Until we meet again

Until we meet again

february-march 2006

         Those who know him count him among their friends, even if he sometimes remains detached from their lives. Those who know him wait confidently for his smile to illuminate their uneventful lives. A smile worthy of the Mona Lisa, which lights up his face, adds an extra rosiness to his cheeks and a twinkle to his eye. It is a smile which makes everyone, men and women alike, wish they could be his friend and have him in their presence every day. It is a smile which, if used by those lonely in life and aware of its power, could seduce. He does not seem to be interested in seduction, at least to go about it intentionally. It happens automatically that most people fall under his charm. Yet he has told me that he is accompanied in life and that he is happy, but I suspect few have met the love of his life.
         He is, however, the secret love of mine. And he is, I imagine, the object of unrequited love for many others.
         I have a small place in his life, a simple place in a group, a place where I spend privileged hours watching him, alone and pensive, or with others, in conversation, listening and sometimes smiling. Sometimes he will look my way with a grin so innocent and happy just to cross my eyes, that I want to melt inside, indeed I do melt inside. And my life, like so many others, is punctuated by those moments of intense innocent joy when his eyes meet mine and he smiles.
         He is a young man, to my middle-agedness, serious, a bit old fashioned, hard-working, devoted to his friends and to his passion. He possesses the rare talent of listening with a face so calm and serious that you are immediately convinced that he hears every word you say, that he understands the slightest emotion behind all of them and is in harmony as you are. If he makes a comment, it is pertinent, intelligent and tactful, all the opposite of myself, tending to be gauche and too spontaneous in conversation. And every now and then in a conversation, he will react to something peaceful, truthful or even amusing, and then he will break out in a smile so extraordinary that the world immediately around him awakens and begins to vibrate sympathetically. I've seen it happen with the most diverse individuals who seem to come to him just for the moments this phenomenon finds its way into a happening.
         I am convinced that he is admired, loved and, yes, even coveted, by men and women similarly, young and old, rich and poor. And he accepts our emotions with humbleness, thanking us for our attentions to his life, thanking us for understanding his rare gifts, and never resenting us for wanting more intimate and privileged expressions of them. One must ask: can a single adoring follower sequester a prophet? No, he cannot. And, aware of his role among us, he seems to realize this about himself. He gives freely his light to all who seek it, and although many are swift to misinterpret its source within him, he bears no grudges when declarations of love and friendship are made.
         He has average looks, although his smile changes everything and makes his face a masterpiece for portrait artists; average height, a bit stocky. He gives an impression of solidness, feet firmly planted on the ground, in touch with all of the qi of life. He has intense brown eyes and short cut brown hair. His hands and arms are strong and he touches people with those gentle hands, as well as with his entire being.
         He is soft spoken, and occasionally laughs aloud, a bit timidly as if afraid of the power of his voice, but it is a good-natured laugh. His is a voice people like to listen to, but rarely have the opportunity to do so, for he speaks with caution. He is a born listener, genuinely interested in people and their tales. He sympathizes. He understands. Then as if to cure us of our ills, he smiles.
         He sings in our choir. A lovely tenor voice, although there are others in the group which are stronger, it is his voice which leads us all through its purity, its sincerity, its incredible emotional content and its devotion. There's that word again: devotion.
         I imagine singers of sacred music several centuries ago having the same inspiration while performing the music of the masters, composed for the glory of God. When I watch him sing, this is what I see and what I feel: for the glory of God; for the glory of special beautiful rare things touching perfection, such as music. When he sings, he radiates with an otherworldly sensation of peace, of calm and intimate harmony with the utter perfection of the music. Or exceptional utter human perfection (perception) in search of the harmonies by which he may express himself. Either way, the end result is astonishing: he is never more beautiful than when he sings.
         This beauty has moved me to tears on more than one occasion. It has renewed my faith in human nature and the inherent goodness there is still to be found in humanity. It has made me feel small because of my desire to be close to him, a desire less noble than the mastery of his art. I frequently feel that even if he were free, I would not merit his friendship, his love or his mildest attentions. How can I possibly allow myself to fall in love with someone destined to touch the hearts of everyone he meets? How can I imagine the selfishness necessary to pretending to keep him for myself alone?
         We sing on Monday nights. Two hours of joy expressing ourselves in a mixed repertoire, sacred and secular, sung in various languages that our choir director patiently teaches us. He excels quietly in the English, German, Italian, Hebrew lyrics as well as the French ones, of course. Others come to him for help with the scores; he listens carefully and gives his advice, although he knows well that there are others more experienced with more knowledge who should be consulted before him.
         In many respects, he is the ideal choir member. Humble, attentive and willing to learn, with absolutely no ego problems or desire to constantly know if what he is doing is good or in need of improvement. His eyes do a solemn dance between the music and the director, although I am often surprised to see that his eyes have no need of the score. He is a choir director's vision of a perfect singing member: he follows, he is studious, he talks little during the rehearsals, always ready to join in as best he can, to further the music under rehearsal.
         Has he any imperfections? As a young chorist, singing to his heart's content, no!, I believe he has none.
         My timidity makes me stand apart from the group when we arrive before rehearsals. I rarely create an opportunity to speak with him, afraid that my desire for his company, his smile, his goodness, will betray my difficulty in containing my emotions. Every now and then after a rehearsal, a group of us go out for a drink in the nearby bar. He infrequently joins us, either in a hurry to return home or wary of the more personal contact offered by a relaxed convivial atmosphere. Sometimes I have had the privilege of taking the same metro with him; he gets off at a transfer station before I do, but I have never had the courage to go out of my way and accompany him to his destination, just for the pleasure of an extra ten minutes in his presence. We have spoken about the music, about the irregularity of the Parisian metro after the evening rush hours, and about upcoming concerts he participates in, for he sings in other choirs. I believe that is his true passion.
         Tuesday nights he sings with another group of people, an elite choir specializing in Monteverdi, Bach and exclusively sacred music. It is a smaller group and from what I understand, he is not the best singer there. It is a group with trained voices which sound like trained voices, sometimes lacking the subtlety of a simple beautiful voice which simply sings, like is his. But I have no doubt that he is just as respected and has just as many followers, for the qualities he brings to the music he shares are universally recognized and largely make up for a certain lack of what other singers frequently refer to as "talent." To feel so intensely the music he sings, is a gift offered by his mere presence to all those, who themselves are trying to attain that same state of identification with the texts, the melodies, the harmonies and the music. Forgetting oneself in order to melt and become the music: a rare talent.
         I have spent my lifetime studying these things, discovering the inspiration hidden in the beauty of the lines, the texts, experiencing the unexplainable joining of these elements when performers and audience together shiver in the beauty that has been created. They call me a professional musician because I have learned this sensitivity and can transmit it freely and easily to my audience, hoping thus to create a greater intensity in the musical sharing. In my lifetime I have acquired the mastery which permits me to recreate and share this beauty, but how does my artistry really compare to the natural talents one finds every so often singing in a Monday-night choir?
         This artistry he understands instinctively, and he shares it with simplicity, touching the hearts of all those around him with his beautiful voice.
         Another night, I don't remember which, he sings with a gospel group. His native French language is never used, but I've heard him sounding like a black man from Alabama, so attuned to the music he has become. He doesn’t sway much with the others, and doesn't need to shout "hallelujah" in time with those who feel the necessity of doing so, but it's impossible to doubt his fervent admiration for this music, for its pulse and its history. When he sings "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen", his pale skin rivals that of any black man singing the suffering of generations of slaves. He understands the music, whatever it expresses, and his empathy is such that no one questions the sincerity of his investment.
         I remember one Sunday afternoon when he was asked to sing at a memorial service for a mutual friend of ours. He needed someone at the piano, and I was graced by his desire that I accompany him. There's this song “Irish blessing”, which has many lovely versions. He chose one with a simple quiet progression of harmonies in the piano. I don't know how I made it through the performance; his rendering was so beautiful and touching.
                   may the road rise to meet you
                   may the wind be ever at your back
                   may the sun shine warm upon your face
                   and the rain fall soft upon your fields
                   and until we meet again
                   may God hold you,
                   may God hold you
                   ever in the palm of his hand
                   until we meet again
         Tender words with simple harmonies. A special friend counts on my ten fingers to render homage to another, having left this world too soon. There are many people present, many have chosen to speak their praise, and share their fond memories. Only one has chosen to spread a message through a simple song with a simple text.
         I cannot help myself intently watching only his joyous face, bright eyes speaking directly to me, though the words are meant for another. I am sure his sincerity is sending chills and tears to others as well. A simple glance my way, yes, his gentle smile, for on this occasion there is a wondrous communion between us here which I do not often have the privilege of sharing with him. Another line of this age-old prayer, maybe the one about being in the palm of God's hand, he sings just as simply as it has always been sung over the ages, by all those other people having found the same inspiration in the beauty of its unadorned words. His devotion reminds me of the eternity of love, and we are all united through this universal emotion, joined in brotherhood by this unique combination of words and harmony, sung by a voice so filled with innocence that it makes every heart bleed. We ask: is it the music that coaxes such sentiment from the words? Or does the verse lend strength to the melody? I don’t know which, it doesn’t really matter. However, I am sure that the combination is magic and it is useless to ask by what miracle so much beauty has been accomplished. We are all moved.
         Each and every one of us had a part to play in this togetherness, for the entire congregation joined us spontaneously for the second verse, gently humming the melody in a respectful accompaniment to the voice singing so beautifully, and in doing so added another dimension to the love present. We all became companions in song, led in praise by this marvelous man, in remembrance of another friend whose memory would be henceforth even more precious to us. There were many secret smiles of understanding.
         Until we meet again.

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