Chương 276: Unexpected

The thing about cellos is that a good cellist will not just carry them around. Not in a setting with no cars and this much walking. That's an instrument that gets delivered by porters and handed off to stage crew who will take care of transportation and storage. The musician will tune it, re-string it, may even take the responsibility of polishing and lacquering it. But the cellist does not lug around a case that is likely larger than they are. That's something you can count on. Except for very unlucky children.

Cellists have some terrible growing pains. So up until now, that means that Enefiat Trazom especially does not lug. But now he's lugging. Rather than try to fight a bag over each shoulder, the strap of his guitar case runs over his shoulders, and his bookbag straps have been looped over the neck of the case, turning it into a single ungainly burden rather than trying to balance two unequally ungainly burdens over both shoulders.

And so for that, I'm already crediting him with more adaptability than I expected from him. And that adaptability is what has my curiosity aroused.

"Enefiat," I said, settling in to walk alongside our generation's greatest musician.

"I really am quite sorry about this development. I never considered that you would be compelled-" He shot me a smile more weary than I expected.

"None of your fault, Princess," he said.

"However," I continued, "I can't help but notice that you are an amazing guitarist."

"For what that's worth," he grumbled.

"I mean it. Only you could pick up an instrument and be world-class with it just five weeks later."

"The cello is an instrument with range. It can play melody, harmony, counterpoint or undercurrent. It can be the bass foundation or the star of the show, whenever it wants. Whatever the focal part of the song is, the cello is there. Long strings, tuned to the middle range. The perfect instrument for me. And then it changed. And then- then that canon."

"Canon?"

"D minor," he clarified. Oh. Pachelbel.

"Same eight notes for the entire song," he moaned.

"But it hits. It's got such an iconic sound! Everyone loves Canon in D!" He shot me a look as we walked.

"I played it through once. My lasting impression was 'a machine could be built to play this song'."

"Ah. I can see how that would be... hurtful."

"So, my signature instrument, which I've admired for its versatility and reach, has been turned into a laughingstock in eight notes. And then asking me to switch away from it entirely..." He was having trouble finishing that thought.

"Feels like abandoning someone who trusted you to save them?" I supplied.

"What? No. Why would you go there?" he asked. He looked concerned, or even worried.

"Do you want to talk about something?"

"Nah it's not like that," I said, deflecting.

"So, help me understand your problem with guitar." He blew out frustration, breathed in patience.

"Well, let me start with my pettiest objection. I miss sitting in the cello section. Front row, right side. Just far enough off center that the audience's view is not obstructed by the conductor. The conductor is usually the most well-lit and high-visibility part of the orchestra, people's eyes go back there frequently. And whenever they look away, usually the first place their eye is drawn is the cello section. The double-basses wrap around, the audience only gets them in profile.

The cello shines, it takes center stage front. It's the perfect spot for a featured soloist, the perfect instrument for me." I started to chuckle at this.

"Well, whe-""There's not even a section for guitar! It's all wrong! Hand-strumming or picking can never get you a blended harmony like bowed strings! And it's held wrong! To the side, in your neighbor's space! The whole method of play is all wrong for seating in orchestra!"

"All true," I said, laying a hand on his arm.

"But I take it you still have not been to many shows with contemporary music." He stiffened under my hand.

"I wanted to avoid bad habits and bad influences. I've been to a couple small ones, mostly to pin down what the sound is supposed to be."

"The guitars aren't sat with the string section," I told him.

"Oh of course not," he sighed.

"Relegated back row with the timpanis and triangles!"

"They stand." I pulled open the door to the music hall, gestured him through.

"What?" He almost staggered coming through into the foyer. I nodded, and we walked the hall to the practice room.

"It's true. Parallel to the conductor. Some of them even walk around during performance." He considered this.

"Up front?"

"Yes." I opened the practice room door, but he hesitated, still lodged in his thoughts.

"Able to - walk around? And... move?" And now we've opened a door that leads to Elvis hips. We let ourselves into the practice room. Bookbags dropped into cubbies, instruments deployed, tuning, chatting, waiting for the instructor/conductor to make announcements and give the sheets. I headed for the winds section: back left. About as far from cello as you can get without being a percussionist. The teacher arrived, we got our assignment.

It's the Carol of the Bells, which is not considered seasonal here because there's no equivalent to Christmas. Maybe I'll invent one. Well, it's not the symphony version of the Carol. I used the one that people listen to, from Siberia. Even with all-acoustic instruments, it just slaps. I find my music, set my stand, fix the goddamned wingnut for the height adjustment again, because there is some transcendent law of all universes that school-band music-stands must be really janky.

And then, I check in on Enefiat, to see how he's doing. So far this year he's sat between the violas and the cellos, with terrible visibility from the audience. This time, he's standing, with a sort of concentration like he's never stood up before. The guitar strap around his neck and shoulder, he's finding the comfortable position for his arms without a chair. He's eschewed the music stand altogether because he's not going to be sight-reading with us, he looked at the pages, nodded, and now he knows them.

Because he's just that damn good. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The song starts on a nice cello air, with some backing string and wind. He looks back at his old chair, now with a new first-chair cello player. I can see the disappointment on his face. Man, the Carol is not a kind piece for someone in his frame of mind. And then the guitar/drum part hits and... well, I'm baffled. I know it doesn't sound the way I expect.

I've heard plenty of quartets and stage-bands playing this song over the years, it was one of the first ones I transcribed. And the fact that I don't have electric guitars is really holding me back. Wait, let me amend that. Electric guitars are actually surprisingly easy. Nux made one by accident last summer. But that doesn't do you any good if you don't have electric amplifiers to go with it, and I don't know where to start.

No, instead I've gotten used to hearing things that should have electric guitar instead played acoustically. I've adapted. I have not learned to experience the Carol played with a loose-fingered Latin style, which Enefiat had adopted. He was fingerpicking the neck with extreme precision while he used an almost careless strum to the strings. And of course it sounded amazing. And of course he improved the sound of the entire piece all by himself.

It's funny to see someone playing that well and visibly resenting it the whole time. He was miraculously talented but he looked like he had a terrible taste in his mouth. I'm sure there's a way to teach him to like music that wasn't developed by the game devs of Harigold Glitter for their BGM and cutscenes. But this isn't it. We've got the rest of the year to try. Tragically I don't get a lot of opportunities to chat freely with Thumper.

Unlike the other student love interests, I don't actually have a class with her. I don't get an hour or so every day to just sit back and discuss whatever the hell we want. Trazom and I don't really talk during class because I play a woodwind, but at least we get break times, downtime, and the walk from the Natural Philosophy building. But Thumper and I rarely even have what you would call a decent excuse to run into each other.

The fencing hall and the camogie fields are not particularly close to each other, so I can't just "accidentally" walk the same path with her after class, from the sporting greens to the student center for dinner. If I do, there's no pretense there. Worth it.

"Hey!" I chirped as I flew down next to her. I half-tackled her around the shoulders, gave a squeeze and then finished landing.

"Hey yourself," she said, grinning. She reached like she was going to ruffle my hair or pat me on the shoulder, because she really is the hair-ruffler sort, but since I am absolutely not the hair-rufflee sort, we had a standoff. I grabbed her hand and held it.

"So, you told me that you had some tournaments last week?"

"Yeah," she said, glancing down at our hands.

"I got time off regular class to go compete, provided I make up the lost assignments immediately. Gotta move those brackets, you know? It's all about the invitational tournaments and getting qualified for all of them, and shutting out as much competition as possible."

"I confess I'm not actually sure why that's an emphasis," I said.

"If you keep a lot of weaker competitors from entering, does that really change things? If they're people you will definitely win against, that shouldn't affect your chances. Right?"

"That's a big difference between field sports and tournament sports," Thumper said, raising her nose snootily.

"I can see why you would not understand. In your camogie games, everyone's running, everyone's throwing, everyone's clashing and blocking and whatever else. But the thing about fencing is the endurance. When an expert and a novice are both freshly rested, the expert wins every time. But a tired expert and a tired novice? Much more likely to get an unexpected outcome. Exhaustion levels the playing field. And since I'm the best I don't want that playing field leveled!

I don't want to lose a match on chance and dumb luck because we're both tired." I considered it. It's true, that's not something I would have considered. But also: "What if you just started training endurance more, so you can keep your edge over tired opponents?"

"Are you sure you don't have another reason for wanting me to train my staying power?" she said, with a raised eyebrow and a smirk that was almost a leer. I blushed so hard I must have popped a blood vessel and my chest thudded painfully. I think I just barely missed a nosebleed moment.

"Agh," I said, because that was the best I could do under the circumstances. I was lucky I was still breathing. Articulate? No way.

"Oh, and by the way," she said, "thanks so much for that magic mask. Took me a while to get used to it, but now it's some of the best training I could get. Getting a chance to see my own defense from the other perspective has helped me shore up gaps before anyone else could notice them. And also? I never really appreciated how intimidating it is when I lunge at someone. I am deadly with that extension, and I need to capitalize on that more."

While she was speaking, I found my breath and my voice, and checked that my heart was okay.

"I'm really glad that helps," I said, beaming.

"I was told that the perfect gift is one that the recipient would love, but would never get for themself. Anyway, uh, on a related note, sorta, hah, ah, are you busy this Sixthday night?

I know it's short notice, and I'm happy to take care of all the arrangements, but if you don't have anything better- I mean, anything else to do then-" The hand I was holding swung up and the wrist pivoted, and before I could react my body was already moving, twirling on my feet, before my waist was encircled in her other arm, and I was dipped low. Thumper's face was inches from mine, one hand clasped with mine, the other wrapped around my waist.

No balance or leverage of my own, I just lay in a half-swoon in the circle of her arms. Oh shit, I just got boxed, spun and dipped before I could do anything. I just froze up, staring at her face, inches from a kiss. She grinned.

"I'd love to. I'll need a little help with the dress code, but Mama Kuritan made sure all her daughters could dance." For some reason, the thing I said in that moment was "Oh gods, there's more of you?" She laughed so hard at that. But I had a date for Sixthday.

"Check."

"Call." Cards turned, and Elica swore. I raked chips in. Elica raked the cards while I started stacking.

"You're not this good," she said, with some suspicion and some annoyance. Vancy winced a little.

"She's right. You're not this good." I looked at Larianne to see if it's unanimous. She did not speak, but her face agreed with them.

"What, you think I'm cheating?" I asked, more amused than offended.

"What? No," she scoffed.

"You're not good enough to cheat. And not nearly enough for me to not catch you."

"Sorry," Vancy said, and her shrug and half-smile showed me she agreed. Larianne looked amused. I sighed.

"Well, I'm definitely not cheating."

"Of course not. You're just doing that thing again," Elica said. Vancy nodded.

"When you're paying attention, you just lose. Like, a lot. But you're a million miles away, tonight." Thumper can dance. Thumper knows how to lead. Spin, dip, inches away. I froze, couldn't breathe.

"Yeah, like that," Larianne said, pointing at my face. I sighed.

"Fine, sorry, I'll try to concentrate on the game." Thumper sure did smell nice.

"You are already losing focus," Elica despaired.

"Nope. I guess we're just... done with cards for the evening." Vancy nodded.

"Well, that's all right, we can always..." she trailed off, looking at the other three of us. Elica was at a loss, looking at me and Larianne. Larianne had already drawn forth the most businesslike-looking nail-file I've ever seen and was rasping the edges of her fingernails to a razor edge.

"I got nothin'," I admitted.

"Tell you all what, I'll take a walk, you get Rinnie to sit my chair for a while as your fourth. I'm the problem here, after all. Just play through without me." There was exactly enough 'oh no that's not necessary you don't need to do that', and not a jot more. So, the problem really was me and it was necessary. I pushed my chair back in and took a turn around the room. I peered over other people's games, looked on with interest to the surprisingly competitive shuffleboard game.

I watched someone at the billiards table confidently line up a shot to jump the cue over two striped balls to sink their own easily, and then miss badly because the number of people that can reliably make a jumped shot is just so much less than the number of people that think they can. I even moved into the dimmer corners of the room where games were not set up on every table, and there were a few chairs for people who wanted solitary pursuits but did not retire to their own dorm.

And that is where I finally met someone that I've known for ages and have never spoken to. I walked up to her, and sat down at a chair nearby her. Just to be careful, I put up the usual privacy screen. I felt like maybe all possible precautions were in order.

"Hello, Miss Gianwen," I said, straightening my skirts. She looked quite startled to see me. Or, just startled to have anyone finally talking to her.