There was a dimming of lights, some furtive water slurps from the audience and the Sydney Symphony Orchestra filed onto the Concert Hall stage. I counted at least twenty-five violins, plus cellos, but there was no sign of Sophia. Joe was craning forward in the manner of an anxious ibis, and I was surprised to see that Jarrah had a small pair of binoculars.
“Can’t wait to meet her afterwards?” I asked her.
“Nope, I need to study the alien in detail.”
“You’ll never keep those away from Joe.”
“He’s got his own.”
“Right.”
Finally there were just two empty chairs left next to the conductor’s podium. A slight little man with a shaved skull appeared first and then finally Sophia materialised to a smattering of applause from the crowd. She strolled through the orchestra with grace, her back straight in a simple black dress, her dark hair tied in a bun accentuating her long pale neck, her violin and bow in her left hand. Even ten rows from the stage, I could feel the measured calm of an ice queen.
“God, she’s a knockout,” Jarrah said, peering through her binoculars.
“Told you,” said Joe. “This is unbelievable, I think she’s guest violin.”
Sophia took her seat while the little man turned, faced the orchestra, lifted his violin to his chin and nodded to the oboes. A single note flowed into the concert hall. The strings followed and then the rest of the instruments. When they were tuned, he sat content. Meanwhile Sophia looked through the audience into the unknowable, her face as pale as sculptured marble. The conductor appeared; there was a flurry of applause, to which he responded with a long bow, and then it began.
To be honest, the best way to understand what happened to us that night is to look for Scheherazade on You Tube. Nothing I can say here will ever do justice to those fifty minutes of music by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. After a few heavy chords from the full orchestra, Sophia stood and played a solo of such sinuous beauty and yet so full of melancholia I was taken to a place I’d never been before. I’d never heard the essence of love distilled with that kind of intensity. Then the orchestra took over with a beautiful sweeping melody flowing like waves on a caramel sea. For four movements the harmonies twisted and turned, streaming through delicate devotion, cold fury and rapture. Sophia’s solos returned, taking me deeper into the sensory journey. She seemed to be channelling the sound of space and time.
The spirit she distilled was extraordinary, although I’m not sure if it was made more potent by the fact that I knew her. If she’d been a stranger it might have been different, I’m not sure. Whatever the case, I can pretty much guarantee that if you’re falling in love you should devote fifty minutes to Scheherazade. The enchantment will take you deeper into who you are and the lover you could become.
As we edged through the crowds at intermission, I expected a lot of chatter, especially from Joe, but he was silent, lost I assumed in adoration. On a balcony overlooking the harbour with a drink in his hand, he stared expressionless at the distant lights of Kings Cross.
“I’m going home,” he said, swallowing the last of his champagne. “This was the biggest mistake of my life.”
10
I was astonished. Until this point, Joe’s imaginary love affair with Sophia had followed a familiar course: instant devotion followed by non-invasive obsession.
“Say that again?” I asked waiting for the punch line.
“I can’t do this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t go backstage. I’d feel like an idiot.”
“Why?”
“You were there, you saw what happened. I spend my life digging around alimentary canals, and Sophia is channelling the universe. How the hell can I compete with a performance like that?”
I stared at Jarrah with a plea for a sensible intervention, but she merely returned a dangerous half-smile. No help there.
“Joe, you’re not supposed to compete, you know that,” I said.
“No, but I have to match it.”
“Jarrah, will you talk to your idiot brother.”
“Why? If he wants to go home, let him.”
“Christ, you’re as crazy as he is.”
“I’m not crazy,” said Joe quietly, “I just can’t meet her. Not tonight.”
“Well I’m going to,” said Jarrah, with her deadly half-smile.
Joe stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m going to say hello, buy her a drink, and ask her to dinner.”
The import of what she was saying hit hard.
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
“Why not? She’s gorgeous, and it’s such a beautiful night.”
“You’re just messing with me.”
“If I mess with anyone tonight, Joe Frankenstein, it’s not going to be you.”
Five minutes of small talk later, we were following Joe back to our seats for the second half of the concert. On the way I leaned over Jarrah’s shoulder. “Were you serious?”
“Sure,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “Wouldn’t you be?”
I don’t remember every work in the second half, but I do know it ended with typical good luck for Joe. The final piece was George Enescu’s Romanian Rhapsody No 2, the same rhapsody Sophia and Joe had rhapsodised over in my surgery. It swells with romance, massed violins flow like airborne honey, and I don’t think I’m overdoing it when I say that Joe was empowered by its energy. It was like a spiritual affirmation.
At one point he turned to me with a nervous smile, his eyes alight with excitement, or perhaps trepidation. The stardust was pumping and I knew he would charm Sophia. If he didn’t, there was a chance that he would lose out to his beguiling twin sister.
His nerves must have been screaming when we met Jarrah’s friends backstage, but there was no evident sign. Out came the veterinary charm, and only his sister and I had an inkling of his anxiety. Happily for him, the Opera House green room provides plenty of space in which to disguise fright. It’s like a small airport terminal, with a long bar running down one wall, and nests of armchairs and sofas facing tall windows looking out onto the harbour. Members of the orchestra were chattering in small groups, some with drinks in their hands, others with legs dangling over armrests, lost in contemplation.
I was the first to see Sophia. She was standing in silhouette, with her back to the crowd looking out into the lights of Kirribilli. Joe’s firefly ferries were scudding through black water laced with moonlight. On cue, a cruise ship blazing with light drifted through frame. It was enchanting.
I turned to Joe to point her out, but I was too late. He was on his way.
What happened next took place between two silhouettes in a shadow play. He walked up and stood at a short distance for several seconds before turning and saying something with what must have been feigned surprise. She glanced at him and stepped slightly away, obviously taken aback; some words were exchanged, and then she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
Well look at that, I said to myself, the