Wednesday, July 06, 2005

the bridge


It was a normal post-tour meet at the airport. I got off the plane, feeling like a sleep-deprived starlet in my new cotélac outfit bearing a suitcase bursting with criticism along with my dirty smalls. Julian didn't like the dress particularly and, ready to defend his temporary bachelor habits, looked sheepish.

The journey home was tense.

Walking in the door I saw the french farmhouse table waxed (a fetish of mine) and clear of debris, the floor washed and surfaces gleaming. Sheets were ready for our guests and the cd's neatly stacked on the hoovered floor. There was a beautiful space waiting for me.

"I did it with love" he said.

Still, I had to get it out; I had to say, no matter that it was the most inappropriate and insensitive moment, how I was FEELING..........(After all I'm a star, aren't I?)

The nightmare wife comes home.

It was a close shave and we narrowly escaped a head-on collision with some scratches. With careful steering on both sides, however, we managed to find the bridge:

Patting instinctively over to the c.d player, I slipped a recording of les Boreades in the silver envelope. With my bare feet up against the flaking lime-wash, I sat in the doorway listening to Rameau mingled with the sounds and smells of home; of Julian cooking infused with the clacking quavers of the cicadas and the vines' undulating dance. Oscar luxuriously arched his back during the most sensuous air, and Julian sat near quietly working on his computer. For the first time I was sharing this glorious music with my beloved and that fulfilled a profound need.

"Track number 5 is the one...."
"Too right"

Over the next three hours of Couguieux-choreographed opera , Julian hummed along and I continued my sporadic interjections:

"Here we took it much more spaciously; here our leader went nuts; here the tenor did the most perfect ornament which gave me goose bumps; here the chorus threw rose-petals down to the blue-eyed oboist; here we never managed to play in tune...."

Then the 'Entrée des Peuples' came on - the sublime pinnacle of the work. Tears flowed easily from under my closed lids as I remembered the pure joy of carving out this sensuous bass line, and also how happy I was to be home.



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