DOUBLE-BASS

by Karen Levy

She’d never heard anything like the piece he performed, a solo for doublebass, at a concert she attended with the musician friend who would introduce them. “That’s him,” the friend whispered as he came on stage. “Larry. He plays modern.” She wasn’t sure what that meant, so she readied herself for something atonal and unpleasant. She watched as he walked to center stage, bearded and handsome, where he embraced the instrument and wrapped himself around it. Then he played a piece with no memorable melody, but the sound of the instrument was so sweet and low that she wasn’t sure if she was hearing it or feeling it. After the concert, she and her friend went outside to wait for him. She couldn’t stop thinking about the sound of the instrument and way he’d held it, how he’d chewed on his mouth as he played, biting down on his lip to cover his moans. She’d heard his moans and she’d listened for them at the rests when the bass was silent. He’d made love to the bass on stage as she’d watched, as everyone watched, and then stood to applaud. She imagined herself as the bass, the instrument of his passion. She knew she could shake his world. “Larry!” her friend called, reaching up to wave, and she stepped right in front of her, so Larry would see her first. Around them, people whispered, “He’s a musical genius”, as he came over to her, to take her hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said, while behind her people shook their heads, as if to say, Poor thing, she doesn’t see he’s already committed to his one true love. Their courtship was slow, and he remained unshaken. Even once they were a couple holding hands, he never held her like the bass, never showed her the passion he displayed on stage. At parties he’d rest a forearm on her shoulder and she realized how far this was from an embrace. Her first night in his apartment, she woke up to see a tall, dark woman watching from a corner of the room. She almost screamed, until she realized it was Larry’s double-bass. She walked over to it, but rather than feeling calmed, she felt small and insignificant. She hurried to the bathroom, unhappy about sharing the bedroom with something that looked like another woman. She thought about destroying her competition, grabbing it by the neck and smashing it to the floor—but then she’d watch him perform on stage and be awed by him, his posture and rhythm; and how he used the instrument, how he teased the music out of it, how he melded into it to make music with it—with her—and she wanted to stand up in the middle of the orchestra section and scream, “He’s mine!” furious about what was happening on stage for everyone to see. She covered her ears. “What’s wrong?” her musician friend asked. She shook her head. On stage, Larry was wrapped around the bass and moaning. “Isn’t it wild?” her friend asked. “What?” “Those sounds he makes!” “Oh, those.” He never made those sounds with her. “You’re embarrassed,” her friend said, laughing. The music ended and she watched Larry bow. His arm was draped lovingly around the bass and that’s when she stood up and screamed at the top of her lungs: “What about me?” But the audience stood too, for an ovation, and her words were lost to their applause. She pushed past them and into the aisle. When she got to the lobby, she passed a long-haired woman, the wife of another musician, who was checking herself out in a mirrored wall. She didn’t stop to say hello; she ran past and onto the sidewalk, thinking how the woman’s husband would be gently packing up his instrument now, wiping her down with long, slow strokes before leaving the orchestra room with his arm around her, as his longhaired wife readied herself for the lifetime of competition that lay ahead.

Source: https://www.muw.edu/images/colleges/as/llp/ponderreview/issues/PonderReviewvol4iss2.pdf