I liked to lean in close to the fingerboard as I played, feel the strings vibrating beneath my fingers and through the wood of the body, close enough for the metallic tang of the strings to fill my nostrils. Sometimes I would crouch so that my chin rested right down on the instrument, wrapping myself around it until it felt like a part of me, until the sounds I coaxed from it felt like the sounds I would make if my soul could speak. Tonight it wanted to speak of absence and loss, my hand working the bow to draw long, deep notes: a slow, sad melody for my memories.
I remembered a time when I hadn’t been quite so invisible to them. Jo making me pick out bass lines from whatever record she was into that week, usually something dark and doomy. More recently she’d kept sending me YouTube videos of Apocalyptica or some other group of cellists looking for space in an already crowded field, re-interpreting rock songs in classical forms. This is what you used to do for me, she’d say in her e-mails. I’m not sure picking the riff from Enter Sandman was quite the same thing but she seemed to think it was. I hated all of those groups anyway. If you have Brahms and Bach and Mozart then why would you waste your time on Metallica? I’m not a snob about it – I don’t think I am anyway – but if you’ve painted in all the colours on a palette then why would you settle for using a pencil?
They had always found me serious, I knew that. I sometimes wondered why they’d persisted, all those times badgering me to leave the library or pulling me out of a rehearsal room, dragging me out to the pub or the Union bar or a club. I suspected I was a good influence, a reminder for them to study, to work, and perhaps it helped them unwind more knowing I was out with them, that I wasn’t sat alone in the quiet, methodically trying to improve. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed it despite myself. Some of those nights I was able to shake off the nagging feeling that I had to be buried in a book or consumed in my playing. Some of those nights I had fun.
I hadn’t made it to the reunion and, even though I’d driven all the way out to them, I think I knew that I wasn’t going to really go. I’d made it as far as the cottage, arriving so early that I knew no-one else would be there. I’d sat in the car on the drive for a while, window down, listening to a starling trill, watching it occasionally dart to the ground to grub around for food before it returned to its nest, tucked into the guttering. Mentally I composed a cello counterpoint to its song, even in that moment I couldn’t quite switch off. It didn’t really work. I couldn’t reconcile the keys. The cottage looked just like its picture and I imagined the others arriving, filling it up with their presence and their stories to fill in the blanks between how we’d been then and how we were now. I wasn’t sure I had a story to tell: I was just the same now as I was then, only more so, the solemnity and sadness exaggerated. Maybe that was what they’d given me back then: a break from myself, my relentless self.
There was a kind of ragged beauty in the setting. The tumble-down, down-at-heel cottage slowly succumbing to the encroaching climbing plants and flowers, its walls alive with a buzzing, thrumming throb. I couldn’t help but hear the music in the place, the drone of insects, the whistle of birds, the whisper of leaves unsettled in the wind. It was playing a tune I wasn’t sure I would hear anymore when the others arrived; maybe they had learned to sing outside of their straightforward progressions of the past, something beyond do-re-mi, but I wasn’t convinced. Part of me wondered if it’d do me good to hear something simple but it lost out to the part of me that wanted to retreat somewhere to lay my fingers across strings, pick out a range of tones to say all the things I wanted to say but couldn’t articulate in words.
I liked to lean in close to the fingerboard as I played. I’d checked in to a local B&B, asked for the room on the top floor. If I leaned in real close I could just barely scrape the surface of the strings with the bow, so the resulting sound could scarcely be heard but I could feel it reverberate through the cello, seeping out of me and back into me. I took the sounds I’d heard in the day and what I imagined as the sounds as the old group came together again and I recomposed them into something. Took them in and let them out through all the hours and days and months of effort and practice and purpose and method. And all the contrasting hours, lost to me now and lost to me then, of nothing and of dancing and laughing and talking.
I took those sounds and played an elegy for myself.