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Subject: NOBODY CRIED FOR BACH by Rythmic
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NOBODY CRIED FOR BACH 

by Rythmic 

Copyright by Rythmic, 1998. 

_____Part
1 - Prelude_____ 

On a chill December morning, a young red haired woman
strolled out through the hotel lobby with a satchel and a long black case
slung over her shoulder. As she trudged on the powdery snow towards a bus
stop, she shuffled through some forwarded mail which had been left at the
front desk for Yvette Gillen. Recognizing the name on one of the return
addresses, Yvette stopped in her tracks, and stood there, staring at the
envelope with a blank gaze. Then, the woman let the envelope fall to the
ground and continued towards the bus stop. 

The number four bus came around
the corner, as punctual as it had been four years ago, when she rode it as a
college student. The bus pulled to a halt in front of her, but she paused to
look back at the spot where she had dropped the piece of mail. Yvette turned
around and retraced her steps, while the driver closed the hydraulic doors
with a shrug and stepped on the gas. 

Yvette found the envelope, covered but
undamaged by the dry snow. She dusted it off with her gloves and walked into
a nearby cafe. Within the toasty confines of the cafe, Yvette set her
instrument case on a table and opened it to warm up her viola, a larger
version of the violin. Overhead lights shined off of the polished wood in a
deep, resonating hue, and covering the strings was an orange cloth, stained
and worn with time. 

"Say, aren't you Miss Gillen, the famous soloist they
hired to play at the special Christmas concert downtown?" asked a waiter who
stopped at her table. 

"Yes, I am, but I wouldn't say that I'm famous," said
Yvette in surprise 

The waiter continued, "Oh yeah, my nephew's a real fan!
He plays in the orchestra, and he gave some tickets and pamphlets to the
whole family as a gift." 

"Well, I know your family will enjoy the concert -
there'll be some really fun music and special effects." Yvette smiled. "But
in the meantime, how about a cup of hot chocolate so I can warm my poor
fingers." 

"Back in a flash!" said the waiter, and ambled off towards the
kitchen. 

Yvette pulled her gloves off, and then opened the envelope with
the name "Laurel D." printed across the top. She slowly pulled out two sheets
of thick stationary, on which someone had written in distinct, flowing
cursive... 

_____Part 2 - Allemande _____ 

My dearest friend Yvette, 

I
pray that you do not discard my letter, even as you recognize my handwriting
now. Should you cast this paper to the floor and walk away, I beg you to read
at least the following line... and know that I am sorry. I am so sorry for
overstepping the bounds, for the betrayal of a rare bond now irreparable. We
may never meet again, but the weight of my guilt lessens with the thought
that you have seen these words... 

I can barely read my own writing in the
dimness of the recital hall, while I huddle in a goose feather jacket among
the empty seats. This is the same recital hall, my dear, where you and I once
moved the audience to tears, where the beauty of our music melded into one
voice with a smoldering ardor that defied the blizzards howling outside.
Someone on stage is masterfully rehearsing Suite No. 2 on the cello... I
think it is Professor Wayans, preparing for tonight's Bach Festival. Bach can
be so many emotions in his simple complexity, but the only thing I feel as I
hear him played in this room is the bitterness of a love revealed too
eagerly, and too late. 

[Yvette dug out a walkman and a cassette from her
satchel. After positioning the earphones on her head, she checked for the
label "Pablo Casals" before sliding in the cassette, then continued reading
as Bach reverberated in her ears.] 

Our last night still burns in my mind.
It is a knife I cannot remove from my heart, though I relive it
constantly.... Two months before graduation, I was in my usual practice room,
working on my senior programme. Do you remember how you barged into my room
and how I swore at you for disrupting me? Then, I saw the tears pouring from
your eyes, and I felt so bad for yelling, Yvette. I have to admit, you're at
your most irresistible during those mercurial mood swings. When you grow
agitated, your pale cheeks take on a slight rosiness to match your auburn
tresses; when you cry, as you did so easily during a fervent performance (I
loved you for that) or after one of our especially intense practice sessions,
your eyes redden slightly and puff up. I suppose you've realized by now...
those times I cuddled you on my bed as a confidante and wiped your tears away
during one of your bohemian depressions... they were not without the guilty
pleasure of cradling such beauty as was evoked by your misery. 

When I saw
you crying that night I almost dropped my violin to embrace you and comfort
you. I wanted to cling to you, to taste the flush of your melancholy, to tell
you it would be alright and that I loved you. Instead, I stood there like a
fool and asked what had happened, while you so obviously needed a friend's
solace without words. But I was stupid then, and if I met you again I would
wrap my arms so tightly around you they would need crowbars to pry us apart. 

In a voice wracked by sobbing, you told me how Dr. Kzotsky had assigned
Bach's Suite Number Two as your competition piece for the Bach Festival
scholarship, and how you had pleaded with him after one look at the music to
assign you something more technical for your finale at La Conservatoire. The
two of you had argued for almost twenty minutes: he insisted that you needed
to prove your musical depth, but you called the suite a "meaningless sequence
of simple notes leading nowhere." Dr. Kzotsky then threatened to withdraw
your name from the competition, and you stormed out of his office, slamming
the door shut without even picking up your viola. I've never seen anybody
angry enough to forget a ten thousand dollar instrument and drive off. We
chose a life of self-expression, I know, but why did you have to be so
temperamental sometimes? Maybe that's why I loved you. 

_____Part 3 -
Courante _____ 

By the time you finished your story, you were bawling, so I
put the violin down and then you did put your head on my shoulder and cry
away into my dark brown hair. Your face felt wet against my neck. At that
moment, something crumbled inside of me. I couldn't hide it much longer. When
I cast around for something with which to dry your eyes, all I saw was the
rag in my violin case. 

[Tenderly, Yvette lifted the orange fabric off of
her viola, and held it to her nose. Its rich aroma of polish, varnish, and
sweat brought nostalgic tears to her eyes. Yes, admittedly, she cried too
often, but she didn't see anything wrong with that.] 

I was dabbing the
edges of your eyes, and when I looked up into those shining green irises, I
could hardly breathe. Couldn't you see? Couldn't you read my face? Oh,
Yvette! After all the time we'd spent together, couldn't you tell I loved
you? 

There was nothing I wouldn't do for you. Even though we were
competitors, I unlocked the closet without a second thought and withdrew my
own viola and a copy of the Six Suites. 

"Yvette," I said, "You know, maybe
Kzotsky was onto something. I mean, the Bach Suites are pretty
straightforward pieces, but they're always telling us the hardest ones are
the simplest ones." 

"You... you bitch! I can't believe what I'm hearing,
Laurel! You're taking sides with Dr. Kzotsky?" you exclaimed. "What kind of
friend are you? 

"Look, we both know you need this scholarship if you're
going to study at the Institute next year, and I just think that maybe you
might feel differently after you've heard the music. It's really not that
bad. Just give it a chance, okay?" 

"It's not like he left me with any other
choices," you sighed. 

I laid the book on top of the grand piano and opened
it to the seventh page. I raised the viola to my shoulder and posed with the
bow. Inhaling deeply, I brought the horsehair crashing down across the
strings, and that was the first time you heard those clean, vibrant notes. 
While I demonstrated the prelude, I recited a lecture given to me such a long
time ago: "When you play the solo Suites, you must be willing to bare
yourself to inspection, because there is no accompaniment to hide your
mistakes, no chords or vibrato to mask a badly played note. Just you, your
audience, and the plainest of melodies. In the hands of a beginner, it sounds
like one bland phrase after another, but the difficulty lies in finding and
revealing Bach's underlying tension. Emphasize the hidden melody within the
melody with every breath, and create conflict out of that handful of
significant notes. Make it joyful, tormented, meditative, or humorous. There
are so many ways..." 

You nodded at my words, hearing a glimmer of the
patterns in my melody, but I had more than just music in mind. I had realized
that this was our last year together, and that I would lose my chance then
and forever if I didn't act. 

_____Part 4 - Sarabande _____ 

"Yvette, why
don't you stand behind me and lay your right arm over mine. That way, you'll
appreciate the weight of the notes and how I shape the phrasing with my bow."


Hesitantly, you approached from behind and loosely clasped my right wrist
with your fingers. You didn't know it, but I shivered at the feathery pulse
of your breath on the back of my neck. It was everything I could do to resist
leaning back into you, thawing into your trusting innocence. I resumed the
music with exaggerated movements of the bow to demonstrate the various
themes, and each time my right arm arched to draw the bow across the lower
strings, I tugged you a little closer. Nearer and nearer I drew you, until
you were draped across my shoulders, looking over me at the pages in rapt
attention, while your hand unconsciously wrapped around my waist for balance,
just below the swell of my chest. 

I felt your breasts burning into my
spine, your tip-toed legs molded onto the back of my thighs, and I murmured,
"Yvette, breath with me, feel the rising and falling... yes,
inhale...huhhhhh... now exhale.... ahhhhhhh. Yes, just follow the second
melody!" 

Although I was supposedly exaggerating the music to illustrate
Bach's buried turmoil, I tell you now that the passionate melody you heard
was a typhoon of emotions escaping from a widening crack in the barriers of
my own heart. Fingers entwined with fingers, heart against heart, we rode the
suite's movements together, with straining muscles in unison, past the
prelude, the allemande, and the courante. When I felt your eyelashes blink
wetly against my cheek with a teardrop, I knew you understood. 

By the time
we reached the slow intensity of the sarabande, I was trembling, fighting for
control over myself and the instrument. The bow skittered along the strings,
and I finally stopped before the last three movements. 

"Why'd you stop,
Laurel?" you asked, but I didn't reply. 

With your body still wrapped around
me like a living cloak, I placed the instrument onto top of the piano and
wrapped your bow arm around my waist. We stood there in silence, while you
contemplated the echoing strains of music in your head. On the other hand, I
felt light-headed from the mingling of our natural scents, wafting off the
sweat of our exertions. Did you feel my heart pounding, Yvette? Could you
smell the scorched musk of my excitement? You weren't expecting me to break
the rules... 

As I swivelled my head back to face you, our cheeks brushed
before my lips met yours, and you tried to pull away with surprised eyes. I
clasped your arms tightly against me to imprison you in our first kiss; my
teeth latched on your lower lip and I felt a shiver run through your body.
Yes, you tried to break away, but I wouldn't let you twist out of my grasp...
Do you still regret it, sweet Yvette... should I have released you? 

Still
locked onto your mouth, I stepped backwards, trapping you against a tall
bookshelf. You were still feebly struggling to escape my grip, but the
relentless siege of my tongue and lips had you flustered, didn't it? When I
had you trapped between the shelves and my body, your clenched jaws finally
opened for me, and our tongues strived to own your mouth. You moaned into me,
but I don't know if it was out of anger or confusion. 

I led your right hand
up under my blouse to cup my bosom, paralyzing your fingers with the soft
weight of those globes. Gripping your other wrist, I pushed our hands
inexorably beneath the denim, ever so slowly towards the yearning between my
legs and ignoring your muffled sobs of protest. I remember thinking that I
would finally make you know and recognize the simmering desire with which
your presence torments me. 

"Yvette, this is how much I love you," I
whispered. 

"Laurel," you pleaded, "we can't do this! Please, oh please, not
like this... I'll never forgive you if you don't let go this very instant!
Laurel? Please? You know I can't... I can't fight you..." 

I merely
whimpered as I clutched you against my most private places, as I had touched
myself so many times with thoughts of you in my head, only this time, it was
your hands I was using. I ground my rump into your lap, and felt your lips
begin to relax against mine. At some point, some point, you must have
realized the hopelessness of your situation. I poured all my passion into
your lips, wagering that you wouldn't be able to restrain your own body's
natural reactions. Gradually, our embrace grew more ardent, and fueled by the
sensations of our intimacy, your reluctance flared into smoldering lust. 
Inside the suffocating furnace of my tight jeans, I felt your fingers glide
through my hair, and I mewled as they closed reflexively over my pouting
lips. You spread me open with your fingers, while we nuzzled each other. I
must have groaned and squirmed like such a harlot as you played across the
outer folds of my moist flower with a virtuoso's deftness. Now I wonder if
your blithe innocence was just a mask, if you had been someone else before we
ever met, because I suddenly found myself longer the captor, but the captured
instead. Suddenly, I was a marionette writhing at the mercy of your
manipulations, creaming onto your fingers as you conducted the craving blaze
of my body towards higher and higher notes tension of ecstacy. 

Our lips
separated when I became too weak from pleasure to even stand upright, and
when my knees buckled, we slid down to the floor, still propped up against
the bookshelf. Your hands unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, and you lowered
them to my ankles with a tug, dragging the panties halfway down as well. I
moaned at the chill of open air on my damp skin, and leaned back onto your
knees with splayed thighs. I had never felt so debauched in my life, with
garments and undergarments tangled around my feet, limbs brazenly spread for
all the world to see my glistening sex, and your breasts squashed against my
spine like two fleshy pillows. While my head lolled listlessly to one side, I
massaged my nipples, and thrust one out to feel the ticklish caress of your
breath over my shoulder. Reaching from behind, your hands spread my legs
wider and cupped the tuft of silky brown hair. Two dextrous fingers held my
slick lips open, while a third entered, teasingly rubbing my inner walls
until it reached the warm pool of juices. There, you swirled and drew the
oils out to coat my clenched well. I bucked against your hands and cried out,
but you removed your finger and held it up in front of our eyes. 

Your words
burned into my mind, and I'll never forget the wounded, weeping voice that
asked, "Is this what you wanted, Laurel? All those times we held each other,
while I confessed my deepest fears and secrets, you were just using me to get
some play, to make yourself wet... you horrible slut!" 

You never gave me
the chance to answer, Yvette! I wanted to tell you that our friendship was
real, that my feelings for you were the purest emotions I had ever felt! But
you shoved your finger into my mouth, and rolled it around so that I could
taste the incriminating fragrance of my lust, while your other hand mashed
against my hard little nub. I fought so hard to pull your finger out of my
mouth so I could deny your accusations, but your fury had made you too
strong. I thrashed and moaned, trying to free myself... then you thrust two
slender fingers deep into my pumping crotch, curling them inwards to rub
vigorously along the upper walls deep inside with firm strokes. 

Finally, I
freed your finger from my mouth using both hands, and gasped, "Please,
Yvette, don't do this to me... I don't want this anymore, okay? Just let me
explain! I didn't mean this to happen! Just stop for a second and listen, I
can explain everything..." 

However, your fingers continued lunging at me
without mercy. I dug my heels into the carpet and arched backwards, pinning
you against the bookshelf in agonizing rapture, as your thumb bore down hard
onto my hidden nub. I didn't want to come, Yvette, I didn't want to complete
the deed which would consummate my betrayal of our friendship; but then, you
inserted a third finger, and your bow hand began to ravage my sex in a
quivering blur. In the recesses of my mind, I knew I had lost you forever.
When you angrily bit down into the tense flesh at nape of my neck, I finally
relinquished control of my convulsing body. I came violently and loudly, with
regretful tears streaming down my cheeks. You wouldn't let up, wouldn't let
my guilt and ecstasy die away, until I was prying away at your hands, and
begging incoherently in your ear. It must have gone on for a full minute, the
most electrifying single minute of my life, when tidal pleasure flooded my
mind in waves. There is also nothing I wish more than to erase that moment in
which you looked down onto my frenzied visage and witnessed the bare,
uninhibited carnality that had severed the most beautiful bond I have ever
known with another. 

When the quakes subsided, you pulled me to my feet,
yanked my panties up and buttoned my jeans without a word. I'll never forget
the coldness in your face, as you packed my music and viola and deposited
them outside the practice room. 

"Laurel," you said with a trembling voice,
"I hope you got what you want, and that you're hurting as much as I am. I
don't know if I'll ever want to speak to you again, but you can leave your
viola and the book with me until the competition... that's the least you
could do for me right now." 

I nodded numbly, picked up my things, and
walked out on shaky legs. The door closed behind me with a soft click, but
through it I heard the first phrases of the prelude. 

Many weeks later, I
caught your recital from backstage. I searched for you afterwards, but all I
found was my instrument, its case tucked behind the curtains. Even though
years have passed, I want to congratulate you on your winning performance,
and say that I have not heard an equally gut-wrenching interpretation ever
since. I know you have made a name for yourself in the professional circles,
but should you ever drop by our old alma mater, look on the faculty list for
my room number, and visit an old friend who still misses you. My door will
always be open and waiting... 

In love and friendship, 

Laurel D. 
____Epilogue - Menuetto and Gigue _____ 

Yvette stared down at the signature
with reddening eyes. A teardrop splashed onto it, diffusing the ink into blue
spider webs. She latched the viola case shut, left the cafe with it slung
over her shoulders again. This time, a bus was loading a line of passengers,
and she joined them in the crowded vehicle. She couldn't contain her tears,
but in this climate, her sniffling could easily be contributed to a bad cold.
Several minutes later, she pulled the cord and stepped off of the bus in
front of some towering brick structures. Yvette took in the snow-covered
campus with shining eyes, and trudged down the walkway towards the buildings.

*****************************************************************************

Copyright by Rythmic, 8/3/98, jellybean101@my-dejanews.com
All rights
reserved. Not to be reproduced without the express written permission from
the author. 

A free dose of quality from Goodshit Productions. Stay tuned.

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