THE MELODY OF LIFE OR BUTTERFLY
Emily had been known as Emmy all her life. Petite, with a waist as thin as a teacup, bright green eyes that seemed forever halfopened, and a laugh that lingered like a windchime, she drew the eye of men of every age. Theres something about tiny women that makes men want to cradle them, to keep them safe, to treat them like a delicate pony that could never be broken.
Emmy also possessed a strange talenther voice was a pure mezzosoprano that could slip through walls. She sang wherever she could, even while working as a lab assistant in a steel plant down in Manchester. The plant was her day job, but her soul belonged to song. She drifted from choir to community choral group, timid at first, then bolder, as if each note were a breath of fresh air through a cracked window.
She never rushed into marriage, nor even entertained thoughts of children. Those possibilities never appeared on her personal calendar. Emily felt selfsufficient; a husband and offspring would be a chain of duties that might drown out the music she cherished. She voiced these thoughts over tea with married friends, who nodded politely before slipping off to their own babycradling duties.
One day, while delivering a stack of lab reports, Emily passed the office of the plants section chief, Arthur Sinclair. The door was always guarded by Clara, the secretary, who hovered like a nervous cat. Whenever Emmy entered the vestibule, Clara snatched the papers, thanked her, and with a smile said, Youre free, Miss. Ill pass everything to Mr. Sinclair. Thus Emmy never actually met the chief.
When Clara fell ill, Emmy, unaware of any invisible barrier, knocked gently on the sturdy oak door and peeked inside. At the far end of a long mahogany table sat Arthur himself.
Come in, miss. What have you got? he asked.
Just the test reports, she murmured.
Are you new here? he probed further.
No, Ive been here for over five years, she replied.
He smiled thinly, I hadnt noticed. Well then.
They exchanged a few light jokes, and Emily slipped back to her bench. From that day onward she placed each report directly on Arthurs desk. Clara, once recovered, would turn away dramatically, busily watering the ficus on the windowsill and ignoring Emmys presence.
Emily was twentyseven then, and a brief office romance blossomed. Arthur was a respectable man, not the scandalloving sort that prowls gossip columns. He soon suggested a proper marriage. Emily laughed it off. Why bother with extra chores? she thought. She preferred a relationship without strings, a casual companionship that let her keep her energy for the stage.
Arthur was taken aback; a woman in her place might have swooned and chased him down the hallway. He paused their courting, urging her to think. Meanwhile, the women from her social circle swarmed her with advice: A man like him is a catch! Youre turning him down! Youll be alone forever, humming to yourself!
At last, Emily surrendered. The wedding was a grand affair; Arthur beamed with pride as his bride, in a delicate lace dress, a veil, and tiny childsize shoes, resembled an exquisite doll. Emily allowed herself to be loved, but she kept her feelings for him shallow, preserving her voice for concerts and audiences.
After a honeysweet month, she prepared for a regional tour of holiday homes, sanatoria, and schools. Arthur, ever the gentleman, gave a simple command: Emily, could you sort out dinner and iron my shirt, please?
She snapped, Tom, Im in a hurry! and darted away.
Arthur kissed her nose, Sorry, love, Im just pestering you. Go sing! He repeated the request several times, each time buying readymade meals, learning to wash his shirts, fry eggs, and scrub the dishessmall concessions for a wife whose life was a song.
Time passed. Emily quit the plant, living on her voice and a string of provincial gigs. Arthur became accustomed to a wife who wouldnt tend the home. One morning he asked his secretary for a coffee; she obliged, then shyly offered, Mr. Sinclair, may I tempt you with a scone? I baked them myself.
He chuckled, Thank you, Clara. I do love a good raisin scone.
She then suggested, Shall I stitch a button on your coat? Its about to pop off.
He sighed, Clara, my wife is too busy with her own affairs to notice.
Clara muttered under her breath, A singer wife, a wolfhowling husband and slipped a jar of cucumber salad, a thermos of broth, and a fresh cherry pastry into his briefcase. She fed him, unaware that her gentle ministrations were bordering on a soft dominance, though Arthur never crossed the line. He remained grateful, but his loyalty stayed with Emily.
Four years into their marriage, the household still comprised just the two of them. Emily never spoke of children, yet one morning she felt a sudden swelling of affection for her own shape, a roundness that made her crave pickled onions and crisp applessigns, she thought, that a stork might soon arrive.
Arthur, overjoyed, imagined a little ones giggle, a new dream atop his own. Emily, however, visited a doctor, hoping to abort an unwanted burden. The physician, with a solemn look, said it was too late and urged her to bear a healthy child. Arthur, ignorant of the consultation, roamed the high street, checking prices for the finest pram and the coziest cot.
Emily resigned herself to the diagnosis. Arthur, still seeing Clara as a dear friend, shared his joy with her, and she, taking it with a sigh, tendered her resignation.
Clara, whats happening? Youre leaving? Arthur asked.
The cherries are gone, therell be no more pastries, she replied wistfully.
A middleaged secretary, Margaret, was assigned to replace Clara. Shed spent her entire life at the plant, knew every managers secret. She scolded Arthur with a blunt, Oh, Arthur! Youve lost a real gem! Clara adored you like no one else!
Arthur snapped back, Do your work, Margaret! No distractions.
Months later, Emily gave birth to a baby girl. The midwife, beaming, asked, What shall we call her?
Emily snapped, Nothing!
Arthur arrived with a bouquet of roses, but Emily stayed on her bed, weeping silently. The other new mothers in the ward whispered consolations, each sharing absurd stories about lovers, twins, and missing fathers.
A nurse tried to hand Emily a bunch of flowers from her husband, but Emily never touched them. The flowers were set down on the nightstand.
The next day Arthur was sent on a work trip to Birmingham and could not excuse himself. He returned two weeks later, racing home, dreaming of his little girl. He found Emily alone, humming a tune and leafing through sheet music.
Emily, wheres our daughter? he asked, bewildered.
She turned, eyes distant, I signed the papers to give the child up.
Give up? Youre mad! Thats our blood! he roared. He snatched the music sheets, tore them to shreds, crumpled them in his fist, and hurled them at her.
Emily stared at the torn pages, terrified that he might strike her. Arthur, seemingly exhausted, gathered his coat, tossed his belongings into a bag, slammed the door, and fled into the night, the citys lights turning black as a storm cloud. He recalled his mothers warning: A bad wife is worse than rain; rain forces you inside, a bad wife drives you out. He wandered the streets, shouting, People! Where has love vanished? Someone, help! but strangers hurried past, caught in their own rush.
After a nights stay with a friend, Arthur returned to work and demanded the secretarys help:
Margaret, I need Claras number. Its urgent.
She handed him a slip, smirking, We all know what urgent means around here.
He locked himself in his office, sealing the door against the prying curiosity of the new secretary.
When Emily finally recovered from the shock, she did not seek Arthur. Instead she retreated to a seaside resort where a concert was arranged for her. She sang, her voice mending the torn pages, and the audience tossed flowers onto the stage. She traveled the country, performing in tiny halls and grand theatres alike.
Years slipped by. Eventually she abandoned the spotlight, opening a modest vocal studio. She had never earned a formal music degree, but her experience was ample enough to teach eager youngsters.
One day a colleague asked, Emily, a little girl was brought to meshe seems gifted. Could you audition her?
Bring her in, Emily replied.
A moment later Arthur entered the studio, two girls in towone about ten, the other twelve. He directed the younger to a chair, Sit, Lily. He approached the older, and the sight of Emily stopped him dead.
Good heavens, why have we been tossed together after all these years? he blurted.
Emily, slightly embarrassed, said, Lets hear her sing.
The girls voice rang clear, echoing Emilys own childhood longing: a tiny figure, a bright laugh, a love for melody.
After the audition, Emily asked, How old are you, sweetheart?
Thirteen, Im Kira, the girl answered proudly.
You have a wonderful voice! Invite your father to the next lesson, Emily suggested.
Arthur stepped forward, Tom, you have talent in your daughter. Ill recommend a good teacher if Im not the right fit. Youre married, arent you? Hows life?
Emily pressed, Married? To whom?
Zoe, my former secretary. We raise my daughter Kira together with our other girl, Molly, he said with a puff of pride.
Emily, stunned, whispered, You mean the child I gave birth to?
Arthur, with a cold chuckle, replied, You merely birthed her. He turned and left.
From the hallway came the cheerful shout, Girls, lets run to meet Mum!
Emily sat, head spinning, hearing her own voice echoing as if it were her daughters.
Thirteen years later, Emily, feeling unmoored, returned home to find her beloved cat, Maestro, sprawled at the doorstep, purring. She brushed him aside, muttering, Not now! The cat trotted to his bowl, demanding food.
She thought, What do I have? A cat that cant speak, no husband, no children, an empty flat, a cold bed. Perhaps I played the wrong notes in the symphony of my life.
She sighed, If only I could turn back the clock, but summer never comes twice a year.
Emily replayed the entire melody of her existence, each note a melancholy echo of castles in the air and a past without redemption. Sitting in her armchair, wrapped in a familiar blanket, she recalled the old fable of the grasshopper: Did you sing all the time? Thats the point
Thus the dream lingered, surreal and strange, as the song of Emilys life drifted on, forever halfheard, forever unfinished.
