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Subject: NOBODY CRIED FOR BACH [formatted]
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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, rythmic@geocities.com. All rights reserved.
Not to be reproduced without the express written permission from the
author.

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