The Magdalene Ch. 02

The Magdalene by Racy Wilde is a Gothic Erotic novel. Please read The Magdalene Ch. 01: Lavender and Ch. 01 (Part Two): Candlestick to fully appreciate this installment.

*****

It's a few hours before rush hour, but you wouldn't think it. The cabin is stuffy and the people are annoyed. The hollow sound of our travel can't escape the tunnel and bounces back screaming in our ears.

I curve with the train as it corners-I prefer standing, surfing with the mechanical wave. Plus there's no telling what's been on the seats. I sure make it a habit to wear my oversized duster on the subway. No need to touch anything with bear hands-I just hook my elbow around the pole to avoid any sticky surprises. My duffle strapped to my back is always heavy, but my steel-capped Doc's give me the extra weight to ground myself.

Light flickers past the window as the train slows. Stepping to the doors, I prepare for their release. This time I'm determined to get out before people start piling in.

Column. Space. Column. Space.

The train comes to a halt and no one is opposing me on the other side. The doors pull back and I step out onto the platform. Hiking up my duffle, I pan left to right, but there's no Márk. I laugh to myself. Maybe he's decided to trust me this time?

Heading for the exit, I'm surrounded by the rumbling echo from the opposite track. The stillness on the platform is sucked dry before a gust of dirty wind barrels in from the Coney Island express keeping its runaway pace.

Lavender. Amongst the old grit and metal, I smell lavender. Sweet. Musky. I look up, and down the stairs comes a girl not bothered by me. Two white cords swing from her ears. She's in her own little gothic world listening to her heavy music. Veering, she makes her way around me to the base of the platform, taking her floral scent with her. Lavender...

Every day there is always something that fools me into thinking just maybe New York is part of the Tuscan priest's portion, that it wasn't a figment of my mind meddling with his vision. It's been six months and I still can't get him out of my head. No man has gotten to me before. It makes me baffled as to why this one has.

Hm. I will never forget the look on his face, his cheeky contentment as I came the hardest I ever have in the last two millennia. His revelation must have been a doozy.

Doozy, I snort as I tread up the stairs. I have finally got to use that word. It definitely counts, even if it was just in my thoughts. Everything counts, in the grand scheme of things. Every heartbeat, every breath. Every orgasm...

Who'd have thought that this one particular encounter could perturb me beyond reason. I'm losing it. Must be. Or I'm regressing into a charged-up teenager willing to sacrifice everything for a notion. Do I wish I could be stupid, and give way to a lesser path to search out the priest? Yes. Will I do it? Never. I've been charged with a task greater than my own life. Nothing will beguile me.

I look back to the girl with the headphones stuck in her ears. She's ignoring everyone on the platform, jiggling her head in a constant tempo. It must be nice to be so ignorant, to not know the world as it really is. I half wish for it sometimes, but I know better.

I huff-it makes me let go of my own desires, as always.

Through the gates, I climb the next set of stairs up to the street as the afternoon traffic takes over my ear space.

A lanky young man in a warm brown waistcoat leans against the post at the top steadying the black hard-case housing his double bass. Hm, I had thought too soon-he doesn't trust me. I don't blame him; I've let him down too many times.

Márk is precious. His soul is wide open for anyone to screw up. I befriended him, thinking I'd protect him, but it seems I'm the one who hurts him most.

I stand up to the top step with the low sun pricking my eyes. The skittish young man doesn't realize I'm right next to him. He takes out his mobile and thumbs over the screen.

Evig Pint chimes out from my pocket.

Márk turns over, surprised but pleased to see me.

Reaching into my duster I pull out my mobile and switch off the ringer.

"Nice." Márk twists his mouth. He's trying to tease me about my choice of music, but it's failing.

"No hating. You should be impressed. Kaizers Orchestra uses double bass"-as well as a pipe organ, oil barrels and gas masks, but that's beside my point.

"You and your beatnik tastes." He shakes his head with a tragic demeanor.

"What are you saying?"

"I don't know, Miss Ree Brennan..." Shrugging, he fumbles before catching sight of a strand of my wayward hair that is supposed to be neatly rolled and hidden under my slouch beanie. "That you're classically Irish?"

"You better believe it." I live in Hells Kitchen, and though that might not be enough to call me Irish, my natural titian hair and acquired Gaelic name acts like a dead giveaway.

I push him enough that he has to shift to regain balance, and regret it instantly. My playful touch was an oversight as I watch the inner corners of his eyebrows lift from hopeless to adorable.

"But... thanks for coming, Ree, it means a lot." His awkward squeeze of my arm painfully illuminates his feelings.

I should be more careful with Márk. He's too nice, and that's his problem. He doesn't understand the complexities of love, and I'm sure not going to be the one to teach him. My affection for him is purely platonic, and that is hard for a young soul to interpret. I would have ghosted him by now, but he makes such beautiful music. Being his muse was never my intention, it's just... it would be a tragedy if the world missed out on his bright light.

"How long were you waiting for me?" Locking onto his puppy-dog eyes, I search for the truth.

"Only ten minutes," he lies, badly. I'm nearly an hour late, we both know it. His unconditional forgiveness is what raps me over my knuckles every time. He reminds me again that the little things in life, like gigs at the Hall, are important too. The little things are a break from reality, and are too few and far between.

Márk timidly smiles at me, before blindly swinging his giant hard-case onto his back, nearly taking out a pedestrian. I say nothing-he doesn't need to be more nervous than he already is. He has a career-making concert tonight and I promised myself I'd be there for him, in whatever capacity necessary.

It's not far to walk to the Hall, just around the bend to the stage door. We're let in after Márk manages to pull out his pass papers. He's not a big card for the music hall, so there's no royal treatment by stage management. Márk's dad has a friend-of-a-friend who got us in at the last minute because of a cancelled artist. Prodigies are a dime a dozen these days. Opportunities don't come by unless you have some push and pull.

Márk leaves me for a rehearsal room to warm up his bass, and I continue on to the dressing rooms down the stairs. I pick one, a small one with only an upright piano. It's a far cry from the maestro dressing room, but that's not my scene anymore. Still, the piano calls to me, unfairly, making the tips of my fingers curl for the silky touch of ebony and ivory. I can do a mad Chopin, but it's best I avoid the piano-there are only so many talents allowed in one lifetime.

I dump my duffle on the floor and plonk down into the cabaret chair at the makeup bench. The lights around the mirror attack me from all directions as I stare into the fresh countenance looking back. It's a young, clear face, and bright eyes that have no sense of time-effects of the restoring power bestowed upon me. Without shadows, my unorthodox features align perfectly. There is certainly no Galilean left in me. I would be a stranger to my own mother.

Gripping onto my oversized knitted beanie, I pull. The barbie-red mane falls long and wild, the static energy puffing it out. My hair has a tendency to get me into trouble, but it's not in my tradition to cut it. Clawing my fingers through, I settle my hair back off my face. You live life, and no matter how long, some things you just want to keep.

Reaching for my duffle, I begin the search for my hair kit. Everything I need is in my bag-static spray to apply underneath my dress so it can flow over my fishnet stockings, black felt-tip pen to color in any scuffs I've made on my shoes, and even brown powder to take the shine out of my red hair. Lighting technicians never quite know how to work with it and I end up with a big ball of glowing fire on my head if I don't dampen the color.

I take all of two minutes to roll my unruly locks into a tight Spanish bun. Eyeliner, hoop earrings, a velvet-shine green dress, and a fake Maravilla rose complete my look. I need what's left of the time for warm up.

Out the door, I tiptoe through the halls in my nailed shoes to lighten their taps. It's a habit-of-fear to be quieter than a mouse when walking down long halls. I can still feel the dirty looks on the back of my neck from Matron Mathieson whenever my heels touched the boards of the tetanus ward at Haslar. I have finally forgotten, after two hundreds years, the many ghastly things from my time as a nurse in that military hospital-not her though. A horrible woman, but a brilliant nurse.

The wall-length mirrors of the studio and the soft black dance floor feel like home. Just entering the space floods me with the years of conditioning and training I've spent in studios just like this one. Taking in the atmosphere enlivens my muscles, itching me to begin my warm up. The body is a strange thing, at times having a mind of its own. Though it may have all the functions for life-the flow of blood, creation of cells, rejuvenation, all before a thought-without me to make sense of it all, to interpret pleasure and pain, to feel fear, sadness and loneliness, the body has nothing to live for. Still, as perfectly dependent as the body is, it is a refuge from the Darkness.

Waiting for me by the music system is the tap board I asked for. I take it, lay it flat, and I stretch like a good bailaora should. Marching through my drills, the rhythms melt the pockets of tension in my soul.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen." The calm voice from the overhead speaker pauses as if it is waiting for all to stop what they are doing and look up. "Mr Márk Novak and company, this is your ten minute call. Would you please proceed to the Auditorium Stage." The voice repeats everything in the same soothing monotone.

"Ree..?"

My gaze snaps to the door.

Márk stands in a sharp tuxedo and pleated shirt. "You ready?"

I can't help but notice how lucent his eyes are.

"Gosh, you look amazing."

I'm right to feel the pang of unrequited attention-his compliment is more than a practise of convention. Politely, I smile, and make my way to him. "Thank you. And you're not so bad yourself." My generic reply is supposed to suggest I'm on board with playing the social etiquette game.

Márk pulls at his shirt. "Oh, this old thing." His cliché is perfect to ease the tension between us.

He's supposed to be older than me, being a senior at the Skeidar Conservatory, but his confidence is as stable as a freckle-faced school boy. I met Márk in a bar when he was "slumming it" in Spanish Harlem. He was looking for inspiration from the "music of the people". What he found was a new lease on music and a new obsession-an impulsive Irish girl full of deep and dark secrets. To him, I am sophomore studying the Romantics. Well, I have studied such, just not in this century. But since, our lives have been woven together through our passions, and I have found myself to be his soul's benefactor.

Márk huffs, the slight quiver in the delivery revealing his nerves. Playing for an authentic, passionate crowd who loves anyone enjoying their culture is one thing, on a grand stage bearing the glaze of elitists is quite another. With my hand on his chest, I'm careful not to sound intimate. "You're going to do great. Remember, 'heart and soul', and you can't go wrong." The heat under his shirt fills my palm. I double pat him to close our moment.

On our way through the halls the silence is stifling. He wants to say something; I can almost hear the muttering on his breath.

We turn the last corner for the backstage.

"Hey, after the concert, come out with us for a drink."

The bold invite has me on the spot. Socializing is one thing that doesn't work for me. I can tell his intensions aren't innocent enough to accept, but the hopeful squiggles above his brow do their job. I never want to use him, but he is my means to an end. Father John is always on my back about acting normal-doing ordinary things with regular people. Without his music, Márk is as regular as a Joe can get, in New York, at least. A driven hoper just happy to be a part of the mix.

"Sure, why not," I reply within my necessary capacity. I need the distraction anyway. Being alone my mind tends to wander to Tuscany.

"Really?" His surprise is a little exaggerated. Swallowing his eagerness back down, he sighs with a cool bearing, and a pinch of giddiness. He finishes with a pert smile.

I need to find him a nice girl. When I was young, it was the family who chose a match. It made it much easier when no heart was involved, and there was comfort in the fact that if the match was amiss, it wasn't your fault.

Under the blue light in the darkness we meet Bastian with his guitar. A line of dried blood sticks to his freshly shaved throat just under his Adam's apple, reminding me of how young these boys are. I'm grateful-the rising generations have allowed me to live young-but at times I long for something more, an older soul, who understands what it means to live. Actually, I'd settle for a crowd who knows what it's like to be over thirty, but looking like I do I can't be choosy. I've managed to reach forty years a couple of times, but anything older and I draw too much attention to myself. It's been getting easier the last few decades with the world being obsessed with youthfulness. There was a time when maturity was a woman's virtue. In every generation women have had their wins and woes. This era seems to be one of the better ones, though we shall see. Constructive hindsight takes a couple of generations.

The stage manager joins our circle with his radio microphone wrapped around his jaw. The calm monotone voice has a hefty face. "We're just waiting on a few still at the box office."

"How many seats are filled?"

The hope in Márk doesn't elicit any empathy from the stage manager. "We are a quarter full tonight..." He breaks off, holding up a 'one moment' finger to listen to his earpiece.

Bad stage manger, I grit to myself.

I catch Márk's forearm before his heart can fall, and squeeze for extra intent. "This is going to be good. It will be like our regular Thursday nights at Hernán's. You, me, our music." Looking up into his face, squarely into his doey eyes, I whisper what he needs to hear. "You play for me, remember? I'm the one who feels your music. It beats against my heart until I surrender. It enlightens me to beat back."

His chest eases with a beholden breath. I let go of him, knowing I have gone too far. Pinching his bottom lip into his mouth, Márk stares at me with a manful air-strong and confident-and for the first time he makes me feel self-conscious.

Wow.

"Okay, the house doors are now closed, stand-by for your stage cue..." The stage manager leaves us for his control desk that's blinking like a Star Trek console.

"Well, fellas, 'tvi tvi'," I say. Bastian's fluffy brow scrunches. Márk is used to my strange multi-lingual phrases. "Good luck," I clarify.

Bastian buddy-taps Márk and they turn to wait on the edge of the stage just shy of the light. Without a middle-aged spread, their concert suits hang from their bones.

It dawns on me, this is likely another historical moment the world will not appreciate until the next century.

When their introduction is made by the Hall's office clerk, I watch the pair walk on stage to a modest applause. Bastian sits and takes up his classical guitar into his arms, resting the lower bout on his thigh.

Rolling up his double bass to its full height, Márk steadies it on himself, the neck against his shoulder. He prefers to stand when playing, movements in his body help him to release the instrument's full color. If only he could play women like he played his bass, he'd never have a need to be so nervous around females.

The boys check their tuning-it's perfect-and then they wait for the annoying-yet, somehow mandatory-coughing to settle in the auditorium before they begin.

Gentle, so, so gentle. A quiet start is a risky move to capture an audience, but Márk likes to take his listeners on a journey. I wonder if the audience has noticed that the boys have no sheet music. They play by feel, not by sight. Eyes are the window to the soul, but music is the key to the heart. All the unrequited loves of Márk's heart can be felt in the air when he plucks his fingers around the steel cords. Tragic, yet beautiful. His sentimental timbre bellows in the deep, and booms through the chest of all those who dare to hear-pure and innocent melancholic brilliance. It takes me away to a place where the fields are purple, even in the moonlight. Where the cut-up hands of a priest lightly scratches over my skin. The fresh smell of his silky hair is fisted between my fingers. His raspy breath is a sweet sonnet as he pumps his sterling cock deeper into me...

Swaying to get closer to the music, I fall deeper into my senses. I step too far and my foot nudges over a bucket behind the curtain. Thank god the wing is carpeted, absorbing any sound the handle could have made. Crouching, while tutting at my clumsiness, I help the fallen bouquet of flowers back into the bucket. Thinking the Hall is being unusually generous with their concert flowers, the card flips into my view. The flowers are from Márk, and they are more than just a 'thank you'. My heart sinks, but I've lived long enough to know that love should never be taken for granted.

Standing, I regain my composure, and watch the stage. Márk is lost in the moment, his unkempt hair flapping about.

The duet ends, but the music still vibrates in the air, and the boys hold still like masterful musicians to allow the ardor to disappear into the atmosphere.

A roar of applause erupts from the light crowd. With a wiggle in Márk's chin, he is trying to keep a modest smile. He nods and waits for the applause to settle. "Thank you. I'd like to introduce Ree Brennan." His hand swings to me standing in the wing, his gaze follows, and I remember why I like him so much-he's proud to have me as his friend.

I huff, raise my chest to a dignified pomp, rolling up my head up high, and step out onto the stage. The audience is definitely intrigued by my entrance, I carry no instrument, or so they would believe. They wait while I get into position on top of my boards. The flooding stage lighting is a mood-killer for flamenco, bouncing off the wooden wall panels, equalizing any contrast. Just a black stage and spot light would have been my choice. Instead we're lit up as if we're standing in the Midnight Sun.

Turning to Márk, I lose the sight of the audience. Lifting the split in my dress high up my thigh for a stronger press-line, I drive my energy further into the floor. Opening my arms out, I spiral my hands in the air, bringing them above my head and resting them into my starting position. I hold fast, ready for Márk.

He takes a beat before getting into his play position. Picking up his bow, he hovers it and then strikes. I keep myself still-breathing in the first sounds help me to rest into Márk's mood. He plays a little brighter than usual, and it makes my hands twist around themselves.