"My two natures had memory in common."
- 20th of Saun, 707 Arc
- Andráska’s first music teacher was a woman of exceptional beauty, and perhaps the first thing about music he fell in love with. The thing that stole this love, was the curves and soulful sound of her voice. Not the teacher – the cello. That was his distraction.
Nervous and antsy, he sat perched on the edge of his chair, sunlight filtering in through the stained glass windows of the ballroom. His legs were spread and between them, delicately waiting for his prepubescent touch, was an untainted instrument, beckoning. It was a new gift, flawless and made of dark umber wood, crafted to perfection. Perhaps the most expensive offering he had ever received from his father, and as a youth, he used to believe it was a show of favor or an act of love. It wasn’t until later that he realized the instrument was not given and carefully crafted by artisans to express that the last born was worth such trouble, but due to societal expectations. Every Venora had a craft – art, music, dance, writing or rhetoric. Music was to be his, and nothing less would suffice for a child of the Duke and Duchess of Venora.
Still, he adored her. He loved the way she fit perfectly against him, her long neck lining up with his own, and the bottom peg whispering in his ear. How she reflected the sun, brightening to an almost red and orange hue in direct light, glowing between his knees. Against the outline of her form and down her sides were dark and elegant winding of branded rose thorns. Her fine tuners were ivory and carved to look like the flowers of his house, and on the underside of the fingerboard, at the nape of her neck… Gold elegant script was in laden into the wood, his name Andráska Venora, claiming her to be forever his. He loved her, and he named her. Nadia.
It was the only woman he touched that year. Even his teacher, whose ample chest and flowing skirts never kept his attention quite as well. He held Nadia gently, cradling her, when Ms. Castille handed him the bow, curving his fingers into perfect arches and straining them into proper position. He remained stiff, afraid to mistreat it, until the teacher laughed, “Your hands should be gentle. If you are too tight, you will not be able to create the right sound. Here, do this,”
Ms. Castille sat in her own chair before him, patient and with kind eyes, held out her own bow, its pale strings facing the floor. Then, with fluent practice, she began to bend and unbend her fingers at the knuckle, the bow seeming to float beneath her fingertips, “Your thumb, which is placed here,” she rotated her hand so that he could see it resting in the crook of the boat, “will hold it in place. So you can keep your hands soft.”
Loving.
“Are you excited?” Ms. Castille asked, leaning forward with a precious expression, “I wish I could remember the first time I held my instrument,” she sighed, her eyes drifting past him to look for the memory in the grand ballroom. Andras carefully plucked a string, the temptation too much to bear, and a soft, sorrowful sound reverberated around them and filled the room. The note caught the attention of his teacher, who smiled at Andráska’s sheepish one.
He did not apologize, nor did she ask for one. They continued the lesson, stressing the importance of hand exercises to create dexterity, which the young noble took to heart. She told him he could practice with a pencil, if necessary, a detail that did not go unnoticed. The weight of a bow was far different, but the more he tried, the stronger his hands became.
They reviewed how to read music, a language that continually perplexed him, but that he wanted to speak more than his own common tongue. Andras scribbled it all in his notebook, the notes looking like that of a mad man, but perfectly understood to him.
Bass Clef
Notes on lines on the STAFF – GBDFA
Notes in the spaces – ACEG
Above the staff… below the staff… A through G.
GABCDEFGA
He created memorization techniques to help better remember, straying from precise instruction:
Good Brothers Definitely Fight Assholes.
Andráska Can Eat Grapes.
Looking back on his jottings, he wondering why he chose a fruit as the last word, wondering if perhaps he had been hungry when he wrote it. Music practice was one of the very few educating past times that Andráska not only could sit through, but sit through attentively. Even his instructor noticed the change in which music placed in him, having heard him to be an insolent child. Restless. Resistant. Rebellious.
”What is it about music that you like so much?” she asked one day, watching as he struggled to get the sound he wanted – practicing scales, a seriousness gripped Andráska in an uncharacteristic fashion. His head hung low to his instrument, and he ran the bow along the string, between the bridge and the fingerboard. He frowned, not pleased with the sound, repositioned his fingers and tried again. Ms. Castille elaborated on her question, wondering if he had heard her, or was simply ignoring the observation all together, “You are much more serious than my other students,”
This pulled a small smile from his lips, and he looked up from what he was doing and gave a sheepish shrug, “I just…”
…Understand Nadia. “Like it, I guess. Passes the time,” Lying felt like such a rejection of his instrument, a great guilt pieced him, and as if she had heard his apathy, the instrument gave a horrible screeching sound. Andráska lifted the bow with a jolt, blinking with a blush rising to his cheeks, “I mean, she helps me…think.”
”You don’t think without her?” Ms. Castille held no mocking tone, only curiosity. Andráska’s favorite thing about his instructor was not the way her blue eyes pieced his, or the warmth of her laugh, but that she understood. She did not mock him for fancying the instrument as a living thing. Not a it; a her. Nadia.
”Of course, it’s just, hard to explain,” Andráska adverted his eyes, not quite sure how to word his admittance, “I just thinks she makes me feel important. If I play beautifully, people will pay attention.”
A lord that needed attention. If Ms. Castille thought him silly, she did not say anything, instead sat watching him before grabbing her bow. She continued on with her lesson, each day her instruction more detailed than it had been before. Their sessions grew longer, sometimes until Andras’ fingers ached and his hand felt numb from the vibration of music. Trial and error. The lesson of repetition was paramount. He learned to struggle, and relish in the disappointments. And together they practiced.
”The D major scale, one octave -- and scales are important, because they are the foundation of music – starts on the open D. One, three, four – next string, yes, open. One, three, four.” Ms. Castille demonstrated the fingerings with him, bowing her cello and pausing on the same note until Andráska could replicate the same sound with his own. Sometimes that required him to shift his finger further up or down the string, but when the two were able to harmonize, it was lovely and simple.
Over and over, they repeated the scales, alternating between pressures and speed. Sometimes they changed the tempo, Ms. Castille saying how scales not only prepared you for the next piece, but the discipline of technique.
Andráska valued every ring, both horrible and beautiful because it meant he was playing; one step closer to expressing himself when words simply lacked the depth of his being.
