Swan's Grace

Vienna The lights went down. Voices in the opulent gilt hall quieted to a buzz of anticipation. Standing behind the long velvet curtain, Sophie Wentworth could feel their desire. Unrelenting, intense. With a slow, sensual pull, like strong male hands to a woman's velvet gown, the draperies slid back. Sophie stood onstage, but she stood in darkness, waiting, her heart pounding in her chest, excitement and anticipation swirling together in a heady mix. She could sense the sea of faces in the dark, sense the hundreds of people who filled the concert hall, waiting for her. Then it happened, that one piercing stream of light, capturing her, tangling in her upswept hair, reflecting off the black satin cape she wore around her shoulders, and the crowd erupted in a roar of applause. She smiled into the light, her head tilting back as if she were soaking up the sun, her throat tight with exhilarating joy. This was the moment she lived for--the wave of excitement that swept through an audience when she appeared. It was the end of her first tour, and over the past months she had taken Paris by storm. Stockholm and Salzburg. Geneva. Even London, with its strict Victorian ways, had adored her. Only Vienna, the crowning jewel of the music world, remained. It was the city where the greatest had composed and played. Bach and Beethoven, Mozart and Mendelssohn. And now she would play there, too. She stood without moving in the Grand Hall of Vienna's Musikverein, the deafening applause feeding her soul. It hadn't started out this way six months ago when she first began the tour. In the beginning she had played as she was taught, proper and decorous--played as she should. And critics had dismissed her as yet another former child prodigy who played the cello with a small, quaint sound. But she had changed all that, had changed her show. And she had surprised herself by reveling in the change. She loved the extravagant gowns and the glittering jewels. The drama. The deep, throbbing pulse of excitement. Boston would no doubt keel over from shock if they saw her perform now. She started to cringe, but determinedly held it at bay. Boston was the past. Europe was her future. Pushing back whatever remnants of inhibition she felt, Sophie let the satin cape drop from her shoulders. A gasp rose from the rows of velvet-cushioned seats up through the ornate tiers of elegant boxes at the sight of her creamy white skin revealed from her low-cut, crimson gown. And Sophie could feel the instant that they started wanting her even more. Confidence filled her like wine poured into a glass, and she took her cello from its stand, then gave a discreet nod for the pianist to join her onstage. The excited buzz ceased abruptly, encapsulating the concert hall in silence, complete and clear--not even a whisper was heard. She could feel the audience, feel their anticipation like a touch as she sat down with the grace of a perfect lady, then slowly pulled the instrument between her legs in the manner one of her more persistent admirers had called a provocative mix of bold abandon and startling titillation. No one seemed to breathe. Sophie savored the moment, closing her eyes in that crystalline space of perfect quiet while the audience waited, her bow poised. Then she began with a flourish, the faces and adoration forgotten, the world set back as she brought the bow to the strings and pulled a dazzling G major from a lively, popular tune that ensnared every man and woman there. She drew out the music with such passion and beauty that no one in the audience gave a thought to the fact that the piece she played wasn't technically difficult--so different from the pieces she had played when the world had considered her a prodigy. There was no more BeeLee, Linda Francis is the author of 'Swan's Grace', published 2000 under ISBN 9780449002063 and ISBN 0449002063.