Forever Bound. Elizabeth Coldwell

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      Madeline and More

      Giselle Renarde

      Madeline chain-smoked two packs a day. Used to be three, but she cut down because she didn’t want her skin to start looking like a catcher’s mitt.

      She reminded me of a white witch. Her hair was long and straggly, and she always had on wispy skirts that brushed her ankles. She usually wore white or grey, or shades of blue and green. Never black, except on stage, which struck me as strange because she was famous for writing requiems.

      To look at her, you’d never guess Madeline was a world-famous composer. But I guess people have outdated ideas of what composers look like. The first year our choir collaborated with Madeline, I remember the other sopranos asking, ‘How does such beautiful music come out of such a hag?’ That hurt me, right to my core, because I thought Madeline was gorgeous.

      For four years she’d been writing original choral music for us to premiere at our annual Christmas concert. Having the words ‘World Premiere’ on the programme certainly helped to put bums in the seats, but I knew she only helped us along because she was sleeping with our choirmaster Diana. Their relationship was brutally obvious.

      But something was different this year. When Madeline arrived to hear how we were faring with the new piece, she seemed even more aloof than usual. She swept down the centre aisle of the creepy old church where we rehearsed and threw her purse and her bags on the front pew. She didn’t give Diana the usual big hug and kiss. In fact, she didn’t so much as glance in our choirmaster’s direction.

      Something was very, very different. Had they broken up? Oh, the thought made my belly flip. Right away, my mind shot to the possibility of being Madeline’s next conquest.

      My hands were shaking as I took Madeline’s original setting of ‘Balulalow’ from my music folder. The piece hadn’t yet been published, and the vocal score was handwritten. So were the words:

       Oh my dere hert, young Jesu sweit,

       Prepare thy creddil in thy spreit,

       And I sall rock thee to my hert,

       To my hert …

       And never mair from thee depart.

      Oh, Madeline’s handwriting! Madeline’s fingers had penned this music, written out those words. Everything that came from her was special and exciting, even a song that had been set famously by Britten and God knows how many other composers.

      She sat like a bag lady in the front pew as we sang her work back to her. It was magic. I felt that way about most Christmas songs, but Madeline’s new creations brought me to a higher plane of existence. I’d never been a super-religious person, but I’d always loved the focus on music that came about this time of year. The old songs were my favourites, and Madeline’s always sounded old even though they were new.

      My heart raced as we closed off that final melancholy chord. This wasn’t a happy song. Moving, yes, but not celebratory. There was a sense of devotion, of submission. We singers gave ourselves over to the piece as it became a part of us. It was truly an experience of giving in, handing ourselves to Madeline and letting ourselves belong to her.

      But what did she think of our performance?

      For a moment, she said nothing, did nothing. And then she brought her hands together. She stood and bowed to us, saying, ‘Thank you all.’

      Her voice was deep and husky from all the years of smoking. She was a choral composer who couldn’t sing her own music.

      She gave us a few corrections. Some of our pronunciations were too modern but that wouldn’t be difficult to change. The main difference was that she wanted to make ‘And never mair from thee depart’ into a solo soprano line, underscored by the basses and tenors.

      ‘Eva can do it,’ Diana offered, and my spine stiffened when I heard my name.

      ‘OK,’ I said, feeling the other sopranos sneer. ‘I’d love to.’

      We all changed our scores. I sang for Madeline and when my voice rang out over the rest of the choir, she smiled. I’d done it. She’d noticed me. We made a connection in that moment, eye to eye, mouth to ear. That moment changed everything.

      I stuck around after rehearsal, trying to work up the courage to congratulate Madeline on such a glorious piece. The thought of actually talking to her made me so nervous I had to run to the bathroom. When I returned, my fellow choristers were gone, but I heard two raised voices coming from the room where the church stored choir robes and old furniture, stuff like that. I knew those voices.

      Madeline was shouting, ‘Take it! I don’t want it any more!’

      ‘I bought all that for us,’ Diana cried. ‘If there is no us, I don’t want it either.’

      I couldn’t help wondering what they were fighting over. My curiosity got the best of me, I suppose, because I came so close to the door I wound up pressing it open with my chest.

      Madeline and Diana both looked up when the door squeaked. There was nowhere to hide. They’d seen me.

      Diana shook her head and stormed past me, yelling, ‘Keep it all or burn it. What do I care?’

      I hoped Madeline wasn’t mad at me for breaking up their spat. Some people really got off on arguing. But she didn’t seem upset. She stared right through me, standing perfectly still except for her thumb, which rolled a silver ring in circles around her middle finger.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to tell you how much I love your music.’

      She looked up and jolted a bit, like she was surprised to see me there. ‘Oh. Thank you.’

      ‘It’s an honour to be given a solo.’

      ‘Good.’ Madeline looked frazzled and frail, and I wished I could do something about that. When she looked at me, I felt like she was staring at a painting, not a person. Finally, she shook her head and her hair exploded around her face. ‘I’m sorry. Where are my manners? It’s very nice to meet you.’

      She extended her hand and I whispered, ‘Eva.’ There was more silver than flesh on her fingers, but her palm was smooth and cool. Mine was clammy, but she didn’t react. ‘I always look forward to our Christmas concert because I know I’ll get to see you again.’

      At first, she didn’t react except to nod slowly. Even when she said thank you, I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me.

      ‘The СКАЧАТЬ