Symphony Fantastique by Emily Macdonald

Violinist Scarlet fantasises about her fellow orchestra musicians, and wishes one of them ill, in a piece that reflects the shifting moods of a Berlioz symphony.

Image generated with OpenAI

C minor/C major

Carlos calls another halt and turns to the cellos. I rest my violin on my knee and allow myself my game while waiting, scanning the orchestra, assessing the players' attraction.

"No, no! You're racing. You always race. Play it again and stay with me. You must watch me." Carlos pushes back his mane of hair then sweeps his hands, holding them paused aloft before his definite down-beat. Ian, the cellist on the second desk, follows Carlos, eyes wide with attention though he's rigid, a strict metronome, chastising his cello into submission. I dismiss him from my secret list. I wouldn't sleep with him. He'd be a bad driver too. Ian is handsome, but he's not musical and he'd be bad in bed.

Carlos turns to the copse of woodwind. He isolates their long-held chords from the rolling notes in the strings, who are climbing and descending scales on Escher staircases.

"Four bars from figure 9. Again!"

Carlos extends his arms as the straddle-legged cellos crescendo, jockeying through hills and valleys of notes. He reins in the players, cups his hand and squeezes his fingers to finish a phrase. The music is pliable in his arms, the lover motif caressed in his movements. Minor bass notes suggest a menacing threat. The beauty is fragile.

The rehearsal is not going well. Carlos has increased the tempo to performance speed. Now, it's time to polish and finesse. Tension thrums through the orchestra as if it's written into the score.

The brass still mess about. Not the French-horns - universally the bores, swaddling their bells and pipes like they're babies - but always the trombones who lower theirs slides as if they're pipettes into barrels. They have the most counting to do. I turn sideways to look at them, the bad boys, and Rob gives me a saucy wink. I like the way he wets his lips. Ian's off, but Rob I'll add to my list.

"Cellos and basses, you're racing again! You're as clumsy and eager as teenage boys." The orchestra titters though Carlos doesn't intend to be funny.

He lays his baton on the lectern and pulls his jumper over his head. His shirt rides up, exposing his stomach. Tanned, taut with a trail line of hair leading down. Carlos is both lion and tamer, tapping his baton like he's drumming protractile claws. I flush. I like what I've seen. The quick glimpse has triggered a reassessment. Although Carlos is married and has a young child, I can desire him. Instead of looking around, I only needed to look up.

I play with new enthusiasm. There are two ways to attract Carlos's attention: one is to play badly, and the other is to play well.

---

A Major

I bare the tender side of my wrist for the security stamp then queue for the bag check, until I'm released with my friends into the crowded, dark interior. Smoke machines send hazy clouds over the mass of strobe-lit dancers, their movements jagged but synchronised. The techno beat is rigid in common time. It stifles the waltz theme I've carried in my head all day. Thoughts of Carlos. All day.

I want to summon Carlos - dancing with me - but I can't conjure him. This was a mistake. I'm not in the mood. I won't find Carlos here. Frustrated, I yell to my friends, "I'll catch you up."

They nod, and waving their arms in the air, smiles smacked to their faces, they sway and bounce in a crocodile line, winding their way into the heart of the crowd.

I shout for a vodka and tonic and a bottle of water. I know the guy on my left is advancing, but I give him my back - he's not Carlos - and drink in gulps, leaving my plastic glass on the bar.

"Fuck it!" I break off an ear of the Mickey pill I hid in my bra and toss it into my mouth, chasing with mouthfuls of water. I thread my way through the smiling dancers who separate, making way. The floor vibrates, rising to meet my feet as the crowd jump up and down, whipped in waves by the DJ.

Then the rush comes. I swirl and twirl, a dervish spinning, spiralling in tighter and tighter circles, corralled by thoughts of a prowling Carlos. The podium dancers pluck at the strings of their cages, rippling arpeggios. The crowd press back against walls, cheering, whooping, clapping.

"Yes!" they shout. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

---

F Major

My back is against the knotted bark. Dapples of sunlight warm me in leopard print patches. A murmurous wind tickles and lifts leaves, freckling the pattern on my bare legs. The spring sun is high but not yet at summer ferocity.

Family groups picnic, kids play with a frisbee, losing out to their dog, who chases and jumps to catch it so high off the ground I want to cheer. Two women push strollers side by side. Their toddlers lean together, imitating the intimacy between their mothers.

I rest my book on my knee, close my eyes, stretch, and exhale. I haven't taken in a word of the last page.

A shepherd's pipe sounds behind me, somewhere amongst the trees. The reedy notes call through the glade, sounding clear over the peeping birds, the popping seeds, shoots thrusting from bulbs, worms turning under the soil. Ants toil, treading the bark and the wind whispers sly suggestions. I stir. The trunk swells behind me, growing its rings, and branches reach down to embrace me.

A piping response, deeper, richer in tone, rings from the right. A call and response. Blades of grass push through the earth and flowers turn giddy heads to the sun, flirting for bees. The pipes sound a question and answer, harmonise in conversation.

My book has fallen from my lap and a bilious cloud is sickening the sun. The weather is turning thunderous. Soon it will rain. The pipe plays again though now its sound is forlorn and ominous. The conversation has ended with a warning reprimand.

---

G minor

The dress rehearsal is long. I play well - the correct bowing, the practised fingering, my intonation and expression is good. Carlos is considering his performance, conducting without looking at the score. He often closes his eyes, lost in the music.

Now the orchestra is a mythic beast, beautiful and terrifying. Bellowing to crescendo, timpani hooves rumbling underneath. Shuddering, subsiding for melancholic motifs, plaintive, strangely sweet, menacing, and then still.

Carlos calls for a break. Ten minutes before we'll play the whole symphony again. I lay my violin in its case and join the queue for coffee.

Ian, the robotic cellist is heading my way, and I turn to avoid being face to face. He might have noticed me eyeing him.

When I turn, I catch the fleeting movement. Carlos, looking towards me but not at me. The brief touch of finger to his lips and a quick, secretive smile. Not for me, but for someone beyond me. I turn again. Ian sips his coffee, but he's smiling. Smiling at Carlos. When I look back, Carlos passes nictitating membranes over his eyes, shielding against my prying.

It's late when I get home. Depleted after the adrenalin rush of playing, exhausted from concentrating so hard on the music, disturbed by what I've uncovered.

Ben, my flatmate, is in the kitchen. He picks utensils, a wooden spoon, and a spatula, and plays a drum roll on top of the biscuit tin.

"Scarlet, hey, gorgeous. Don't be mad. I know the kitchen's a mess but look what I've made!" He twirls me around, trying to make me laugh, lifting the biscuit tin beyond reach then sweeping it under my nose.

"Yum! Brownies?"

"Yeah! But be careful, they're potent. I clarified the butter. I never knew it could be so green! Like food colouring. Hey, what's up with you though?"

"Ah nothing. I'm tired and... well, some useless guy."

"Hope for me yet?" Ben smiles. It's his running joke, where he pretends to be my long-suffering suitor. "Tell me more later? I'm late for my shift. Help yourself to these but go slow. Too much will blow your head!"

I make tea and bite into a brownie, letting it melt on my tongue. The baking smell doesn't mask whatever festers in the rubbish bin. I retrieve dishes from the sink and let out the water. Fatty residue congeals on the sides.

So, playing well is not the only way to attract Carlos's attention and playing badly doesn't seem to matter. Married, new father Carlos, who should be off limits. I run fresh hot water and let soap suds form blowsy bubbles. My fingers push apart. A bubble grows. Its skin is firm, becomes crystalline, a sorcerer's globe. As it clears, there is Carlos. Naked, conducting in front of Ian, a mirror behind reflecting them both. Carlos throws back his head and gyrates, swirling his baton, and Ian kneels in front of him, clapping hideously like a mechanical monkey.

I grab the baton and stab. I stab again and again plunging the baton into Carlos's chest. The water bloodies and the sphere bursts, red spraying my face, and I laugh before plunging my hands back into the sink.

Outside a siren screams, the wail mounting, flashing blue lights illuminating the walls. Boots pound, marching in time. A procession of clobbered feet, coming for me. The siren wails louder and louder and lights arc up the walls. I clasp my bloodied hands together, as if already cuffed, and bow my head letting my hair fall forward, but start, rigid and upright, when fists pound the door.

---

C minor/C major

The dress code is black for the women, dinner jackets for the men. I've piled my red hair on my head. I know I look good. Carlos's innocent little wife sits in the front row.

I smile to see fat-armed Josey fill Ian's place on the second desk. She straddles her swine cello. The orchestra buzzes, a hive of rumour. Where is Ian? Is it true he hurt himself? Some say self-harm, some say accident. Attack, glass, shard of mirror.

The oboist sounds the A and the hive hums in accord. The lead violinist signals for quiet and Carlos prowls across the stage. His velvet shimmers in the bright lights.

He raises his arms. The audience waits. We wait. But instead of giving a down beat Carlos's leonine head droops to his chest. He lets go of the beast's leash.

It should be the woodwind who start but it's the cellists who gallop, unbridled, bows whipping sweating flanks. A cornet sounds, the woodwind start a Dunsinane march, and we violinists tremolo at the top of the E-string. Then we're all playing at the same time. Snatches of themes slide through dissonant key changes; isolated passages battle to be heard. Lyrical ideas, now inverted, sound sinister and macabre. The waltz becomes a bawdy, stamping trance dance as if played by orgiastic, spaced-out ravers.

We're on our feet, savagely saluting the ceiling with clarinets and flutes, tearing bows across cat gut strings, blasting horns, bash-beating drums, striking cymbals and bells.

I dance as I play, turning in circles, waltzing and spinning, rising and falling until I'm giddy and nauseous. The audience sing, shout and stamp. The untamed beast plays on.

---

My hair is loose and wild. I lie exhausted in bed, letting time creep. I know my eyes are red and surrounded by pinprick dots.

Outside, the sounds of the new day begin. A sucking pop, releasing a lock, the brief wail of a car alarm, quickly arrested. The hydraulics, calling shouts, whacks, and ring-tins as the rubbish collectors work from the far end of the street. Someone is pulling a wheeled suitcase. A moped starts, a metal gate drags across asphalt.

I rub the dry eczema patch on my neck where my violin rubs. I have indents too on the middle three fingers of my left hand from pressing hard against the strings. Trophies as significant as paint on an artist's smock or mud under a gardener's nails. My witches' marks.

I pull the duvet over my head and wait for the silence to return.