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[Milliways]: Memory in melody
Oct. 12th, 2011 09:21 pmOrpheus often takes requests. It’s easier that way. Someone gives him a theme, and he weaves a song. (Apollo and Athena, he thinks, should get along better. They are not so very different.)
He will sing of anything, if the coin is right, if the night suits him.
Sometimes, when he’s had a bit too much to drink, when he’s feeling accommodating—or perhaps spiteful—he will even comply when a man, sitting at a table near the stage, trying to impress his date, says, “Sing about the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.”
If it’s a request, if the tone of voice is not demanding, if the girl he’s with looks properly embarrassed, if Orpheus is pleasantly buzzing on whatever drinks his audience has been buying him, he’ll nod, almost gravely, and settle back on his stool, fingers stroking over the strings of his guitar like a lover caressing his partner in familiarity and affection.
The first few chords are for himself, to tease out the memory, to remind him of what it was like to look on a woman with desire and to hope that desire might be fulfilled.
And then he sings.
He sings of the first time he ever saw her, of the moment his breath was stolen, words failing him for the first time in his life. He sings of the blessing of her smile that brought the air back to his lungs, rekindled his song, added sweetness and longing to his music.
He sings of moonlight in her hair, of the first time she kissed him, under Artemis’ watchful eye, of the sweetness of her lips, cold in the night and warming more and more each time they pressed to his.
He sings of the day he first saw her naked, in a grove sacred to Apollo—even this song, filled with the memory of her, is for Apollo—of the pleasure he found in her such as he never had in any woman before or since. He sings of the worship he offered her there in the garden of his patron, of the closest he—pious Orpheus, faithful Orpheus, devout Orpheus—ever came to blasphemy. He sings of the way his heart stopped to see her bared for him, the rhythm of his life paused in a caesura stretched almost beyond bearing (mirrored in his song) until the moment he found his rhythm, his life, in her.
He sings of the day that should have brought them together, should have joined them for eternity, in this life and the life to come. He sings of her beauty on that day, perfect past the telling of it, of her smile so much like the first she ever bestowed on him, a blessing come to fruition.
And he stops.
And the chord he leaves them with stretches back a line of melancholy, of pain, of longing that taints the entire song, so that no one in the room is quite sure if it was a love song or a dirge they just heard.
No one applauds, and in the silence that blankets the bar, Orpheus rises from his stool, carefully slinging his guitar across his back, and leaves them to salvage their evenings as well as they can.
He will sing of anything, if the coin is right, if the night suits him.
Sometimes, when he’s had a bit too much to drink, when he’s feeling accommodating—or perhaps spiteful—he will even comply when a man, sitting at a table near the stage, trying to impress his date, says, “Sing about the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.”
If it’s a request, if the tone of voice is not demanding, if the girl he’s with looks properly embarrassed, if Orpheus is pleasantly buzzing on whatever drinks his audience has been buying him, he’ll nod, almost gravely, and settle back on his stool, fingers stroking over the strings of his guitar like a lover caressing his partner in familiarity and affection.
The first few chords are for himself, to tease out the memory, to remind him of what it was like to look on a woman with desire and to hope that desire might be fulfilled.
And then he sings.
He sings of the first time he ever saw her, of the moment his breath was stolen, words failing him for the first time in his life. He sings of the blessing of her smile that brought the air back to his lungs, rekindled his song, added sweetness and longing to his music.
He sings of moonlight in her hair, of the first time she kissed him, under Artemis’ watchful eye, of the sweetness of her lips, cold in the night and warming more and more each time they pressed to his.
He sings of the day he first saw her naked, in a grove sacred to Apollo—even this song, filled with the memory of her, is for Apollo—of the pleasure he found in her such as he never had in any woman before or since. He sings of the worship he offered her there in the garden of his patron, of the closest he—pious Orpheus, faithful Orpheus, devout Orpheus—ever came to blasphemy. He sings of the way his heart stopped to see her bared for him, the rhythm of his life paused in a caesura stretched almost beyond bearing (mirrored in his song) until the moment he found his rhythm, his life, in her.
He sings of the day that should have brought them together, should have joined them for eternity, in this life and the life to come. He sings of her beauty on that day, perfect past the telling of it, of her smile so much like the first she ever bestowed on him, a blessing come to fruition.
And he stops.
And the chord he leaves them with stretches back a line of melancholy, of pain, of longing that taints the entire song, so that no one in the room is quite sure if it was a love song or a dirge they just heard.
No one applauds, and in the silence that blankets the bar, Orpheus rises from his stool, carefully slinging his guitar across his back, and leaves them to salvage their evenings as well as they can.
