another of your favourites, a dirty martini, and your mind falters.

You find a seat to take the weight off your feet.

“Marty, when did you get here, honey?”

You turn to find the source of the raspy voice and find a slender woman with a lightly tanned face and arms smiling at you in a deep purple dress. She reaches for your hand and gently caresses your fingers as though they are old friends. But she only feels familiar to touch. There is a soft citrus scent from her wrists, and she leans in to kiss your cheek. As her lips press a violet impression into your cheek...

“Christy?”

You gasp as she winks.

“The one and only. I thought you’d never show up!”

As the players stop, the crowd claps and cheers before your fingers tap out the opening phrases of Take Five.

Feeling the moist imprint of Christy’s lips, you run your fingers over it before kissing them and winking at Christy.

She smiles.

You are not sure why you did, and maybe it’s inebriation, but it felt right.

As you sit, tapping your feet and instinctively holding Christy close, everything feels comfortable and safe. Though a darkness, a haziness shadows your mind.

But the music relaxes you. Christy’s warmth, sweet scent and skin soothe any uncertainty.

Your fingers anticipate every complicated note with precision. Even Christy gasps a little as you play her fingers like a sax, completely in sync with the saxophonist.

You remember your father introduced the song to you and, as the place heats up, you kiss Christy’s neck just a little.

She smiles.

“That’s my guy,” she whispers, and sways with you as her fringe flicks across your face.

Your eyes close as the music and Christy take you further away. Christy leans in against your chest.

“I missed you, baby.”

You then imagine Christy visiting the restaurant and sitting down to dinner with you.

Take Five is playing quietly through the sound system.

You have a starter of carpaccio di manzo while she has the bruschetta.

She reaches for your fork to steal some sliced steak, but you gently take it and press it to your lips, licking at her fingers, which makes her shiver in her seat before you lower her hand and give her a piece to take, following her hand back to her mouth.

She laughs and sips her red wine as you sip your martini.

You wink as the club comes back into focus and Christy is still against you, with your arm around her back.

Once the music builds and reaches its climax, you map out the pattern with your lips on Christy’s neck and shoulder, perfectly in time with the saxophonist. The band takes a break as laughter and chatter become the ambient soundtrack.

“Sometimes we need to return to the wreckage for survival.”

Christy lifts her head and looks at you, concerned.

“You okay, baby?”

“Hm? Yes. Just something I read somewhere... ignore me.”

“How could anyone ignore you?”

You turn to face the woman you met at the entrance as she sits beside you with a smile.

“I hope you’re taking care of my daughter, Marty.”

She grins as you wink back, squeezing Christy into you. Though you are not sure why, it feels... right.

Your mind flickers, flashes back to the restaurant with Christy, then to the car afterwards, and then darkness.

The club lights dim and the saxophonist returns to the stage for a solo performance.

But he isn’t making a sound. The whole crowd is enraptured, but you can’t hear anything. Even as you feel your fingers tap out the notes across Christy’s back, you can’t hear what is being played.

Her skin trembles under your touch and you feel her breathing become erratic. The fabric of her dress rips a little where you’ve been fingering the notes.

You blink with shock and then you see her facing you, as someone else has their arm around her, but the bright lights mean you can’t make out a face.

You just stand there as your weight shifts and your neck tilts forward. You notice the strap over your shoulder and the golden metal in your hands.

Christy is crying as you play. As you play, she fades a little, blood pooling in the corners of her eyes.

You can’t move and don’t want to. You just play.

As you play, you find yourself in the car and Christy is unhappy. Dinner was a success, but it turned to drama. You can’t quite hear her words, because you never did.

Wait.

You never did what?

Back in the club, Christy is alone, her dress clearly ripped as her mother holds her.

Lifeless.

She looks lifeless, but you can’t do anything but play.

You shield yourself from recognition.

As the car veered into the canal.

You shield yourself from becoming more than you can cope with.

*

Thanks for reading!