When God appears, he will know what to make of these words.
“Yes, Raphaël, my dearest, love is our own look-out; usually it looks down on us with closed eyes, in this gulf of a world. Luckily, lovers are blessed with sublime intelligence. They know how to sing their joy to the music of laughter, or make of the earth their secret lie. They have pins and pine needles in their souls. They are never true to half-truths. They love each other, that’s all. Sowing the seeds of love. Over all things. They offer each other roses: brush the pink petals, skim the skin. Breathing in their scent, they sense each other. They wrap themselves in silken lips and astonished bodies. Then dive into the broiling seas of desire. They part one from the other, slowly, silently, like shadows disrobed by the first rays of sunlight. They write each other letters, undressing their voices. They write each other dreams in the savage garden of the night. They sing the songs of the streets. Hurdle fences. Take to the hills. Wander like lost children, each sure in the warmth of the other’s naked hand. They come across horses of the Ming dynasty. They order white coffee and a room on the first floor. They give body to the Verb. They are impatient to reach Eternity, that pool in the back of the eyes from which love stares back at them like a blinding reflection.”
Mileva, these are your words, found on a page stuck to the back of the mirror. That gold-framed mirror hung in the untidy hallway into which I welcomed you one autumnal Friday night. I bowed to kiss your hand, after Charles had introduced us: “My dear, this is Raphaël, the young pianist I was telling you about. Music will become his only vocation, if ever he gets over his virtuosity.”Your eyes met mine for a moment. You said: “So, you are the one.” I repeated the self-same words about you. My eyes met yours. But these were not eyes, they were a wedding-bed. I felt your fright mingling with mine.
It was just a week before the inaugural performance of the ‘Concerto for Piano and String Orchestra' by Alfred Schnittke. Charles wanted to clear the fog of misunderstanding which had hung over the first rehearsals. So we had agreed to get together at my place with Maxime Querval, the lead violin. As usual, Maxime was late arriving. ‘The first shall be last’, he was would say in that smug, self-important way of his. The musicians of the orchestra, who never missed an opportunity to lower the tone, had got into the habit of greeting him in these terms, forestalling the introit of his invariable excuse.
The ‘Concerto for Piano and String Orchestra’ was created by Vladimir Krainjew who had once taught me. Pieces of such quality are rare and Charles made a point of honour of showing that he knew what he was about. His reading of a partition was the fruit of intense meditation, notably based – whenever possible – on the analysis of the manuscript version of a composition. Thus, the dance of his hands (he conducted without a baton) became a pilgrimage to the source of the music. He was as sure-footed as a alpine guide: every note, each chord was a step on an ascent into the clouds. At his contact, you were swept up towards the eternal snows, caught up in the beatitude of earth and sky.
“Where are we heading?” asked Charles. “In this concerto, we come full circle: in the coda, Schnittke sets out the theme in its simplest form.” Charles was categorical. “This work, this movement, is like almond trees in flower. Don’t slash away at the sonatas. Keep it natural. Don’t take the secateurs to it! Remember that the flower is a fruit in disguise. It’s modesty and fragility are its greatest glory. It is the prisoner of nothing except its own accomplishment.”
After this clarification, I went back to the piano and revised my interpretation. For the cadence, I chose a different fingering than the one I had initially adopted. Charles approved. Once again, he had mastered us with the outstanding precision of his thinking.
This preparatory work had given us a taste for more. Before we sat down to eat, Maxime said: “Master, I’d like to know what your secret is ”. “ My secret is straightforward. My love keeps me happy ”, said Charles, taking your hand in his.
The evening bore witness to our appetite. I discovered how you were born during the Prague spring. How three years later, you left your country, with your parents. Disavowing the communist orthodoxy, they had taken the opportunity offered by a holiday to take refuge in France. To accomplish this journey without awakening any suspicions, they left Johann, your brother, then aged 15 months, in the care of his two grandmothers. Three seasons later, when he arrived in Paris, Johann did not recognise his parents. Time and its golden pleasures healed the wounds. Last summer, Johann went to live in California. He works in a neurophysiologic laboratory. His work on memory is disconcerting but he is already an authority on the subject.
I found myself thinking that your pride made you beautiful. So very, very beautiful. By simply telling me your story you had taken possession of me.
Here, in this house, my life became a lonely vigil. When night came, I would say your name over and over again to the shadows assembled in my bedroom: Mileva, Mileva, Mileva… It sounded like the drip dripping of water on a touchstone.
The grey skies of day followed vain dawn. Then came the evening of the concert. During the interval, in the wavering light of my dressing-room, you came to wish me well. I trembled to depths of my being when you took my hands in yours and pressed them to your lips. I was dizzy with expectation. Just one kiss and life begins anew. We heard a noise. You slipped away, like night-time in the depths of the desert.
Trembling with emotion, but happy, I was stunned, delighted, overcome with wonder. You had walked into my life like a breath of fresh air.
Hurrah! I was possessed.
Your soul had taken the place of mine. I listened to the whispering words of love waiting to be spoken.
It was still too soon: you were no longer at my side. It was already too late: the time had come for my curtain call.
I played as one commits adultery. This was more than a partition, a concert, or music. This was a love-bed, an expectation fulfilled, a victory cry to the circling world. By the time I had finished playing, my eyes were awash with tears. I knew then that you had chosen me. Chosen me to be the happiest man on earth.
O my love, many were the days and the ways to our Compostella. For that was what we called our love. Sometimes we came across other pilgrims. Sometimes we wandered through the night in search of our deepest selves.
I was delighted by your innocence. Not once did you cheat on Charles. There were no lies. No fuss. Just the fury of our hearts and our bodies transported by imperious joy. We spent most of our time on the other side of the mirror, where lips are unsealed, where words are seeds, where tears are like an inland sea.
I learned how to work at your side. How not to fly off at the first flutter of your eyelids, or stray into the wilderness of your eyes. I learned resonance. I learned how to transpose our passion onto the black and white keyboard. At your side, I learned the music of love.
Mileva, Mileva, Mileva: you were my only love; music my only vocation. I died this morning. In a banal road accident. You will read the details in the evening papers.
Now I am standing in the hallway, facing this mirror that you gave me. I have come to claim my reflection. The one you could have seen with your eyes closed.
My love, I have come to tell you that I have reached Eternity.
Mileva, these are your words, found on a page stuck to the back of the mirror. That gold-framed mirror hung in the untidy hallway into which I welcomed you one autumnal Friday night. I bowed to kiss your hand, after Charles had introduced us: “My dear, this is Raphaël, the young pianist I was telling you about. Music will become his only vocation, if ever he gets over his virtuosity.”Your eyes met mine for a moment. You said: “So, you are the one.” I repeated the self-same words about you. My eyes met yours. But these were not eyes, they were a wedding-bed. I felt your fright mingling with mine.
It was just a week before the inaugural performance of the ‘Concerto for Piano and String Orchestra' by Alfred Schnittke. Charles wanted to clear the fog of misunderstanding which had hung over the first rehearsals. So we had agreed to get together at my place with Maxime Querval, the lead violin. As usual, Maxime was late arriving. ‘The first shall be last’, he was would say in that smug, self-important way of his. The musicians of the orchestra, who never missed an opportunity to lower the tone, had got into the habit of greeting him in these terms, forestalling the introit of his invariable excuse.
The ‘Concerto for Piano and String Orchestra’ was created by Vladimir Krainjew who had once taught me. Pieces of such quality are rare and Charles made a point of honour of showing that he knew what he was about. His reading of a partition was the fruit of intense meditation, notably based – whenever possible – on the analysis of the manuscript version of a composition. Thus, the dance of his hands (he conducted without a baton) became a pilgrimage to the source of the music. He was as sure-footed as a alpine guide: every note, each chord was a step on an ascent into the clouds. At his contact, you were swept up towards the eternal snows, caught up in the beatitude of earth and sky.
“Where are we heading?” asked Charles. “In this concerto, we come full circle: in the coda, Schnittke sets out the theme in its simplest form.” Charles was categorical. “This work, this movement, is like almond trees in flower. Don’t slash away at the sonatas. Keep it natural. Don’t take the secateurs to it! Remember that the flower is a fruit in disguise. It’s modesty and fragility are its greatest glory. It is the prisoner of nothing except its own accomplishment.”
After this clarification, I went back to the piano and revised my interpretation. For the cadence, I chose a different fingering than the one I had initially adopted. Charles approved. Once again, he had mastered us with the outstanding precision of his thinking.
This preparatory work had given us a taste for more. Before we sat down to eat, Maxime said: “Master, I’d like to know what your secret is ”. “ My secret is straightforward. My love keeps me happy ”, said Charles, taking your hand in his.
The evening bore witness to our appetite. I discovered how you were born during the Prague spring. How three years later, you left your country, with your parents. Disavowing the communist orthodoxy, they had taken the opportunity offered by a holiday to take refuge in France. To accomplish this journey without awakening any suspicions, they left Johann, your brother, then aged 15 months, in the care of his two grandmothers. Three seasons later, when he arrived in Paris, Johann did not recognise his parents. Time and its golden pleasures healed the wounds. Last summer, Johann went to live in California. He works in a neurophysiologic laboratory. His work on memory is disconcerting but he is already an authority on the subject.
I found myself thinking that your pride made you beautiful. So very, very beautiful. By simply telling me your story you had taken possession of me.
Here, in this house, my life became a lonely vigil. When night came, I would say your name over and over again to the shadows assembled in my bedroom: Mileva, Mileva, Mileva… It sounded like the drip dripping of water on a touchstone.
The grey skies of day followed vain dawn. Then came the evening of the concert. During the interval, in the wavering light of my dressing-room, you came to wish me well. I trembled to depths of my being when you took my hands in yours and pressed them to your lips. I was dizzy with expectation. Just one kiss and life begins anew. We heard a noise. You slipped away, like night-time in the depths of the desert.
Trembling with emotion, but happy, I was stunned, delighted, overcome with wonder. You had walked into my life like a breath of fresh air.
Hurrah! I was possessed.
Your soul had taken the place of mine. I listened to the whispering words of love waiting to be spoken.
It was still too soon: you were no longer at my side. It was already too late: the time had come for my curtain call.
I played as one commits adultery. This was more than a partition, a concert, or music. This was a love-bed, an expectation fulfilled, a victory cry to the circling world. By the time I had finished playing, my eyes were awash with tears. I knew then that you had chosen me. Chosen me to be the happiest man on earth.
O my love, many were the days and the ways to our Compostella. For that was what we called our love. Sometimes we came across other pilgrims. Sometimes we wandered through the night in search of our deepest selves.
I was delighted by your innocence. Not once did you cheat on Charles. There were no lies. No fuss. Just the fury of our hearts and our bodies transported by imperious joy. We spent most of our time on the other side of the mirror, where lips are unsealed, where words are seeds, where tears are like an inland sea.
I learned how to work at your side. How not to fly off at the first flutter of your eyelids, or stray into the wilderness of your eyes. I learned resonance. I learned how to transpose our passion onto the black and white keyboard. At your side, I learned the music of love.
Mileva, Mileva, Mileva: you were my only love; music my only vocation. I died this morning. In a banal road accident. You will read the details in the evening papers.
Now I am standing in the hallway, facing this mirror that you gave me. I have come to claim my reflection. The one you could have seen with your eyes closed.
My love, I have come to tell you that I have reached Eternity.
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