Book One
Prologue
She began as a stranger, masked in the purple guise of a Swansean dusk. From a near distance, I watched as she hurried along the curved path; little more than a drifting figure that moved beneath the shadowed chestnuts of Victoria Park. She rushed past the scented garden of early jasmine and gillyflower, then across the narrow lane, where she wove amongst knotted cars and lingering patrons. Under the fading light of an early June eve, I watched as she climbed the few broad steps and disappeared into the incandescent embrace of Swanseas old Guildhall.
The clock tower began the eight's count as I took in the scented air and looked up at the few stars that appeared beyond the wind stirred leaves. Then I too crossed the black tarmac and climbed the worn steps, where unknowingly, the doors of my inevitable fate had cracked open.
Here, I stepped into a world of cold plaster and musty carpets, black dinner jackets and pearled gowns. With the rub of shoulders and the muted apology, I entered a darkened heart that throbbed with a multitude of faceless whispers.
The house lights dimmed and the heart silenced.
I closed my eyes to the first notes of the muted piano--fleeting grace notes that grew in intensity and magnitude. The piano receded, replaced by the wash of strings and the first pull of the sea.
Measures passed.
Again the piano appeared--a smooth arpeggio lying just beneath the swell. As the theme blossomed, I set adrift under a sky of summer clouds, began a journey. For within each note, within each chord, I fell further into a grand passion as scored by Sergei Racmaninoff.
When I opened my eyes some twenty measures later, I focused on the beautiful girlish-woman Id seen earlier crossing the park. And for the duration of the performance, I watched as she played the cello in the third chair.
It was here, under the golden lamps, where I witnessed the embodiment of melody.
She played in harmony with the oceans waves, and through each passage, with a honeyed hand and majestic fingers, she made each note, each rest and slur her own. In that vibrant room, as I stole my first glimpse into her soul, I found that her glorious hands spoke to me with the distinction of an artists signature.
Her left hand flowed with a swans perfection. While in her right, lay the understated power, the dynamic language of her bow. Drawn against the four strings, I caught the nuance of flavour, the subtle surges of volume and expression that sang to me with a tailored voice. I leaned forward, held captive, as kelp in the rain, tethered by an invisible thread that only I knew existed.
Looking up across an intolerable distance, I admired her ash blonde hair with its long sweeping curl that draped over her shoulder. My eyes caught the lone beauty of single diamond within her hair. Dear God--I saw her with such clarity; her face spoke of a hearts purity and her souls charm. Within her radiant smile she bore gifts to invisible angels.
My heart, my mind, my hands--I reached for her; aching, desiring more of what she held within. I wouldve taken it all in both greed and hunger.
Who was this creature?
But a rogue wave crashed upon the rocks.
For even from this distance, some thirty rows from that sunset tinted stage, I saw the glow of a narrow ring on her left hand.
I raised my eyes to the ceiling and beyond. My prayer went unanswered; my love short lived as a minnow plucked from a clouded stream.
I closed my eyes.
And in the curtains shadow, her face returned to the sea, into a lifetime of embellished memory where she could linger and ripen and where shes remained within me ever since.
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