Authors: Maris Morton
Too restless to sleep, Mary went into Ellen’s room to play the piano. She played scales until her hands had warmed up and the sound of the instrument was ringing in her head. This time there was no Clio listening to her from the other room. Nobody could hear her.
Then she began to play the Chopin nocturne. The quiet melancholy of the minor key exactly suited her mood.
She concentrated on reading the printed score and getting her fingers on the right notes, as she had done every time she’d attempted it so far. But after the first minute or two, she realised that she knew this piece. She’d come to understand its song, and could sense it in her mind and hands. Chopin’s music was speaking to her, heart to heart. She recalled the conversation she and Clio had had, about the language of music, and how much more meaning it carried than mere words could convey.
Some of the stress eased, and Mary stopped playing. She flexed her fingers and started to play the nocturne from the beginning again, as beautifully as she could, thinking, as she played: This music is for you, Clio. An elegy for you.
I’m deeply grateful to all the people who have shared their stories with me over the years. For
A Darker Music
, particular thanks are due to Jean Farruci, and to Margot Anthony AM and Maria Bashford.
Thanks also to my editor, Aviva Tuffield, for showing me how to mute the sour notes.