Chapter 72
It started out sort of haunting, then broke free in the second movement, sounding like two violins instead of one. Jennalee had heard something similar from Mr. Mendel when he went kind of nuts with his violin. Exhilarated, she imagined herself transported to a German mountaintop far from a bluff in Malvern. She was high in the clouds when the movement ended, the third one quiet, almost soothing, before the fourth cut loose. Her mouth dropped open as she watched Harley’s fingers fly for he played to her now, not to the sky. The movement was insanely quick, Harley bending and turning, and she felt herself pulled in, felt herself quicken in the most wonderful way. When he hit the final notes, she felt out of breath.
“Wow,” she said as he came to her. “I love that last movement.”
“The presto. That says it, right? He lulls you with that third movement, then slaps you awake with the fourth. You can never get tired with Bach.”
She offered him the Coke again and, as he drank, she told him how she too liked to play complex pieces, enjoying that quickening. “Do you think that’s what Bach meant to happen? The violinist getting all excited, the listener slapped to attention and carried away?”
“Absolutely. I think composers think as much about the performer as the audience, if they think of them at all. Like Beethoven. I doubt he thought of anyone but himself but who cares? Bach may have been a bit more cerebral. I mean he was an employee so he had to consider what was wanted, but still, I bet he wanted to give the violinist some sort of kick. I think Liszt did that with the piano, going kind of crazy because he thought it fun.”
“Chopin did it, too,” said Jennalee.
“He did? I thought he was all thoughtful pieces.”
“You should hear his Scherzo No. 1. It’s insane. I love it.”
“Well, what do you know. I had no idea, but then I’m not big on Chopin.”
She took back the Coke, nearly empty now, and had a sip. “I like this,” she then said. “Us up here, away from the world, us and music. I could live in music.”
“Me, too.”
After another deliciously quiet interlude, Jennalee asked him to play another.
“Okay, I’ll do the presto from the Partita No. 1.” He hopped up, moved to the bluff’s edge which Jennalee realized resembled a stage of sorts, nature’s stage, yellow grass at his feet, blue sky the backdrop. When he began the presto, Jennalee started laughing because it was another wild one. She loved Harley’s expression as he played, mouth clamped shut one second, then open another, smiling still another, all as he twisted and turned with the music. She was glad she hadn’t brought her keyboard, as it would have been an intrusion.
When he finished this one, he blew out a big sigh and sat beside her, leaning against the oak. Finally he said, “We should go back down.”
“No, not yet, please. I don’t want people, I just want us, up here in our own world.”
“But I’m hungry. My stomach has growled through the last two pieces. Aren’t you hungry?”
Jennalee had to think about it. “I guess,” she said, but really she didn’t have a growling stomach or growling anything. Her body felt absolutely serene. “It just means people and you know how they are.”
He chuckled, tousled her hair, and got up. “Come on,” he said, offering a hand to pull her to her feet. He then packed his violin into its case, slung it onto his back, and said, “Let’s go.”
“You know I don’t want to.”
“Yes, I know you don’t want to, but we have no choice. It’s getaway day and I’m hungry.”
They headed for the lobby, where they found breakfast remnants, it now being mid-morning. A few Sutherlands were present. She and Harley each managed a roll, some fruit, and a glass of juice. They settled at a small corner table and ate without a word. “What next?” Jennalee finally asked. “You said your folks don’t leave right away.”
“Right. They’ll move the motorcycles out to the front and hang around while the Sutherlands leave. Mom likes to remind them of the biker side every chance she gets.”
“She cracks me up.”
“Me, too.”
As they continued breakfast, Jennalee thought of something that made her giggle.
“What?” asked Harley.
“I can now say I slept with you.”
He shook his head. “I hate how that means sex, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Sleeping with somebody means sex.”
“I never thought about it.”
“Well, you should. What does it say about society when it picks the most passive word possible as a euphemism for one of the most active pursuits?”
Jennalee pondered this. “Maybe they’re afraid people will say fucking.”
“Even if they are, sexisn’t a loaded word.”
“It is to some people,” Jennalee offered. “My dad about turns green if I say it.”
“He should be happy you’re not saying fucking.”
“I’ve thought about it, but he has a weak heart. He’d croak if I even said sleepingwith somebody.”
“Then don’t. Don’t go up to him tomorrow and say you slept with me.”
“Deal.”
After breakfast, as they started out, they each picked up a bottle of orange juice. Jennalee took a third. “For that fireman,” she said, and they walked over to Building Eight.