The Dream Job
By
Marc Audet
Beatrice steps into the antechamber and feels the cold of the stone floor through her thin sandals. The late afternoon sun glows red through the two stained glass windows, providing an illusion of warmth that offsets the chill in the air. The room is bare except for a church chair positioned like a sentry on the right wall. Beatrice walks to the chair and listens to the echo of her footsteps in the stillness. She sits and lets her feet sway freely in the air, keeping tempo with her pulse. She strokes the violin case on her lap and envisions the sonata that she is about to play for the audition. On the back wall to her right, she sees the solid wood door waiting to be opened. The windows remind her of the chapel in the convent school where she first learned to play the violin twelve years ago when she was childlike and innocent.
Her mind plays through her piece, the seventeen measures of the opening adagio leading to the allegro, a full nine pages containing ascending and descending scales in cut time interspersed with arpeggios.
Beatrice snaps back to the present moment and realizes that she is not alone. Across the room, a young woman stares back at her, eyes wide open as if she too is waiting for the audition to start. The girl looks familiar and has long auburn hair that flows down from her shoulders, draping over the small rise of her bust before finally reaching her waist. Beatrice realizes that she is seeing herself in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall and takes a deep breath to reassure herself that she is ready.
Though she arrived early as directed, she wonders about the time and remembers that she placed her watch in the violin case before leaving home, but she does not want to open the case and risk dropping her violin. "Be patient," she tells herself, "for time no longer matters."
The solid oak door swings open, and the massive hinges are well-oiled to prevent any noise from disturbing any performance on the adjacent stage. The usher, a cowled figure dressed in a black habit, raises its right arm to indicate that she is to pass through. No words are spoken, and no greetings are exchanged to confirm that Beatrice is the right person in the right place at the right time.
The cowl obscures the face and Beatrice cannot tell if the usher is a man or a woman. This ambiguity reminds her of the Latin that she learned in school with its delineated grammatical genders of masculine, feminine, and neuter. As she mastered the violin, Beatrice discovered that music was gender-free. In the article that she read last month, the author, an authoritative neuro-linguistic psychologist from an old university, argued that music took on gender at the moment when it is heard, suggesting that gender was not an intrinsic quality but rather a construction, the result of the introspective self-awareness of the listener.
Beatrice enters the performance space. A music stand sits in the middle of the room, and next to it, a chair with a padded leather seat and a coat rack whose two brass arms remind her of the upraised arms of the Christ Jesus praying to God Almighty in the Garden of Gethsemane. She feels a need to say a prayer, but her mind is blank except for her convent school motto: Ubi musica ibi veritas.
There are twelve people in the audience, seated in a semicircle, all wearing cowls and habits. Beatrice glances down at the floor and sees their bare feet in sandals, their ankles in shackles, and their hairy, masculine calves. She shivers for a moment in anticipation. She heard rumors about the shackles, but she thought it was a myth, and she wondered if these constraints were part of a bizarre vow of obedience.
There is a raised chair located in the middle of the arc, empty and waiting. She hears a loud knock from the back of the room and the twelve stand up. The Master, dressed like the others, enters the room and takes his seat. They all turn towards him, bow in recognition, and then sit. Beatrice faces the small table, opens her violin case, takes out her instrument and its bow, and places them on the linen. The usher comes over, removes the case, and then withdraws.
The moment had come. Beatrice removes her cloak and hangs it on the coat rack. The cold coming off the floor chills her as she stands naked, her small, firm breasts partly hidden by her hair, insinuating an illusion of modesty. She shivers and she feels her nipples hardening as if to protest, then she composes herself, tossing back her hair as if to set it free. She places the violin on her shoulder and picks up the bow. Her violin acts like a shield and guards her from any unseemly gazes. Her confidence swells as she turns to face the men who will judge her.
Beatrice finds the opening chord. As she strikes the strings with the bow, she unleashes the flow of energy generated by the rhythmic weaving of her arm that races to keep up with the sequence of notes flashing before her eyes. The transformation is instantaneous. Beatrice forgets her nakedness. Nothing matters now but the music. Her eyes seem far away and her body sways as if she is dancing with the violin, embracing it. The violin and her have become one, and together, they take control of the audience. The sensual power of the music pulses through the air and the judges are seduced by the overpowering beauty of her performance.
Beatrice paces herself through the opening measures of the adagio and then launches into the tumultuous allegro section that follows, the pages of ascending scales that retreat only to surge again with greater intensity. The muscles in her arm demand more air and her breathing quickens. The interludes of arpeggios give her pause to rest before the final movement. The forty measures marked presto take her to the inevitable climax of the music. Beatrice is subsumed by the music; she is now the music. Muscle memory has taken over as she races up and down the octaves to reach the closing note, a sustained high G, and she arches her back to hold the violin precisely where the bow needs to be to create the perfect pitch. The piece ends and Beatrice starts to breathe again. The room is silent except for a faint gasp and moan from the Master.
The twelve judges rise up and move towards the back door and form two columns, creating a narrow path leading to the exit. Beatrice holds her violin and bows as she walks through. She makes out a single word from the barely audible whispers coming at her from the left and the right: "Bravissima!" The scratchy texture of tweed brushes on her flanks, but otherwise, no one touches her. As she nears the door, the usher draws it open and she enters the vestibule, now lit by twelve candles. Her cloak is draped on a chair and her violin case rests on a table. Beatrice puts away her violin and dons her cloak, then remembers to put on her watch. She steps out into the dawning light and rejoins the outside world.
Born in Vermont and raised in New Hampshire, Marc Audet lives near New Haven, Connecticut, with his wife. He studied engineering in college, and for the past twenty years, has been self-employed as a web application developer. He has lived in Canada and England, and travels frequently to Ireland and Europe. In high school, he dreamed of being a writer. One summer, while hiking in the French Alps, he chronicled his travels, typing over a hundred pages in a month. Since then, he has written memoir pieces, short stories, and poetry. His work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Rappahannock Review, The Prose Poem, and elsewhere.
By
Marc Audet
Beatrice steps into the antechamber and feels the cold of the stone floor through her thin sandals. The late afternoon sun glows red through the two stained glass windows, providing an illusion of warmth that offsets the chill in the air. The room is bare except for a church chair positioned like a sentry on the right wall. Beatrice walks to the chair and listens to the echo of her footsteps in the stillness. She sits and lets her feet sway freely in the air, keeping tempo with her pulse. She strokes the violin case on her lap and envisions the sonata that she is about to play for the audition. On the back wall to her right, she sees the solid wood door waiting to be opened. The windows remind her of the chapel in the convent school where she first learned to play the violin twelve years ago when she was childlike and innocent.
Her mind plays through her piece, the seventeen measures of the opening adagio leading to the allegro, a full nine pages containing ascending and descending scales in cut time interspersed with arpeggios.
Beatrice snaps back to the present moment and realizes that she is not alone. Across the room, a young woman stares back at her, eyes wide open as if she too is waiting for the audition to start. The girl looks familiar and has long auburn hair that flows down from her shoulders, draping over the small rise of her bust before finally reaching her waist. Beatrice realizes that she is seeing herself in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall and takes a deep breath to reassure herself that she is ready.
Though she arrived early as directed, she wonders about the time and remembers that she placed her watch in the violin case before leaving home, but she does not want to open the case and risk dropping her violin. "Be patient," she tells herself, "for time no longer matters."
The solid oak door swings open, and the massive hinges are well-oiled to prevent any noise from disturbing any performance on the adjacent stage. The usher, a cowled figure dressed in a black habit, raises its right arm to indicate that she is to pass through. No words are spoken, and no greetings are exchanged to confirm that Beatrice is the right person in the right place at the right time.
The cowl obscures the face and Beatrice cannot tell if the usher is a man or a woman. This ambiguity reminds her of the Latin that she learned in school with its delineated grammatical genders of masculine, feminine, and neuter. As she mastered the violin, Beatrice discovered that music was gender-free. In the article that she read last month, the author, an authoritative neuro-linguistic psychologist from an old university, argued that music took on gender at the moment when it is heard, suggesting that gender was not an intrinsic quality but rather a construction, the result of the introspective self-awareness of the listener.
Beatrice enters the performance space. A music stand sits in the middle of the room, and next to it, a chair with a padded leather seat and a coat rack whose two brass arms remind her of the upraised arms of the Christ Jesus praying to God Almighty in the Garden of Gethsemane. She feels a need to say a prayer, but her mind is blank except for her convent school motto: Ubi musica ibi veritas.
There are twelve people in the audience, seated in a semicircle, all wearing cowls and habits. Beatrice glances down at the floor and sees their bare feet in sandals, their ankles in shackles, and their hairy, masculine calves. She shivers for a moment in anticipation. She heard rumors about the shackles, but she thought it was a myth, and she wondered if these constraints were part of a bizarre vow of obedience.
There is a raised chair located in the middle of the arc, empty and waiting. She hears a loud knock from the back of the room and the twelve stand up. The Master, dressed like the others, enters the room and takes his seat. They all turn towards him, bow in recognition, and then sit. Beatrice faces the small table, opens her violin case, takes out her instrument and its bow, and places them on the linen. The usher comes over, removes the case, and then withdraws.
The moment had come. Beatrice removes her cloak and hangs it on the coat rack. The cold coming off the floor chills her as she stands naked, her small, firm breasts partly hidden by her hair, insinuating an illusion of modesty. She shivers and she feels her nipples hardening as if to protest, then she composes herself, tossing back her hair as if to set it free. She places the violin on her shoulder and picks up the bow. Her violin acts like a shield and guards her from any unseemly gazes. Her confidence swells as she turns to face the men who will judge her.
Beatrice finds the opening chord. As she strikes the strings with the bow, she unleashes the flow of energy generated by the rhythmic weaving of her arm that races to keep up with the sequence of notes flashing before her eyes. The transformation is instantaneous. Beatrice forgets her nakedness. Nothing matters now but the music. Her eyes seem far away and her body sways as if she is dancing with the violin, embracing it. The violin and her have become one, and together, they take control of the audience. The sensual power of the music pulses through the air and the judges are seduced by the overpowering beauty of her performance.
Beatrice paces herself through the opening measures of the adagio and then launches into the tumultuous allegro section that follows, the pages of ascending scales that retreat only to surge again with greater intensity. The muscles in her arm demand more air and her breathing quickens. The interludes of arpeggios give her pause to rest before the final movement. The forty measures marked presto take her to the inevitable climax of the music. Beatrice is subsumed by the music; she is now the music. Muscle memory has taken over as she races up and down the octaves to reach the closing note, a sustained high G, and she arches her back to hold the violin precisely where the bow needs to be to create the perfect pitch. The piece ends and Beatrice starts to breathe again. The room is silent except for a faint gasp and moan from the Master.
The twelve judges rise up and move towards the back door and form two columns, creating a narrow path leading to the exit. Beatrice holds her violin and bows as she walks through. She makes out a single word from the barely audible whispers coming at her from the left and the right: "Bravissima!" The scratchy texture of tweed brushes on her flanks, but otherwise, no one touches her. As she nears the door, the usher draws it open and she enters the vestibule, now lit by twelve candles. Her cloak is draped on a chair and her violin case rests on a table. Beatrice puts away her violin and dons her cloak, then remembers to put on her watch. She steps out into the dawning light and rejoins the outside world.
Born in Vermont and raised in New Hampshire, Marc Audet lives near New Haven, Connecticut, with his wife. He studied engineering in college, and for the past twenty years, has been self-employed as a web application developer. He has lived in Canada and England, and travels frequently to Ireland and Europe. In high school, he dreamed of being a writer. One summer, while hiking in the French Alps, he chronicled his travels, typing over a hundred pages in a month. Since then, he has written memoir pieces, short stories, and poetry. His work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Rappahannock Review, The Prose Poem, and elsewhere.
