5.
*** I'm really sorry for the delay in updating this :-/ Can we still be friends?
***
Emma shut the door and leaned back against it. She closed her eyes and angled her head towards the sky. The afternoon sun radiated, warm and orange, through her eyelids as she tried to take stock of what had just happened. It was difficult to know what to make of it all: things had not gone as she had hoped. All the time she had spent the night before, the hours lying awake, planning what to say and pondering over all the scenarios that could play out, had come to nothing. Again. She took no comfort from the fact that she had kept her cool in spite of the opportunity to quarrel. The fact was, she was outside -- alone, while Jenny was… she had no idea what Jenny was doing on the other side of the door.
She swallowed down the lump in her throat. Why did she always have to be the one to get upset? The memory of the funeral came back to her: a blurred, tear stained day of uncomfortable wooden seats and musty old hymn books. A pair of identical coffins sat side by side at the altar; a black and white photo on top of each one. Throughout the memorial service, Jenny’s parents had calmly looked out upon the rows of people gathered there, unmoved and unchanging at the sounds of discreet sobbing and half-hearted singing.
Everyone commented on how strong Jenny had been. No crying, no hysterics. Nothing. That day, Jenny had been impassive; her expression a beautiful combination of the two portraits at the altar. Emma could see the same cool, calm demeanour of the mother, and the similar facial features of the father, in the daughter. The likenesses had fascinated Emma, who could not help but compare the pictures to the person sat beside her.
To every well-wishing, awkward expression of condolence, came the same, slightly condescending thank you, but Emma was not sure if Jenny had heard a word that people said. The only thing that gave any sign that she was there at all that day was her constant vice-like grip of Emma’s hand.
Emma opened her eyes and squinted at the sun. She sighed, and the noise seemed to shake up the sleepy afternoon for just a moment before it settled, heavier and closer than ever around her. She had said she would not give up on Jenny - so why did she go? Good one, Emma…
She began to walk towards her bicycle, blinking back the very real threat of tears. Every step was a battle fought against hesitation, a little war fought between her head and her heart. She hated to leave Jenny on such a sour note. It was becoming a habit. All they seemed to do lately was argue, if they ever spoke at all. As understanding as she tried to be, Emma was becoming tired of the cold shoulder that greeted her every time she saw Jenny. And the admission of this, if only in her head, stopped Emma in her tracks. She slumped down on the lawn beside her bicycle, and drew her knees to her chest, not knowing if the pressure inside her was going to break out into a sob or a scream.
*
Jenny wandered around without any purpose. She went from the kitchen to the living room and back again, as if doing so would bring a change. But, everything remained as it was: the milk carton sat conspicuously on the unit where she had left it; she went to pick it up, suddenly angry about it being there, about what it had seen and heard. She grabbed at it, almost wanting to throw it against the wall, and yet, as soon as she picked it up, it became a dead weight in her hand. It was all she could do to pull open the refrigerator door and place it back on the shelf.
It was strange how still the house felt around her. It felt different to her somehow, as though Emma had taken something with her when she had walked out. And what had been left behind was silence, creeping close about her, invisible and stifling.
She needed noise. That would help, or at least be a distraction. Jenny made for the living room, and picked up a remote - which appliance was if for? The radio? The television? Stefan had so many gadgets, and each one of them had to have as many buttons and dials as was humanly possible, it seemed. Jenny could not understand the appeal; they were only things. They meant nothing to her, and she cast the unknown remote down onto the couch.
In one corner of the room sat Ben’s grand piano; a vase of flowers had been placed on its black lacquered lid, and for some reason this bothered Jenny. She thought of Ben, and even if he did not mind, she did not approve of anything that might mark the highly polished finish. When was a piano not a piano? When it had a stupid vase of stupid flowers on it.
After unceremoniously putting the vase on the floor, Jenny lifted the piano’s wing-shaped lid. A Steinway was not a glorified sideboard; it must be always ready to play. Although, it had been some time since she had played, and her fingers felt stiff and sluggish, unpractised and unfit. Her brain had not processed music for weeks, had not skipped out a melody in so long. She wasn’t even sure if she could remember how to play. Jenny’s tired eyes peered at the steel strings and padded hammers inside the frame, and moments later, she found herself sat on the wide, cushioned stool with her hands hovering over the keyboard. Her right index finger softly pressed the middle ‘C’, and she took a deep breath, almost inhaling the note, her senses stirring at the familiar sound.
She kicked off her sandals and placed her bare feet against the cool pedals. Any worry that she had forgotten how to play dissolved when her hands naturally found the keys. She did not have to think about it: it simply happened. Once she had started, she thought about what she was playing… Rachmaninov? Yes, a Prelude - she had not performed this for some time, but even so, here it was, completely from memory, rolling out from her fingertips without any effort. She felt her chest flutter and the corners of her mouth twitch upwards a little: this felt good. And then, a second later, the flutter turned into a heavy weight: and that felt bad. But, to actually feel was something that Jenny had not known in so long that her heart raced as quickly as her hands skipped over the black and white keys.
*
Emma ran her fingers over her face and up into her hair. She could not sit here all day. She could already feel her milky skin beginning to bristle under the hot sun. If she stayed, slumped against the wall, she would be sunburnt to a crisp later. She hauled herself up to her feet and immediately hopped from one leg to the other to try and work out the pins and needles that were shooting up from her toes.
As she fumbled over her bicycle lock, a muted stream of music caught her ear. She let the lock drop from her hands as she looked around the empty street. It did not take long for her to realise where the flow of noise was coming from, and she stared up at the open windows of the villa in front of her. She had not had Jenny down as a classical music aficionado; perhaps she was listening to something from Stefan Bergmann’s collection. But then, she would not have thought he was such a fan either: he did not seem to care for anything much other than business. And women.
It was pure curiosity that drew Emma to the front door of the villa. She knew that Jenny often spent time listening to music, but whenever she had asked her what her favourite songs were, the answer was always vague and noncommittal. “I like everything,” was a usual response, which was no help. But that was Jenny all over: always talking but never really saying anything. In all the months she had known her, Emma had precious few facts about Jenny to work with. Anything she discovered tended to come only when it was absolutely necessary to be revealed. That surely was not standard practice in a relationship? Emma was not sure. She could not be sure of anything when it came to Jenny.
She gently tried the door handle, and when it gave under her hand, she allowed herself to peep one-eyed through the smallest gap that she could allow. She felt a little bit sneaky, as though she were intruding somehow. Nonetheless, her curiosity was well and truly piqued, and she peered into the open plan space, her eye focusing on where she thought Jenny might be. The couch was unoccupied, and, further ahead, so too was the kitchen table. Perhaps then, Jenny had gone upstairs, and she pushed the door open slightly more, the better to see around the rest of the room.
Emma’s jaw fell when she realised the music was coming as consequence of Jenny’s hands. She had heard the piece played before, at a classical concert she had been to in Berlin. A strange-looking man in a suit and long tails had thrashed it out, his hands jumping around as though possessed and his wild hair bustling like leaves in a storm. It was music that only the professionals played, not mere mortals like her - the kind of thing that took practice, that needed dedication and talent. Through the triangular gap made by the piano lid and the body, Emma could tell that Jenny’s eyes were closed, yet her head was bowed down towards the keys, so Emma could not see the intense expression on her face. She could see Jenny’s slim shoulders lifting and dropping with the movement of her arms, and on the floor, she could just about see a discarded pair of sandals.
Jenny was lost in the moment, thinking only of the music she was making, and the strange, powerful sensations building deep inside her chest. She reached the end of one Prelude and found herself improvising her way into another one, only to switch seamlessly, unconsciously into an Elegie: her touch flipped from a playful stabbing at the keys to a solemn, yet forceful caress as the melody switched from major to minor key.
Emma stepped further into the room, unable to take her eyes off what was in view. She halted at a distance, wondering if Jenny had heard her approach. A glimpse of Jenny’s face as she turned her head showed her long eyelashes against her cheek, her mouth set firm, and her eyebrows knitted tight: she was oblivious, too absorbed to notice. Her nostrils flared as she drank in deep breaths and, as the melody gradually worked to a calm, her pressure on the keys softened; her head dipped low enough that Emma saw the neat parting of her hair.
And then, a startling, final shock of sound, and Jenny threw her head backwards, exposing her smooth neck momentarily, before the music came to an abrupt, harsh ending, and her whole body slumped inwards as though crushed. She hit the closing notes so hard that Emma felt them pulse through her body; it made her blink. Her ears throbbed long after the music had stopped -- she would remember that later. But for now, Emma did not notice it.
In the silence, Jenny could hear her breathing coming short and fast. Her fingertips were numb, and she tasted salt when she licked her lips. There was the familiar thrill that playing always gave her, it was frivolous and dizzying, like an iced drink on a hot day. But as her breath gradually evened out and the buzz subsided, that peculiar sensation in her chest began to swell. For a moment she thought she might be sick, and she twisted awkwardly to her side, one hand clutching the edge of the piano stool as she gasped for air. All of a sudden, she felt too hot, and yet she was shivering. She wanted to laugh out loud, but instead - instead she felt tears. She clamped her other hand over her mouth and felt a muffled moan squeeze between her fingers.
Emma could tell that Jenny was not a natural when it came to crying. She resisted it, when the thing to do was let it happen - it would be over more quickly that way. Instead she fought: she choked on something sharp in her throat that could not be swallowed down. Her slim figure shook as she heaved out sounds that were like nothing that Emma had heard before. It was at once almost too much to bear, and a welcome relief. Finally, Iron Jenny had proved herself to be human after all. Uncomfortable as it was to witness, in a strange way it was the something that Emma had been waiting for.
When she felt Emma’s hand touch her shoulder, Jenny recoiled like a wounded animal caught in a trap. She covered her wet face and tried to push Emma away. She did not want this - how long had she been there? She felt embarrassed, betrayed even; she did not want anybody to see her like this. She did not want to be like this. And Emma would keep on looking at her, at her mascara-smeared, red eyes and her crumpled up face, and her oozing nose; she would sit beside her, and pull her close, surely knowing that tears and spit and make-up, and mucus, would be a nightmare to wash out of her clothes? And she would keep saying things - nice things - to her, which only made her more self-conscious.
But, now that she had started, she could not stop crying. It hurt like hell: her chest, her throat, her eyes; and it didn’t seem to make any difference, it didn’t make her feel better, but she couldn’t help it. She tried to speak, but could only croak a word or two before being overwhelmed by another wave of emotion.
“It’s okay,” Emma repeatedly murmured, cradling the back of her head with her palm. “It’s going to be okay.”
Jenny was not sure if that was true.
***
Emma shut the door and leaned back against it. She closed her eyes and angled her head towards the sky. The afternoon sun radiated, warm and orange, through her eyelids as she tried to take stock of what had just happened. It was difficult to know what to make of it all: things had not gone as she had hoped. All the time she had spent the night before, the hours lying awake, planning what to say and pondering over all the scenarios that could play out, had come to nothing. Again. She took no comfort from the fact that she had kept her cool in spite of the opportunity to quarrel. The fact was, she was outside -- alone, while Jenny was… she had no idea what Jenny was doing on the other side of the door.
She swallowed down the lump in her throat. Why did she always have to be the one to get upset? The memory of the funeral came back to her: a blurred, tear stained day of uncomfortable wooden seats and musty old hymn books. A pair of identical coffins sat side by side at the altar; a black and white photo on top of each one. Throughout the memorial service, Jenny’s parents had calmly looked out upon the rows of people gathered there, unmoved and unchanging at the sounds of discreet sobbing and half-hearted singing.
Everyone commented on how strong Jenny had been. No crying, no hysterics. Nothing. That day, Jenny had been impassive; her expression a beautiful combination of the two portraits at the altar. Emma could see the same cool, calm demeanour of the mother, and the similar facial features of the father, in the daughter. The likenesses had fascinated Emma, who could not help but compare the pictures to the person sat beside her.
To every well-wishing, awkward expression of condolence, came the same, slightly condescending thank you, but Emma was not sure if Jenny had heard a word that people said. The only thing that gave any sign that she was there at all that day was her constant vice-like grip of Emma’s hand.
Emma opened her eyes and squinted at the sun. She sighed, and the noise seemed to shake up the sleepy afternoon for just a moment before it settled, heavier and closer than ever around her. She had said she would not give up on Jenny - so why did she go? Good one, Emma…
She began to walk towards her bicycle, blinking back the very real threat of tears. Every step was a battle fought against hesitation, a little war fought between her head and her heart. She hated to leave Jenny on such a sour note. It was becoming a habit. All they seemed to do lately was argue, if they ever spoke at all. As understanding as she tried to be, Emma was becoming tired of the cold shoulder that greeted her every time she saw Jenny. And the admission of this, if only in her head, stopped Emma in her tracks. She slumped down on the lawn beside her bicycle, and drew her knees to her chest, not knowing if the pressure inside her was going to break out into a sob or a scream.
*
Jenny wandered around without any purpose. She went from the kitchen to the living room and back again, as if doing so would bring a change. But, everything remained as it was: the milk carton sat conspicuously on the unit where she had left it; she went to pick it up, suddenly angry about it being there, about what it had seen and heard. She grabbed at it, almost wanting to throw it against the wall, and yet, as soon as she picked it up, it became a dead weight in her hand. It was all she could do to pull open the refrigerator door and place it back on the shelf.
It was strange how still the house felt around her. It felt different to her somehow, as though Emma had taken something with her when she had walked out. And what had been left behind was silence, creeping close about her, invisible and stifling.
She needed noise. That would help, or at least be a distraction. Jenny made for the living room, and picked up a remote - which appliance was if for? The radio? The television? Stefan had so many gadgets, and each one of them had to have as many buttons and dials as was humanly possible, it seemed. Jenny could not understand the appeal; they were only things. They meant nothing to her, and she cast the unknown remote down onto the couch.
In one corner of the room sat Ben’s grand piano; a vase of flowers had been placed on its black lacquered lid, and for some reason this bothered Jenny. She thought of Ben, and even if he did not mind, she did not approve of anything that might mark the highly polished finish. When was a piano not a piano? When it had a stupid vase of stupid flowers on it.
After unceremoniously putting the vase on the floor, Jenny lifted the piano’s wing-shaped lid. A Steinway was not a glorified sideboard; it must be always ready to play. Although, it had been some time since she had played, and her fingers felt stiff and sluggish, unpractised and unfit. Her brain had not processed music for weeks, had not skipped out a melody in so long. She wasn’t even sure if she could remember how to play. Jenny’s tired eyes peered at the steel strings and padded hammers inside the frame, and moments later, she found herself sat on the wide, cushioned stool with her hands hovering over the keyboard. Her right index finger softly pressed the middle ‘C’, and she took a deep breath, almost inhaling the note, her senses stirring at the familiar sound.
She kicked off her sandals and placed her bare feet against the cool pedals. Any worry that she had forgotten how to play dissolved when her hands naturally found the keys. She did not have to think about it: it simply happened. Once she had started, she thought about what she was playing… Rachmaninov? Yes, a Prelude - she had not performed this for some time, but even so, here it was, completely from memory, rolling out from her fingertips without any effort. She felt her chest flutter and the corners of her mouth twitch upwards a little: this felt good. And then, a second later, the flutter turned into a heavy weight: and that felt bad. But, to actually feel was something that Jenny had not known in so long that her heart raced as quickly as her hands skipped over the black and white keys.
*
Emma ran her fingers over her face and up into her hair. She could not sit here all day. She could already feel her milky skin beginning to bristle under the hot sun. If she stayed, slumped against the wall, she would be sunburnt to a crisp later. She hauled herself up to her feet and immediately hopped from one leg to the other to try and work out the pins and needles that were shooting up from her toes.
As she fumbled over her bicycle lock, a muted stream of music caught her ear. She let the lock drop from her hands as she looked around the empty street. It did not take long for her to realise where the flow of noise was coming from, and she stared up at the open windows of the villa in front of her. She had not had Jenny down as a classical music aficionado; perhaps she was listening to something from Stefan Bergmann’s collection. But then, she would not have thought he was such a fan either: he did not seem to care for anything much other than business. And women.
It was pure curiosity that drew Emma to the front door of the villa. She knew that Jenny often spent time listening to music, but whenever she had asked her what her favourite songs were, the answer was always vague and noncommittal. “I like everything,” was a usual response, which was no help. But that was Jenny all over: always talking but never really saying anything. In all the months she had known her, Emma had precious few facts about Jenny to work with. Anything she discovered tended to come only when it was absolutely necessary to be revealed. That surely was not standard practice in a relationship? Emma was not sure. She could not be sure of anything when it came to Jenny.
She gently tried the door handle, and when it gave under her hand, she allowed herself to peep one-eyed through the smallest gap that she could allow. She felt a little bit sneaky, as though she were intruding somehow. Nonetheless, her curiosity was well and truly piqued, and she peered into the open plan space, her eye focusing on where she thought Jenny might be. The couch was unoccupied, and, further ahead, so too was the kitchen table. Perhaps then, Jenny had gone upstairs, and she pushed the door open slightly more, the better to see around the rest of the room.
Emma’s jaw fell when she realised the music was coming as consequence of Jenny’s hands. She had heard the piece played before, at a classical concert she had been to in Berlin. A strange-looking man in a suit and long tails had thrashed it out, his hands jumping around as though possessed and his wild hair bustling like leaves in a storm. It was music that only the professionals played, not mere mortals like her - the kind of thing that took practice, that needed dedication and talent. Through the triangular gap made by the piano lid and the body, Emma could tell that Jenny’s eyes were closed, yet her head was bowed down towards the keys, so Emma could not see the intense expression on her face. She could see Jenny’s slim shoulders lifting and dropping with the movement of her arms, and on the floor, she could just about see a discarded pair of sandals.
Jenny was lost in the moment, thinking only of the music she was making, and the strange, powerful sensations building deep inside her chest. She reached the end of one Prelude and found herself improvising her way into another one, only to switch seamlessly, unconsciously into an Elegie: her touch flipped from a playful stabbing at the keys to a solemn, yet forceful caress as the melody switched from major to minor key.
Emma stepped further into the room, unable to take her eyes off what was in view. She halted at a distance, wondering if Jenny had heard her approach. A glimpse of Jenny’s face as she turned her head showed her long eyelashes against her cheek, her mouth set firm, and her eyebrows knitted tight: she was oblivious, too absorbed to notice. Her nostrils flared as she drank in deep breaths and, as the melody gradually worked to a calm, her pressure on the keys softened; her head dipped low enough that Emma saw the neat parting of her hair.
And then, a startling, final shock of sound, and Jenny threw her head backwards, exposing her smooth neck momentarily, before the music came to an abrupt, harsh ending, and her whole body slumped inwards as though crushed. She hit the closing notes so hard that Emma felt them pulse through her body; it made her blink. Her ears throbbed long after the music had stopped -- she would remember that later. But for now, Emma did not notice it.
In the silence, Jenny could hear her breathing coming short and fast. Her fingertips were numb, and she tasted salt when she licked her lips. There was the familiar thrill that playing always gave her, it was frivolous and dizzying, like an iced drink on a hot day. But as her breath gradually evened out and the buzz subsided, that peculiar sensation in her chest began to swell. For a moment she thought she might be sick, and she twisted awkwardly to her side, one hand clutching the edge of the piano stool as she gasped for air. All of a sudden, she felt too hot, and yet she was shivering. She wanted to laugh out loud, but instead - instead she felt tears. She clamped her other hand over her mouth and felt a muffled moan squeeze between her fingers.
Emma could tell that Jenny was not a natural when it came to crying. She resisted it, when the thing to do was let it happen - it would be over more quickly that way. Instead she fought: she choked on something sharp in her throat that could not be swallowed down. Her slim figure shook as she heaved out sounds that were like nothing that Emma had heard before. It was at once almost too much to bear, and a welcome relief. Finally, Iron Jenny had proved herself to be human after all. Uncomfortable as it was to witness, in a strange way it was the something that Emma had been waiting for.
When she felt Emma’s hand touch her shoulder, Jenny recoiled like a wounded animal caught in a trap. She covered her wet face and tried to push Emma away. She did not want this - how long had she been there? She felt embarrassed, betrayed even; she did not want anybody to see her like this. She did not want to be like this. And Emma would keep on looking at her, at her mascara-smeared, red eyes and her crumpled up face, and her oozing nose; she would sit beside her, and pull her close, surely knowing that tears and spit and make-up, and mucus, would be a nightmare to wash out of her clothes? And she would keep saying things - nice things - to her, which only made her more self-conscious.
But, now that she had started, she could not stop crying. It hurt like hell: her chest, her throat, her eyes; and it didn’t seem to make any difference, it didn’t make her feel better, but she couldn’t help it. She tried to speak, but could only croak a word or two before being overwhelmed by another wave of emotion.
“It’s okay,” Emma repeatedly murmured, cradling the back of her head with her palm. “It’s going to be okay.”
Jenny was not sure if that was true.