Crime & Counterpoint
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Authors: M.S. Daniel
This is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, locales, or incidents are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
CRIME AND COUNTERPOINT. Copyright © 2016 by M.S. Daniel.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. For information, please email [email protected].
Published by Elusion Jazz Entertainment.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
To My Family
Table of Contents
Part III
Poupée de Satin
(Satin Doll)
Part VI
A Chromatic Love Affair
Part VII
It Shouldn’t Happen to a Dream
Part VIII
Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
Part IX
Almost Like Being in Love
“Shelley!” Monsieur Jacquard shrilled.
Immediately, the exotic five-year-old bolted erect on the elevated piano bench, her young legs dangling unfettered. She peeked at her eminent instructor who looked back at her sternly.
“
Mademoiselle, vous n’écoutez pas
. You are NOT listening,” he said.
“So
rry,
Monsieur
Jacquard,” Shelley replied with penitent chocolate eyes, knowing if she gave any protest, her mother would have something desperately grating to say about it later.
Monsieur Jacquard pursed his thin lips. “Alright. Now from the top.” With his gnarled, age-spotted hand, he turned on the Quartz metronome on the grand piano and adjusted the dial.
Shelley’s heart ticked faster with the tempo. Nervously, she began again, her small but strong caramel hands suffering through the dreadful scale. Long, slightly-curled, mahogany locks secured by a ribbon jostled as she went from one end of the grand piano to the other. The yellow frilly dress which drowned her slim figure, however, remained stiff as whipped cream.
At the end of the exercise, she chanced a furtive glance out the windows in the back of the grand estate where James and Erik were happily playing soccer with daddy who was taking a rare day of reprieve to enjoy the perfect spring weather. In the background, somewhere upstairs, her mother’s impossibly agile execution of Caprice No. 4 in C minor sang from the violin room. But the rough and tumble squeals of twins, Clint and Ben, punctured the sonorous euphony. Shelley’s ears pricked and her shoulders hiked as they yelled and rammed one of their race cars into the furniture. It was like taking a hammer to a twelve-inch cymbal while Paginini played his rhapsody.
Oh, how she hated being the middle child – the middle child in a house full of boys. Boys! Boys! Boys!
“Alright,” her teacher sighed. “I can see that it is enough for today. But next week, I expect all the natural, harmonic, and melodic minor scales memorized in four octaves. Also, be sure to master the exercises we went over today in the Czerny. And remember,
wrists
!” He lifted his conservatory-trained hands and demonstrated the correct position. “Do not let your wrists sag simply because your enthusiasm is flagging.
Vous comprenez ma chère?
”
She nodded vigorously.
He gave a brusque nod, causing his magnum opus of curly grey hair to bounce. “If you work hard, you will be
une très bonne petite pianist
and make your father proud.” He rose with Beethoven eminence from the Louis XV-style chair and gathered his soft leather briefcase. “We will start on this Debussy piece at our next lesson.” He withdrew a book with an impressionist painting by Van Gogh on the cover and placed it on the piano stand.
The golden flecks in her eyes lit up at the sight of the new music.
“And perhaps if you are a
very
good girl, a little Gershwin, eh? That is the closest I will ever let you get to jazz.” He said it sternly but added a crinkled wink.
Shelley almost squealed but just barely managed to maintain her decorum. However, she couldn’t contain it altogether and gave the venerable teacher a spontaneous hug, his rough tweed jacket itching her face. He was shocked for a brief moment but then returned her embrace with a chuckle that softened his craggily features.
After Berlioz Jacquard bid his little student
adieu
, Shelley raced through the house to the back doors and burst through to where her father and older brothers enjoyed the early afternoon sun and sea breeze. Long Island was divinely warm this time of year. The dogwood trees rustled, dappling the grass with ever-moving shadows, a bed of fallen pink and white petals on the ground. Rose bushes of many colors were just now starting to bloom, but Shelley barely acknowledged their beauty and pure fragrance, setting her sights solely on her father.
Heedless of 9-year-old Erik’s loud protests, Shelley cut through the field as a breeze chased her on, causing the dogwood trees in her path to shower her in petals. James, the eldest at almost 11, was her champion and therefore allowed her intrusion into their game. His friends, including the neighbor boy, Jared Greene, and Jared’s rather quiet and sinewy, blue-eyed best friend were also in attendance, but their presence did not deter her in the least. She barely even looked their way.
Her father, Henri, sweaty, tanned, and dressed in Adidas, smiled broadly as she neared at top speed. Prepared, he bent and caught up his well-groomed, sweet-smelling daughter in his strong arms, swinging her around before collapsing with her onto the freshly-mowed grass.
“Were you a good girl for Monsieur Jacquard?” he questioned with a smile for his little princess.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I would have to practice harder if I wanted to make you proud.”
His handsome smile broadened into a heartwarming grin. “But I’m already proud of you, darling.”
She didn’t smile back.
“What? You don’t believe me? You’re barely five! I don’t expect you to be a concert pianist by tomorrow.”
She dropped her gaze though her mouth curved upwards a little. He chucked her chin as the sun shone down upon them.
“Monsieur Jacquard just… knows that you have so much potential. It’s in your blood.” He beamed. “That’s why he pushes you. But I want you to enjoy it. And if ever you don’t, just tell me.”
She nodded and then remembered the new music. Her mood instantly brightened. “He finally gave me Debussy, Daddy!” she said, eyes shining.
“He did?” Henri exclaimed, trying to match her enthusiasm.
“Yes, and that’s not all. He also said if I’m very good I can play some Gershwin. Isn’t that great?”
“Wonderful, sweetheart.” He gave his daughter a hug. “I can’t wait to hear it. You know that Bach fellow’s a dreary one.”
She smiled in agreement. “Both of them.”
He grinned, and they laughed as if sharing an inside joke. Erik sauntered over to them, ball under one arm, sweat clumping up his tousled, dark brown hair, clearly irritated. “Can we get back to the game, Dad?”
“Just a minute.” He turned back to Shelley. “Do you want to play with us? You’ll have to change your dress or your mother will kill me.”
She giggled because it was true. “No, I think I’ll go practice.”
“That’s my girl.” He gave her a bear hug and planted a kiss on her cheek, heedless of the sweat he smeared on her. Then, he rose and pulled his daughter to her feet. “I love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you, too, Daddy,” she replied and skipped back through the yard the way she came, the sun-dried blades of perennial rye crunching beneath her feet. The boys resumed playing the moment she cleared the field.
Stopping at the patio, she made sure to straighten her dress and smooth out her hair before reentering the house. Just in case. But no, she could hear mother’s fervent practice continue. Shelley sagged in relief, knowing she would not be detected regardless of what she did or where she went.
The odor of lemon furniture polish surrounded her once again as she sat back down at the shiny black Yamaha C5, which her father had bought expressly for her. On the wall, there were several large concert bills, framed in black, of her mother’s appearances during her world tours. London Symphony Orchestra, Vienna Philharmonic, Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra, Berlin Philharmonic, Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and more. Shelley’s eyes rested on those lustrous posters wistfully, at her mother posed with her bow drawn across the strings of her prized Stradivarius. She wanted that life so bad she could hear the applause crackle through a darkened auditorium.
Resisting the urge to get started on the new music, she popped her knuckles, something Monsieur Jacquard expressly forbid, and began to rip across the ivory like a nimble spider. Up and down. Then back again, practicing her scales, fingers reflecting in the glossy black and white.
While arpeggiating the keys into submission, she dreamt of being a concert pianist, of playing in front of thousands of people, of becoming very famous. She especially dwelt on the glamor of being renowned. Because then, she could play whatever she wanted, do whatever she wanted, and some equally famous musician or conductor, who would of necessity also be extremely handsome, would fall in love with her and marry her. And she would live happily ever after with no brothers to boss her around.
Finally finished with her technique, which took over an hour, she eagerly jumped into the new book and began sight-reading. The lush harmonies and lightly syncopated rhythms were in perfect tune with her fantastical aspirations. All her dreams seemed to begin coming to life in the watercolor notes on the very first page.