Remembering Rachmaninov

neeyom white

Description

The novel follows the life of Grace, a gifted singer, and the love she shares with two men--men who are very different from one another. Her life evolves in a way she never expected and is punctuated with many meaningful musical experiences along the way. A chance meeting helps Grace find some perspective in her life.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 31 juillet 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781645366652
• Langue: English

Extrait

Remembering Rachmaninov
neeyom white
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-07-31
Remembering Rachmaninov About the Author About the Book Books Copyright Information ANNA 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 ANNA 23 ANNA
About the Author
The author, who now enjoys time to pursue a passion for writing, draws inspiration from her life experiences as a mother of three daughters and grandmother of six, from her experiences as a social worker, and from memories of past adventures traveling the world with her husband. She lives in Western Canada.
About the Book
The novel follows the life of Grace, a gifted singer, and the love she shares with two men—men who are very different from one another. Her life evolves in a way she never expected and is punctuated with many meaningful musical experiences along the way. A chance meeting helps Grace find some perspective in her life.
Books
The Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini , a composition for a piano solo and symphony orchestra was written by Sergei Rachmaninov at his villa, the Villa Senar, in Switzerland from July 3 rd to August 18 th , 1934. He played the solo piano part when the piece premiered at the Lyric Opera House in Baltimore on November 7 th , 1934. The piece is a set of twenty-four variations and the last of Niccolo Paganini’s Caprices for Violin . Many composers have been inspired to use this theme, an example of classical harmony.
Copyright Information
Copyright © neeyom white (2019)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
white, neeyom
Remembering Rachmaninov
ISBN 9781643780177 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781643780184 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645366652 (ePub e-book)
The main category of the book — Fiction / Romance / Contemporary
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019907825
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
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Ah, the sweet, sweet
music of love.


I cling to the wind as it stirs the scarlet leaves of autumn,
I dance on the waves as they kiss the rocky shores,
I am the staccato of raindrops,
I hide amid the stars.
I invoke the memory of lost loves,
I seal the bonds of friendship,
I transcend the strife of nations.
I am possessive and I am obsessive,
I am youth and I am ancient.
I cleanse the soul and fill the air with magic.
I am the spirit that haunts your dreams.
I AM MUSIC.
ANNA
I didn’t come to know Grace until both of us were well along on the journey of our lives, but after our first meeting, it seemed we’d always been friends, perhaps even friends in another life. To some, that may sound quite outlandish. Many may scoff at such a notion, but Grace and I never made question of the circumstances of our meeting or the friendship we would come to share. And as I age, I’ve come to realize I may not understand the whys and wherefores of events transpiring in my life, but rather I’ve come to believe there is a power beyond that has a hand in orchestrating it all. I truly believe Grace and I were meant to meet when we did.
It was a fine spring day, a day that for me had begun much as any other. I’d risen at my usual time and said good morning to my cat, Friday. Friday had been so named because, as one might expect, he’d come into my life on a Friday. But there’s much more to the story than that. I’d seen the cat’s footprints in the snow on my veranda, just as Robinson Crusoe had seen the footprints of the man he’d later called Friday on the sandy shore of an island, an island where he’d thought himself the only inhabitant. But in the case of the feline Friday, when I opened the door that blustery January morning to further examine the prints, a puff of gray fur scuttled into the warmth of my living room, made itself completely at home and has been my faithful companion ever since. Friday is the first one with whom I speak each morning and the last one to hear my voice when I retire. And as much as I’d not anticipated the cat’s arrival, I would now be lost without him.
But now I’ve run off on a tangent and must return to the story I want to tell you.
After breakfast on the day I would meet Grace, I dressed for church, happy that the weather had allowed for lighter clothing. For the past few years, I’ve mentally applauded winter’s departure and almost swoon at the appearance of spring’s first hardy buds of snowdrops. I cheer them on, watching as they thrust hopeful heads up through the remnants of snow clinging to the foundation and I urge the tulips and daffodils to follow with haste.
But I beg your indulgence; for once again I seem to have wandered from the story, a habit for which I’ve become quite known. I’ve somehow begun near the end and not the beginning. I recall the words of T.S. Eliot when he wrote, “What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.”
But I will not start at the end but rather at the beginning to tell you the story of my dear friend Grace. Though she claimed no remarkable existence during her lifetime, we all know that everyone has a story. And though Grace and I did pledge to keep one another’s secrets, I’m sure she will forgive this indiscretion. This is her story I now recall from conversations we shared over the years.
I hope she will approve.
1
“ Summertime an’ the livin’ is easy ,” she sang, arms outstretched. She was standing stage right, under the branches of a plywood tree crafted by the school’s art department.
She lowered her arms. “ Fish are jumpin’, and the cotton is high. ”
Turn, she heard a voice in her head say. Walk towards stage left and stand behind the seat. “Oh, yo’ daddy’s rich, an’ yo ma is good lookin’, so hush, little baby, don’ you cry.”
Walk around and sit on the stool, a voice said. “ One of these mornin’s you goin’ to rise up singin’ .”
Spread arms. “ Then you’ll spread yo’ wings an’ you’ll take the sky. ”
Stand, face the audience . “ But till that mornin’ there’s nothin’ can harm you with Daddy an’ Mammy standin’ by .” Walk to stage right .
Grace sucked in a long breath and watched the other students come on stage to continue the show. She was never particularly nervous when singing in public, but always relieved when she was finished and satisfied her performance had gone well. This time, it had. And the girl was grateful she’d developed the ability to completely immerse herself in her music, especially when dressed in costume. Even donning a choir gown on Sunday mornings prompted that mind-set, allowing her to concentrate fully.
High school musical performances in the early 1960s were not, as a rule, very polished or sophisticated, but in this small school with limited resources, the evening’s show had proven to be better than average. Grace had been blessed with a beautiful soprano voice and was always happy to lend her talent to any of the school’s musical events. Performing helped set her apart from her peers and opened many doors for her. In days to come, some of her fondest memories would be of the times she’d been able to showcase her talent.
She smoothed out invisible creases on her peach-colored costume and moved to center stage to join the rest of the cast for the finale.
“Good thing the girl can sing up a storm,” remarked a young man standing offstage. It was his job to pull the curtain at the conclusion of the show.
His companion nodded. “Yah, ’cause she sure can’t dance for crap.”
“Two left feet, that one. I tried to give her a few lessons before we went to a dance at the rec center the other night. But I’m afraid there’s no hope for her.”
“You’re still going to ask her to Grad, though, aren’t you?”
“Yah, probably.”
The performers were taking their final bows and Rene pulled the curtain back and forth a few times to allow the applause to die down. Yes, it had been a very good show as amateur theater of the day went, and what the performers had lacked in polish, they’d surely made up for with enthusiasm.
“You sounded really good, Grace,” remarked Rene as she left the stage.
“Thanks, Rene, but I’m glad it’s over now. One more thing out of the way. With final exams just around the corner, at least there won’t be any more rehearsals. I’ve got some cramming to do.”
“Me too. Can I walk you home tonight?”
“Sure, I’d like that, Rene. But first, I need to go change and let my folks know. I’m sure they’re expecting me to go home with them.”
“No prob. I’ve got a couple of things to do here, too. Gotta put away some of the sets. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
Grace left the gym, walked down the hall, and pushed her way into the classroom that’d been repurposed for the evening as the ladies changing room. She removed her straw hat, thankful to pull out the hatpin that’d been clawing at her scalp for most of the evening. She tucked the pin back into the hat that she flipped onto a nearby desk. She’d purchased the boater-style at a small boutique in town and was fortunate to find matching fabric for the turn-of-the-century costume she required. Most of the young women in the room were modestly trying to change out of their costumes. Grace