What Couldn't Be Said

WHAT COULDN'T BE SAID

"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent." ~ Victor Hugo

Lenora Andersen dropped her pen and examined the final copy of her composition. It looked fine, now that she had finished the last touch-ups. She hoped it would sound as good as it looked.

She glanced nervously at the clock on her desk and stood quickly, gathering her music folder and stuffing it into her cello case. It was six-thirty. The concert started at seven o’clock. Just enough time to shower, eat, drive to the church and set up.

Her shower took six minutes – only a little shorter than usual – and as she stood before the mirror she found herself thinking of Josh. He would probably be at the concert that evening. Karen would be accompanying her on the piano and she knew he would never miss his sister’s performance if he could help it. She wondered what he would think of her, if he would speak to her.

She did up the last button on her deep-red coloured dress and checked the back, smoothing the wrinkles and catches. She'd already had her hair done a few hours ago and it looked quite attractive, if she might say so herself, pulled into a loose bun with little ringlets and curls straying (purposefully) around it.

She sighed. Her heart ached at the very remembrance of their breakup. She knew it had been her fault. She had picked the fight, she had said the words, she had told him the tired cliché “we aren’t meant to be”. It was all her fault. But he had not tried to reconcile their relationship. Perhaps he considered her in the right.

As she sat at the table, all alone, and pondered the weary months she had suffered without him, she wished more than ever to go back, but apologies were so hard – especially on such a delicate subject – and she never had been good with words.

She sighed again, shrugged into her black coat, grabbed her handbag and cello and hurried outside through the rain to her car. And as she drove through the city towards the church, her mind wandered back to the times she had shared with him and her friends. She recalled with fondness hanging out at school, getting into all sorts of fun pranks; wandering up the beach on sunny days, laughing and chatting about who-knows-what; watching movies on stormy nights and laughing at each other for the tears caused by the dramas they used to enjoy. But those times were over and, as much as she wanted them to come back, their friendships had faded too significantly for them to ever return truly – with some going on to university, some remaining in school, some already with jobs, others married, nobody had the time or interest. And the relationship between Josh and herself, because it had been the core of the group of pals, had scattered them when it ended.

The wipers fought against the driving rain, dimming the streetlights and noisy cars around her.

It was just a crush, she told herself angrily. You know there was nothing much between you and Josh. It was just a high-school thing, one of those relationships bound to pass away as everyone moves on.

Then why did she feel like she felt? Why was she pining so deeply for him?

What has excited these thoughts anyway? It must have been – oh, that’s right, his sister, Karen.

The thought jerked her back to the present. She glanced uneasily at her music folder on the passenger seat. The manuscript in there was her own. She had composed it herself and, although it wasn’t her first, she was very proud of it, but anxious that it would sound bad. After many years in the pursuit of musical perfection, she hoped her first performance of her own composition would be all right. She had to perform it. Right in front of the boy she'd dumped so foolishly.


CHRIST CHURCH, the legend read. As Nora mounted the steps and entered the old building, she heard the sound of a piano twinkling somewhere at the familiar tune. Karen was there already.

The interior was quiet, for only a few people had arrived, and they were speaking in low voices.

She walked up the aisle to where her friend was sitting at the grand piano. Karen was slim and tall with black hair and green eyes. She had her brother’s permanently amused expression, which always brought back sweet and sour memories. She wore a deep purple dress, similar to her friend’s in style, which swept almost to her ankles.

“Hey, Karen. How’s it going? You look nice tonight.”

“Thanks, Nora. You do too. Turn around. I really like the back. Very elegant.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you finished those last bits on your manuscript?”

“Yes – just. I need to mark a few things down on your music. Can I have your folder?”

“Sure, here it is.”

Nora put the music on the floor, removed her bow, unzipped the case, gently lowered her cello onto its side, and carried the case off stage and out of sight.

“Hello, Nora,” came a cheery voice.

She turned to see Miss Gerúe, the evening organizer, coming towards her.

“Here’s an evening programme. See, you’re here, after the Sonoro Suoni Ensemble, before the Makahou String Quartet.”

Nora thanked her, took the programme and glanced over it. She and Karen were fourth out of ten. The names on the list were familiar, popular and professional. She felt like an amateur between the Sonoro Suoni Ensemble and the others. There was Luciano, the well-known clarinet soloist, and Mary Menchala, known in music groups for her stunning and rewarding harp performances. They were all playing famous Vivaldi’s and beautiful Mozart’s. She looked at her own pitiful little mention and felt angry and sad. Did her name even deserve to be mentioned alongside these rising stars?

She looked around at the room, already filling with well-dressed, well-off-looking guests. She sat down in one of the front pews beside Karen and sighed.

“Do you think we’ll do okay?” she whispered.

Why did I just ask that?

“Sure, we’ll be all right. Who cares about those snooty richees, anyway?”

Karen laughed, a little nervously, as her companion bent over the music folder and busily added some unnecessary adjustments to the manuscript.

When Nora had finished fussing over the music, she glanced around the near-full room. It was hard to see, because the lights had been dimmed and focused on the stage, but she could see no sign of Josh. She turned to Karen, but the words died on her lips. There was no use in asking. It would be better for her and him if she remained silent.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Miss Gerúe greeted. “Thank you all for coming to tonight’s performances. We trust you will enjoy yourselves.”

After a few practical notes, the concert began. Nora was too nervous to truly enjoy the first three recitals. The Sonoro Suoni Ensemble played as exquisitely as ever, and Nora felt stupid before the ‘real’ musicians.

Her hands were clammy when she finally stood and, Karen following, walked up onto the stage. When they were ready, she turned to her friend, who gave her a reassuring smile, then faced the crowd. Wow. It looked a lot different from up there. So many more people than she had imagined. It was crowded. There were even people standing at the back because of not enough seats. She could see some of her pupils and their parents, who had come especially to support and see her.

Without looking anyone in the eye, as she had been taught, she swallowed and tried to speak clearly and confidently.

“My name is Nora Andersen and this is my friend, Karen Sutherland.” Her heart leaped and began beating like a rod. There was Josh! Sitting in the fifth row back on the right, he was watching her with an expressionless countenance. She desperately tried to control herself, tearing her eyes away from him. This can’t happen now! Not now, Nora, not now.

“W-we are going to play for you an unnamed song I–I composed.” She blushed and looked down. “We hope you enjoy it.”

Trying to look as composed as her piece, she sat down and took her cello to her wildly beating breast. Raising her bow and with a glance at Karen, the tune began.

It started with a small trill from the piano, a little introduction repeated up an octave. Then the cello came in, softly, on a long, lingering note. The beautiful instrument took the lead, rising mournfully in a gentle, lost, lilting melody.

Lost in the beauty of the music, she soon forgot the eyes of the audience watching her. But there was one pair of eyes she could not forget; one pair she knew did not for a moment leave her. One timid glance up showed Josh slouched in his chair, his arms folded.

Time seemed to pause and recommence with the notes. Her fingers moved automatically.

The melancholy part of the tune faded and she pulled herself away from his eyes, knowing she needed to concentrate on the hardest part to come.

The piano became louder, taking over the tune, and the cello carried into the muted sound of fourth position on the C string. Her bow moved across the strings with familiarity and ease, up and down the fingerboard with control and experience.

Then she was sliding higher, being drawn in and captivated by the difficult part she had practiced so much.

But she could not concentrate. Her thoughts could not break free of his grasp. He had her. Why could she not say it? She felt like standing and shouting out to him . . . but words would not do. Words could never do.

Then the piano was rippling up the octaves, rising in augmented and diminished, pulling towards one final note. Out of the tail of her eye, Nora saw Karen’s hands speed across the keys.

She sought Josh through the dimness of the room. He was sitting up straight now, his hands tense on the back of the seat in front of him, gazing at her. His stare bored into her. His green eyes were far away, beyond the shining cello, beyond the curtains, beyond the church, beyond . . . Somewhere only she knew.

She tore her eyes from him and poured all of her being into the music. The room reverberated with the sonorous, mournful crescendo. The audience seemed to be holding their breath, leaning forward in their seats. Every eye, even of the distracted children, was watching the cellist’s eager fingers climbing nimbly. Every ear was listening to the brilliant sound vibrating from the most beautiful of all instruments.

Finally the high G came, quivering with her superb vibrato. There was a pause, dramatic, climatic, breathtaking. She was trembling, but not in fear. She shook from a passion that swelled up from her heart with the music. This much was clear to the spectators. What they did not realize was that she wished she could explode from the words she could not bring from her throat: I love you.

They listened entranced by the pure power. It was a sound like nothing they had ever heard, nothing they would ever hear again. Perhaps they realized this, but often one does not know when one is enchanted. All were held enthralled, suspenseful. The music had captivated and spellbound them. They were at its mercy.

Then she slipped further up the fingerboard and repeated the tune hauntingly in the harmonics. The notes stretched softly to a high B flat and melted down the G minor arpeggio, the final, quivering low G fading resonantly into silence.

She froze elegantly in her posture, arm still raised with the bow on the string, and waited. The silence lingered throughout the stifled, breathless room. No clapping, nothing. Just silence. It was very hot and suddenly she felt self-conscious. The music had captivated her, used her and now it had left her, helpless, naked and at the mercy of the crowd.

Her eyes rested on Josh, like those of a frightened mouse, confronted by a big, hungry cat, looking for an escape. And here she found her comfort. She would have died to see him like that. She nearly had. He looked like he had been struck by lightning. His face was . . . unexplainable, like he thought he was dreaming.

Then the mirage of the big, hungry cat disappeared as the audience let out their breath and rose in one accord. The applause was deafening, the whistles and shouts piercing over the top. Josh stood. Through her shock Nora saw him smiling, clapping, shaking his head . . .

She stood, in a trance, to acknowledge the crowd. The music had not left her.

She bowed, smiled, turned to Karen . . .

They continued to clap even as she walked off stage with her friend. The two walked back on again, resumed their bows and ‘thank you’s'. She thought it would never end. She saw the faces of her students and felt like laughing aloud.

Even as she left the stage and the audience fell quiet for the next performers, she felt a warm glow encompass her. As she sat down to listen, she caught Josh’s gaze again. He did not care for anything happening around him, or the famous Makahou String Quartet now in full swing of a Vivaldi sonata. He had no eyes but for her, and she blushed and smiled and returned his gaze.

The rest of the concert passed in a blur to her. She tried to act the politely interested student she was supposed to be, but the notebook on her lap remained blank. When finally Miss Gerúe stood and announced the close of the concert and the supper that could be found through the double-doors, Nora was breathless. She felt she had to have fresh air. She told Karen she would just step outside for a moment and to go through to the other room without her.

She slipped through the crowd, stopping every moment or so to respond to joyful fans. The praise was endless and tiring. She just wanted to get outside.

At last she left them all behind her and disappeared through a side door. The cool night air enveloped her. She breathed deeply, letting the strain of the evening fall from her, and gazed up happily at the stars. She had done it. She had conquered. But her thoughts wandered once more to him. A guilty little shadow passed to the back of her mind. Perhaps she had not come outside only for the fresh air. But what was he thinking right now? Had he received her message?

A light touch on her shoulder made her spin around. She knew what he was thinking, for it was written all over his face. His eyes shone with the same passion she had felt.

Her eyes were wide in expectation, her voice low and soft when she spoke.

“Josh, I – “

Her words were silenced by the finger he placed on her lips.

“I know,” he whispered.

That was all he said, for all that needed telling was already told and nothing was left to be spoken.

Optional Ending (for those who appreciate humour ):

...But what was he thinking right now? Had he received her message?

"Lovely evening."

Startled, she spun around, her eyes wide in expectation. Karen stood in the doorway gazing up at the stars.

"Josh just left. Says he has a headache and has to get up early tomorrow. Would you believe it? A headache! My goodness. I'll never understand men."

Written for "PDG Short Story Workshop" 
Prompt (chosen from four Victor Hugo quotes): "Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent." ~ Victor Hugo

Note for those who are interested: This was one of the hardest short stories for me to write because, although music comes naturally to me, describing music is very hard. It has no colour, taste, smell, touch, etc. Only sound and feeling can one go on. Writing the part where Nora performs really stretched my imagination as a writer. I wanted to avoid repeating words or droning on too long. (If you want to challenge yourself as a writer, go to a concert [or, if you play an instrument, sit down and play some music] and try to describe it! )

So, if you would be so kind, I would love a review to tell me how I did, but I don't expect or demand one of you.

Thank you for taking the time to read this story. I hope you enjoyed and were inspired by it.

~ Kasia

PS. A special thank you to A.J. Lyle and "Showering Acts of Joy Group "  for the lovely ribbon gracing this story. A delightful surprise!