His success was both amazing and completely unreal. If I was being honest, the level of success he’d reached in such a short amount of time—not to mention the fact that thousands of people now had pictures of me in their homes—was slightly mind-blowing. I had known all along that he would succeed. He had been so passionate about everything he did that it had made sense that his paintings also evoked such a strong reaction.
But, tonight, he wanted me to go to a gala with him. So far, I had declined every invitation, realizing that people wanted to know all about the woman behind the paintings. After all, in a recent interview, one reporter had asked if I was, in fact, real or a figment of his imagination. He had assured the man that I was very real.
Now, he was asking me to confirm it. How could I refuse?
I tightly clutch the journal to my breasts as I make my way downstairs. I cling to it as if loosening my grip on it might lose my place or, even worse, the words might vanish. It amazes me that Chantel was so reluctant to be in the spotlight only because she seemed so comfortable there when playing Diva and posing for Phillipe.
I know it had to do with the content of the paintings, but really, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Like she wrote, Phillipe Tibideau’s work propelled him into the spotlight, and his brooding dark looks made him a solid favorite when it came to magazine sales. One minute, no one heard of him, and suddenly, he was everywhere, not only with his paintings but as the man himself.
He is the enigmatic, mysterious artist, who is undeniably attractive, and he is the man who every woman wants to pose for, but he wants none of that. He only wants her.
It all begins and consequently ends with Chantel Rosenberg.
The gala was at 7:30 p.m.
I was sitting up in the studio, waiting on him. He’d left around twenty minutes ago to get ready while I had done the same.
I was dressed in red silk. Phillipe had picked an evening gown the color of Diva’s velvet violin case. He’d told me that my complexion and my dark hair reminded him of Snow White.
It was ironic because we would be tested tonight. Our foundation would be shaken, and for a minute, I would forgot who we were.
Someone would offer up temptation, a whisper of doubt, but it wouldn’t come in the form of an apple. No, it would come in the form of something much worse. For the first time ever, I would doubt Phillipe, and with doubt trickling through my veins, I would feel like I had nothing else in the world.
For that moment in time, I would feel completely alone.
I finally reach the bottom of the stairs and step into the music room. I move over to the light switch I saw him turn on the other day. The bright lights illuminate the stark white space with the odd-shaped boards on the walls. This is the first time I have been in here alone, and I am almost positive that I can sense her presence here, feeling it stronger than before.
Making my way over to the sound system, I look at the rows of CDs. Each label is different: CR-Canon in D, CR-Requiem for a Dream (Lux Aeterna), CR-Vivaldi, Four Seasons (Winter). This is her collection. This is her.
I look through all of them until one in the back under a stack of books catches my eye. Pulling it out, I read the label, CR-Air. I haven’t heard this one yet, and I’m curious. That’s one of my favorite classical pieces, and Chantel was a musical genius. The fact that she learned to play each of these pieces by ear just makes her even more incredible to me.
Putting the CD in the player, I hit play and wait for the music to begin. Instead of the sweeping strains of the violin, I hear a hell of a lot more than I anticipate.
Suddenly, the room is full of happy laughter. From every corner of the room, a female voice now surrounds me. I stiffen automatically, knowing it is her.
“Really, Phillipe? Give me Diva. Let me play.” Her voice filters through the speakers.
Reaching up, I clutch my throat. My very own breath leaves me, but nothing prepares me for the deep rumble that follows.
“Come and get it.”
“No, you wanted to hear my favorite piece. Remember?”
“Yes, but now, I want you to come here.”
“Well, too bad. You can’t always get what you want.”
Straining with every fiber of my being, I listen to every single second of this intimate moment caught in time. There’s a shuffling noise, and then his voice. The sound is now so familiar, yet in this particular moment caught in time, it’s so completely foreign as it drifts over me.
“Play for me.”
She starts playing.
The room fills with one of the most famous melodies in the world. With absolute clarity, the piece permeates the air so smoothly that there isn’t one part that feels rushed or mechanical. As each rise ebbs and flows seamlessly, it is almost surreal that I find myself likening it to the tides of water flowing downstream.
Chantel plays the piece with such passion that I can only sum it up as this: If the notion of sublime were to take musical form, this is what you would hear.
Air ~ Johann Sebastian Bach
Link: http://blindobsessionbook.com/air-johann-sebastian-bach/
Phillipe has been gone all afternoon. After Gemma left, he decided that he wanted some time to think. Things are not going as planned. Originally, he wanted Gemma to come to the chateau, read the journal, ask her questions, and write her story.
However, like the way everything else seems to be turning out for him as of late, it is not going according to plan. Instead, he’s finding Gemma extremely hard to resist, especially when she’s imitating or replicating Chantel. In his mind, it’s becoming more and more difficult to differentiate between the two. Both women seem to be merging into one, and it’s now almost impossible for him to stay away.
This evening, he makes the decision to go to her. He knows that Gemma has gone back down to study the paintings, and he has a feeling that he will find her there.
As he makes his way down the stairs, he can hear music playing. Air, he thinks immediately. Stopping two steps from the bottom, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, remembering that day. He knows that, at the beginning of the recording, he captured her for a moment.
When she first left him, he sat down in the showroom with that particular piece playing on a continuous loop. But now?
He remembers he hid it away because it’s been months since he’s heard her play this.
Taking the last two steps, he expects to see Gemma standing in the empty space, but she’s nowhere to be found. Obviously, she left the music playing before moving to the showroom.
Deciding to leave it on, he makes his way across the room to the door leading to the dimly lit area. When he steps through, he sees Gemma standing directly in front of the painting labeled Sacred.
She has her hands behind her back, and he can see the journal between her fingers. He must have made some kind of noise because she turns to face him.
“Gemma.” He nods in acknowledgment.
She responds in kind with a slight nod and serious eyes. “Phillipe.”
“How was your afternoon?” he inquires as he moves closer.
“I spent it down in the arbor reading.”
His eyes move to the journal before looking back to hers.
“Oh? What did you learn today?”