Part 2: Gazing down into the gyre

Author's note: Instead of writing a regular column for the next many months, I will be writing a continuous story following the character of Jacobi Bartley. As with most works of fiction, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Except for you, Philip. Cheers.

Language is limiting. In order to convey an experience accurately, it is more important to choose the right words, rather than those considered esoteric or vague. But what if the experience you are trying to convey defies the laws of the physical, observable universe?

Perhaps an analogy would be best to convey my experiences after walking into the Kennedy Opera House.

I remember one night when I was a child lying in bed edging towards sleep. The only visible light exuded under the frame of my door and every thought began to strip away. As my mind began that thin dissolve into the realm of dreams, I saw myself standing at the edge of a great chasm where below, no light penetrated. The more tangible the dream became, the more my I lost my balance, until I fell forward. My legs sprung forward as I tried to catch myself, but found I was alone in my bed. This is what I felt when I walked through the door of the opera house.

At first there were no sounds, only darkness.

"This way," the Ambassador called.

As I walked through the antechamber, I extended my arms searching for any physical marker, until I saw a thin light exude at its end.

As I walked towards the source of light, the ambient sound of hushed tones began to fill the room.

"Just a few more steps," his voice grew in strength.

As the end of the hall the thin outline of the Ambassador was countered next to a giant curtain, which ran the length of a stage.

"Where is this portrait? Also, will you turn on some lights in here?" I asked with irritation.

Gently, the Ambassador's hand raised to his face, ordering me to cease speaking.

"It is about to begin."

Confused, I then followed his hand as it extended through the curtain. On the stage resided a grand piano which was illuminated by the gas lighting, radiating a thin green veneer off the high polished black surface of the instrument. In the audience a flood of faces extended the length of the opera house. To my knowledge the Kennedy Opera House closed before I was born.

"Who are these people?" I asked in a hushed tone.

At first the Ambassador tilts his head obtusely, before simply nodding. "Why, they're here for the show. Look," he points to the boxed balcony seat, "it appears the Governor has decided to accept the invitation."

The Governor walked out on the balcony, flanked by two men in indistinguishable tuxedos, both donning a white orchid on their lapel. The Governor's blonde hair extended half the length of her black cocktail dress and without parting her tightly pursed red lips, she gives a thin waive to the public below, who greets her with muted applause.

The Ambassador also reciprocated but kept his eyes fixated towards stage left.

"She's nervous."

"Her?" I pointed to balcony.

"Of course not. I have never known the Governor to either smile, frown, laugh or sigh. She just is. I am talking about Laura Spencer, our performer for the evening. She has never played for this audience before."

Behind the curtain of stage left, a figure of a woman appears. Alone she stands and stares towards the Ambassador. He spurns her forward with a gentle, reassuring nod. With pensive steps she walks to the piano. As the light reaches her, I notice a white dress hugs her thin frame, but a white veil obscures any defining feature of her face. Her long high heals assault the wooden floor of the stage, creating a resounding echo throughout the opera house. With each step, the murmuring of the audience begins to slowly fade. It is silent when she moves the bench away from the piano, creating a piercing screech as the legs cut the floor.

When she sits, the same applause greets her as it did with the Governor.

With the last clap lost in the far corners of the opera house, her fingers touch the keys.

With the first note I feel as though all oxygen has been restricted from the room. It hangs long above the audience, and she holds it with suspense before shifting her posture. As the second note is struck the air is returned to the room and I exhale as she plays the first soft run.

When I hear the delicate chords reverberate in the inner recesses of my ear, a calm washes over my body. Her fingers stroke the keys with a feather timbre though the hall compensates and send to the music just to breadth of understanding.

I know this piece, I think but cannot translate.

"Chopin," I hear the Ambassador within my head speak, "Nocturne Opus 9 Number 2. Music of the night."

My eyes remain transfixed on her wilted frame and then something strange happens -- her veil begins to lift. Her delicate jawline is countered by the trembling of her lower lip. A tear runs the length of her face before falling on the keys below.

As the music shifts from the minor arpeggio to the major chord tonal shift, everything changes.

I am in a field which looms next to a tree line. There are no telephone lines or contrails in the sky. A place removed from time. She is alone in the field, walking aimlessly into the abyss. Her fingers run against the apex of the wild grass grasping for nothing. I follow her, but with every step, her image grows more faint in the distance. I begin to run towards her but my feet become entrenched in mud. With effort I grab at my legs and force them out the ground, but as my eyes gaze towards her I notice she has reached the tree line. There is something wrong. I don't know what it is, but I know once she enters, she will never be able to return. I begin to scream, but no sounds escapes my lips. It is as though everything is stunted. As I fill my lungs to capacity, a hand grasps my shoulders and pulls me back.

This story will be continued in the April 9 edition of the Greene County Daily World.