I am a singer, though I don't sing much any more. I left music school after being raped by a fellow student-- the boyfriend of a good friend and, until that instant, one of my very best friends. I still get asked to sing often, and I always accept. Usually, I find an excuse not to sing at the last instant. If I am not careful, I will used to have been a singer very soon.

That must not happen, and so I am planning a recital.

Trying to regain knowledge five years lost in the space of a week -- I stand in my bare feet on the hardwood floors of the house I bought a year ago, floors which used to be oak trees, their roots seeking far into the ground. My toes try to follow them. Knees bent, my body sprung-steel rigid from just above my knees to my pelvic girdle; my chest, shoulders, arms, head hung loosely above my spine like the bobber head on a novelty doll from the sixties. If you slapped my face now, my upper body would gyrate in loose circles on the point of my spine.

Five years ago, I sob in his room as my face stings from where he has hit me.

Breathing down into the base of my spine -- as low and as far back as I can go -- I vocalize, calling the sounds out of my body. It feels at once familiar and new; I have put on weight in the intervening years, and my voice knows it. The spaces are different, the sounding board is heavier. My diaphragm works to hold my chest up and out against the sixty new pounds on my body.

My voice is still there, a silver bird coiled up against my heart. I was terrified she might be gone.

The bird spreads her wings and I start to sing a French art song by Faure, called "Apres un Reve" -- "After a Dream". It was the song I sang to my true love's grandfather the first day I met him.

"Dans un sommeil, que charmait ton image. . ."

In a dream, charmed by your image. . .

Five years, six months ago - I am in my practice room at the conservatory. It is a tiny room, eight by twelve, with a baby grand piano and a music stand. And him. There are no windows, and the door locks, so his girlfriend will never find us. For three months we have been carrying on this affair, and we will for four more.

"Je revais le bonheur. . ."

I dream of happiness. . .

It is a difficult piece rhythmically -- all duples against triples. I do not play the piano well enough to accompany myself, and so he stands behind me and taps the rhythm of the accompaniment on the music stand so that I can ground to the oddity.

"ardent mirage. . ."

and a beautiful mirage. . .

I don't know what time it is. The fluorescent light buzzes, and it could be noon outside, or 3 AM. My eyes are closed and my voice fills the room, even through its dead acoustics.

"Tes yeux etaient plus doux, ta voix pure et sonore. . ."

Your eyes were so gentle, your voice pure and clear. . .

His hand snakes around my waist, his hand against my belly as it flexes to hold the long phrase. I can feel his breath on my ear.

"Tu rayonnais comme un ciel eclaire par l'aurore. Tu m'appelais et je quitte la terre. . ."

You shone like the sky, lit by the sun. You are calling my name, and I leave the earth. . .

Five years, six months ago, my voice soars on the high note. Now, I feel the support falter, have to stop and re-center my voice to keep the note pleasant. Five years, six months ago, he speaks my name and I stop singing.

You're so hot, he says. I love you when you sing, you're the most beautiful thing in the world.

Now, I ball up my fists and press on through the music, fighting to push my fury through my voice. Then, he tells me to take off my jeans and fucks me hard and quick on the grand piano.

"Pour m'enfuir avec toi vers la lumiere. . ."

to escape with you towards the light. . .

The music is only present now. Then, the room is filled only with the sound of illicit lust.

It is now, and I sing for myself only.

"Les cieux pour nous. . . "

The sky, for us. . .

It is five years, two months ago, and his girlfriend has caught us. She sobs hysterically as I sit, detached, wondering how I got here.

"entr'ouvraient leurs nues, splendeurs inconnues. . ."

. . .opened its clouds, showing us unknown splendors. . .

It is five years ago. My face is stinging from where he has slapped me to make me listen to his logic for why we should start our affair again. He has been trying to convince me of this for hours.

"lueurs divines entrevues. . . ."

and glimpses of divine light. . .

It is five years ago, twenty minutes later, and I am lying on the floor of his room, naked from the waist down, one shoe still on, my jeans wrapped around that foot, and the door is closing as he walks out and leaves me lying there on the cold floor.

"Helas! Helas, triste reveil des songes! Je t'appelle, o nuit, rends-moi tes mesonges. . ."

Alas! Alas, sad endings to dreams! I beg you, oh Night, return me to your illusions. . .

It is four years, three hundred and sixty-four days ago, and I have bought my first pack of cigarettes.

It is two years ago, and I am shaking with nicotine cravings as I remind myself that my last cigarette was three long days ago.

"Reviens, reviens radieuse. . . ."

Return, return to me, oh radiant one. . .

It is now, and I am no longer singing. I am sitting on the floor, back against the wall, as I sob with what he tried to take from me.

Empty and sad, the last line courses forth from my mouth.

"Reviens, o nuit mysterieuse. "

Return to me, oh mysterious night.

Back to the index