Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
But it’s the fourth movement that makes me cry like a baby every time I hear it. The orchestra surges back to life with a dark urgency, eventually marching forward toward a booming climax of dissonant chords against the clang of church bells.
Both the Shostakovich and the Beethoven end with fast movements with martial flair, but the finales of each work couldn’t be more different. While the Beethoven concerto ended with a clear triumph, the Shostakovich symphony’s final march is not one into victory, but rather inevitability. The soldiers marching forward know that they are marching into their own graves, but faced with certain annihilation, they press on. I’ve always thought of the church bells as the soldiers hearing their own death knells in their final moments as they defiantly face their enemy for the last time.
The symphony ends with one final clang of the church bells, which the percussionist allows to ring out fully into the stunned silence of the concert hall without any dampening. The final bell vibrates directly into my bones, and my body shakes from the sob it desperately wants to release.
The patrons are quiet for a moment—it’s not a sudden jump to applause like at the end of the Beethoven. But when the brave first few souls begin to clap, the rest of us join in, doubling the amount of volume from the end of the concerto. The conductor turns and bows, and his long hair is matted down with sweat. He exits into the wings of the concert hall and then returns for his first curtain call. The applause is still going strong, with no end in sight. Several other patrons are wiping their eyes and blowing their noses.
I’m a mess, of course. This symphony always affects me, but now, after that terrible night in the field by the airport, it hits me tenfold.
Those soldiers are marching straight up to the gates of Hell, their heads raised and their weapons at the ready. They know their fate, and they accept it. To retreat is cowardice, even in the face of certain defeat.
Maddox and I are doing something similar. We’re doing everything in our power to make sure that Rouge Montrose faces justice for what she did to poor May.
And I’m not sure we’ll make it out alive either.
15
MADDOX
Alissa is a beautiful crier.
A lot of people get puffy and red when they cry, but Alissa cries with dignity, with poise.
That symphony was something else.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t that.
It was like watching a war movie with your eyes closed.
The most brutal scenes in Saving Private Ryan had nothing on the violence I just heard.
The audience is still applauding—it’s been going on for over five minutes now—but I stop clapping and wrap my arm around Alissa’s shoulders. “You okay?”
She swallows, wiping her eyes. “Y-Yes. It’s just… I love Shostakovich. He’s so raw, so real.” She reaches into her handbag, pulls out a tissue, and dabs at her eyes. “You must think I’m such a mess.”
“I could never think that of you.” I kiss her tearstained cheek. “If anything, the fact that you’re so moved by what we just heard tells me everything I need to know about you.”
“That I’m a big softie?”
I shake my head. “That you allow the music in. Into your heart, your soul. Not everyone can do that. Not everyone can feel with their whole body like you can.” I gesture to some of the stuffier audience members around us who are applauding politely with bone-dry eyes. “I’m sure a lot of these people have been going to the symphony for years, but they don’t have your ability to truly…empathize with the sounds you’re hearing.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I saw the way you closed your eyes whenever we reached a more emotional section. The way your wrist twitched every so often, as if you were the one conducting the orchestra. It’s amazing, Alissa. You’re amazing.”
And I love you.
Just say it, Maddox. Three little words.
Fuck.
I want to. So fucking bad.
But I’ve known this woman a week. Exactly a week. Last Thursday was the day she walked into my shop for the first time.
We’ve been through a lot. There’s a certain bond formed by shared trauma.
What if that’s all I’m feeling? What if it isn’t real love at all?
I loved Laurie. That was real.
But I also thought I loved Rouge. And I couldn’t have been more wrong about my feelings for her.
The applause has finally died down. By now the conductor has bowed four separate times. And I thought pop singers were divas.
The musicians have begun to leave the stage and the patrons have started to fill the aisles. I offer Alissa my arm. “Should we head out?”
She takes one more wistful stare at the stage before nodding and giving me a slight smile. “Yes. Thank you so much for bringing me here, Maddox. It was… It was exactly what I needed. A reminder to appreciate all the beauty that this world has. And a reminder to fight for that beauty.”