A short story about love, hope and music. Copy righted 2015, Valentina Misas

 

When Aleksei felt the music, his heart would alight with the joy of music. His fingers flying across the page, he could make any melody, any song his own. He couldn't disappoint anybody or pester anyone here. It was just the music and him, his entire being lifted up.

Aleksei could not play any instrument. He couldn't read or write, or hold a conversation for very long without getting distracted. He didn't have a family to eat with or a home to retire to once the sun went to sleep. All he had was his drawings and his music.

All his life, all he had ever known was the outdoors. It was the only thing that was constant to him, that although the season blew by, it would always retain its familiarity. He had traveled all along Europe with nothing more than his drawings and his crayons; occasionally, a few coins nestled in his breast pocket.

When Aleksei was a lad, he ran away from his original home, a convent where the nuns would whack him with fly swatters whenever he misbehaved (which was a common occurrence).

That was all the way in Saint Petersburg, Russia.

Four years later and 11 years old, he now found himself in a foreign land with foreign people speaking foreign tongue. He managed to find a Russian, like himself, who begrudgingly gave him directions to the nearest Bed and Breakfast. Aleksei, although starved and exhausted, could not afford for either food nor bed. Once he scrounged around and sneakily took food off finished plates, he toured the quaint town, taking in the scenery.

It was a small town, granted, however it was prosperous and exuded warmth and friendliness. Aleksei noted that the townspeople were friendly, and although he could not afford their food or toys, he still enjoyed watching happy families play in the snow.

The year was 1941, the town dotted in between the hills of Salzkammergut, snowflakes swirling across the endless sky. Aleksei had become almost immune to the cold, the winters in Russia leaving him feeling like a rusty old machine. He stretched out his limbs and yawned, gazing up at the sky, snowflakes melting on his outstretched tongue. Once he had prompted that he was just passing through, he stood and looked all around him, searching for a comfortable place to sleep.

You see, sometimes when passerbys were feeling generous for a seeing a lonely little boy sleeping on the ground, sometimes they would invite said homeless boy into their homes for a nights rest. Granted, not everyone had treated him as such, but the town that he was in was almost perfect. Everyone that had passed him had blonde hair cleanly cut with sparkling blue eyes. Most of the townspeople had greeted him when they passed, friendly Austrians the whole lot of them.

As Aleksei wandered through the now deserted streets, hands in pockets, he glanced around, wondering briefly if he'd be able to hunker down in a home. Sometimes he didn't even bother getting invited, he'd invite himself inside, and before the sun peaked through the veil of the clouds, he'd be outside, tidying up after himself. He didn't consider himself a thief, just a borrower.

As he continued along among the street, he finally found it. The perfect place to stay for not only one night, but for multiple. It did seem large enough for him to go unnoticed. And with that, he took it upon himself to hatch into the fortress of dreams.

AUSTRIA 1941

In his fury, The Composer shoved his music off the piano rest, notes clashing angrily as his body pushed against the piano. His heart beating rapidly, he couldn't see straight, his vision clouding red. When would the music come back to him?

Without him noticing, he had managed to blow out all the candles he had lit previously, leaving him in total and complete darkness. Unable to resign himself to lighting them again, he left in a storm, huffing underneath his breath. He didn't bother picking up the discarded music sheets from the floor.

Footsteps echoing, he paced down the grandiose hallway of his home, his breathing leaving resounding notes. His mind in a whirlwind of thoughts, he had managed to subconsciously take himself to the place that he'd been avoiding for so many months now. Her smell was still tangible, almost as if she had left in a hurry, and without thinking, sprayed too much perfume as she sometimes did whenever she was rushed. Cecilia.

Dust now danced in the air, having also seated on her furniture, his eyes squinting to remember the familiarity of her room. He left her room the way she had left it; vibrant and full of life, although now the colors had become muted and worn, as if her room had become tired of breathing. Its life was gone now, along with her warmth and vibrancy. She was gone.

Swallowing the knot in his throat, he blinked away the water that had managed to spring to his eyes, turning his back to her room. She had brought the music, the sashaying notes that waltzed together, the joy in his heart when he played her melody. She had left a mark in him, to continue to play her music long after she had left. Don't ever stop playing our music. Remember it.

Ever since...she had left, he couldn't find that peace or joy anymore. As hard as he tried to compose again, or to create a sweet melody like the one she had brought, The Composer simply couldn't let himself play any other melody except hers. It left him angry and frustrated, leaving him in temper tantrums, his servants never coming up to his quarters anymore. Instead, he avoided them, wallowing in his misery by himself. He fought his insomnia day by day, trying his best to just create new, beautiful music...music that would've made Cecilia proud.

The Composer sank to his feet where he had stood, losing all his anger and pride that had seized him before. He couldn't fight the memories that her room had brought, the total and utter pain that bit him. He sat there crying like a young boy, losing all control of his inhibitions, letting loose the tears that had been plaguing him ever since her death. Losing all sense of time, he fell into a deep slumber, having taken his body to her bed to smell her as he drifted off into sleep, finally allowing the embrace of sleep to take him away into his mind.

What felt like centuries later, The Composer had finally awoken, taking in his surroundings, his reality crashing down on him. In his dreams, he was once more with his love, his muse Cecilia, playing her his melodies, her body twisting as she danced to his tunes. the melody had been a new one, one he had never heard before, although it left his heart feeling satiated. However beautiful the tune was to him, he couldn't remember certain notes, but the main melody was permanent in his mind. Almost in a trance, The Composer lifted himself from her bed. Taking one last glance at her room, he shut the door behind himself, frowning at the marbled floor. His entire body felt drained, his heart and head feeling simultaneously weak. However weak he felt, he wasn't sleepy anymore; instead, his head continued to play the tune that he'd been playing in his dream.

Curiously enough, he began to actually hear music. The tinkering notes had touched his ears all the way from his place at the end of the hall, reverberating hypnotically. The melody was absolutely beautiful, almost exactly as the one he had been playing in his dream. Gathering up his courage, he decided to follow the sound, tracing it back to his piano room. I'm either completely insane or I'm imagining things, he thought to himself reluctantly.

The door to his piano room was closed, although he vividly remembered having left it open in his furious exit. The melody played on, the notes leisurely flowing to and fro, leaving The Composer not only worried, but curious. Mustering up his will, he gently pushed the door open, his breath almost completely leaving him when he saw the young boy.

At first, he thought he was crazy. There was a dirty little boy laying underneath his Grand Piano, concentrated heavily on the papers in front of him. He didn't know whether to kick him out or continue listening. What caught his attention, however, wasn't the boy. It was what the boy was doing.

Even though the boy was not facing The Composer's direction, he still saw his fingers flying across the page. In his amazement, the boy continued to play, completely unruffled by The Composer's interruption. Only lit by one candle and the moonlight streaming in through the window, The Composer saw the marks of the paper. The young boy (or perhaps someone else) had drawn a realistic sketch of piano keys, however there were only fourteen notes in total on the page. The boys fingers were flying, almost as if performing a difficult task, and the music just...escaped. The more the boy touched the keys on the paper, the more music came dancing out. The Composer was assured that he was imagining things.

Unable to restrain himself, he called for the boys attention. "Young man," he said. "Just what on earth do you believe you're doing in my home?"

The boy squeaked, completely taken off guard and he hit his head against the bottom of the piano as he did so. He rubbed his dark hair between his fingers, pouting. "I-I'm very sorry, sir," He gasped for breath, his bottom lip trembling. "But I had no place to stay in tonight, so I thought I'd rest up a little here."

The Composer took a step closer. "And you think that breaking into my home is the proper way to do that?" He asked, although he stretched his hand out to help the young boy up. "N-no," the boy whispered. Looking surprised, the boy took his hand hesitantly, and allowed The Composer to help pull him up. Although young, the young boy was tall, almost reaching the bottom of The Composers chin.

The Composer eyed him curiously. "What's your name, young man?"

"Aleksei, sir."

"How old are you, Aleksei?"

"I'm eleven, sir."

The Composer nodded, sighing. "Do you have a family to go to, Aleksei? You seem quite young to be breaking into peoples homes."

"No, sir, I'm an orphan." The Composer noted dutifully that the boy had a slight lilt to his speaking, a Russian accent coming out every now and then. Aleksei, sucking on the inside of his cheek, asked, "Do you have a name sir?"

The Composer smiled weakly. "I have no name, Aleksei. I lost my name many months ago. I only have one when I play the piano."

Aleksei's eyes lit up. "You can play the piano, sir?"

The Composer smiled. "Yes, I can. In fact, I get paid to play it. I write music for people and then I sell it."

Aleksei looked as if he had discovered gold at the end of a rainbow. "That's incredible...er…"

"Composer. You can call me Composer."

Aleksei nodded and said, "Composer. Sounds odd, doesn't it? I've never called anyone Composer before."

The Composer walked over to the piano bench, his fingers lightly tracing over the keys, and he sat down. "Do you know how to play the piano, Aleksei?"

Aleksei sat down next to him on the bench. "No sir. I can't play any instruments. I can draw okay, I suppose. But I've never had the pleasure of being able to play something."

The Composer glanced at the young boy. He was tall, and quite thin for his age. He had mousy brown hair and skin so pale he was almost translucent. The Composer immediately envisioned him in a suit, clean cut, his protege playing almost as well as he could one day. Perhaps even better.

The Composer smiled at him. Remembering the beautiful melody in his heart, he said, "Would you like to learn how?"

I remember, Cecilia.