Tell me your story!

"Tell me your story from its very beginning, Des Grieux", said the priest, his smile warm and inviting "- and how you got to be aquainted with him."  He was younger than the priests Camille had known, his demeanor more that of a friend than a confessor, as if he might be someone capable of understanding. Still, Camille found himself uncertain, unsure of just how much he could safely entrust to this mans compassion.

There was no need for the confessional, as the church was empty, and likely to stay that way at this time of day. It was a glorious September morning, not quite autumn, but the warm light filtering through the glass windows whispered that summer was gently fading.

Camille breathed in deeply, organizing his thoughts while his hand passed through his dark hair, streaked with the faintest hint of gray. The memories felt as distant as this gentle sunlight would seem when winter’s harshness inevitably claimed the days.

"It was at a grand charity concert where he was playing," he began, his mind drifting back to the opulent theatre, its rich red carpets and golden ornaments, a vision of splendor and wealth. He recalled with striking clarity just how much he had loathed being there at the time.

“These kind of amateur-performances are one of the many plagues of modern civilization.”, he said finally. “Still since my mother was one of the lady patronesses, I felt incumbent to be present.”

“But he was not an amateuer, was he?” the priest inquired

Camille responded at once, though the question seemed to catch him slightly off guard: “Oh, no. Still at that time he was only just beginning to make a name.”

Then after a short pause:

“He already sat down the piano, when I got to my stall d’orchestre. He played one of those easy, graceful melodies that reminded me of lavender-perfume and also of beautiful, powdered ladies dressed in yellow satin gowns, flirting while descreetly gazing over their hand fans.

As he reached the end of the piece I saw him cast several sidelong glances towards, as I thought, one of his acquaintances behind me or maybe even towards my mother, who was sponsoring him.

I was barely seated when my mother tapped me on my shoulder with her fan.

"Camille, you are late.“ she said, her dark eyebrows arching into a discreet frown that would have passed unnoticed by many, but not by me. I was familiar with this sign of her impatience and hastily replied:

“I am so sorry, mother! I was reading in the garden and time escaped me entirely.”

"Hush now!"

She said this as she stood up to applaud. As I glanced back, the young pianist had vanished, ceding the spotlight to a burgeoning asian songstress.

I found myself seized by an odd sense of regret at having missed Rene and his performance - yet the origin of such sentiment remained tantalizingly elusive.”

“And what happened afterwards?” the priest asked, interrupting Camille and suddenly bringing into sharp focus how long he had been speaking, as if the priest had been a mere shadow. Camille paused, momentarily flustered, struggling to reorganize his thoughts after the sudden and unexpected break of thoughts.

“Well, let's see...”, her murmured. “There was some singing of course. I remember my mother was pretty fond of the artists, especially since she proposed most of them to the theatre as part of her patronage.

Rene Teleny came out again towards the middle of the concert, much to my surprise. As he bowed, before taking his place at the piano, his eyes seemed to be looking out for someone in the pit.

I think it was then that our glances met for the first time.

He was a slight young man of twenty-four, his hair curled and his dark skin of a peculiar ashy hue, but this - as I knew afterward - was due to his bronzed skin always imperceptibly powdered to make it look fairer than it actually was.

His eyes, though generally taken for black, were of a deep blue colour and although they ever appeared so quiet and serene, still a close observer would have seen in them a scared and wistful look, as if he were gazing at some dreadful, dim, and distant vision. An expression of the deepest sorrow invariably succeeded his usually playful glamour.

From the very first time I saw him, I felt that he could delve deeply into my heart.

And although his expression was anything but sensual, still, every time he looked at me, I felt the blood within my veins set aglow.”

The priest looked at Camille with an expression that, while certainly not one of distaste, still left Camille puzzled about the man’s true feelings. In a tone tinged with musing curiosity, the priest asked: “I have been told he was very handsome. Is it true?”

“ I would say he striked me as remarkably good looking, and he possessed an acute awareness of his own allure.”, answered Camille with a gentle smile and his eyes fixed seemingly into the distant past. “Much later, when he knew me better, he revealed his disdain to me for being solely defined by his looks in the newspapers.I think he had an egocentric trait aswell. - His deepest desire was for recognition of his truly exceptional musical talents, surpassing even his enjoyment of captivating crowds as a splendid adornment.”

The priest nodded just as if he was expecting this very answer and then inquired: "What happened at the concert?"

Camille smiled, remembering the past so vividly: "He sat down and began to play a wild Hungarian rhapsody by either an unknown composer or himself. Its effect was perfectly entrancing. Among all music, none rivals that of the Roma in its sensual potency. And the classical Hungarian music quite differs from our set of rules for harmony. It jars upon the ears.These melodies begin by shocking us, then by degrees subdue, until at last they enthral us."

Camille looked up as the priest chuckled softly, a sound that seemed incongruously out of place."I am afraid I hardly know one note from another and even less about the fioriture of Hungarian music.”, said the man with a wry smile. “Please go on with your story."

With a mixture of amusement and affront, Camille retorted, "You just cannot disconnect Rene Teleny from the music of his native country. He started with a soft and low andante, something like the plaintive wail of forlorn hope, before the ever-changing rhythm, increasing in swiftness, became wild as a lover's farewell and without losing any of its sweetness, but always acquiring new vigor reached a mysterious passion, now melting into a mournful dirge.

His beauty drew me in like a wolf to the haunting melody of a nightingale, lured by its ethereal song under the moonlit sky. I found myself utterly entranced not merely by the dexterity of his performance, but by the graceful choreography of his slender hands, which seemed to dance upon the keys with an elegance unmatched.

He, in beauty as well as in character, was the very personification of this entrancing music.

At the same time the strangest visions began to float before my eyes.

___________________________________

Hello, Selfmaiden speaking!

Thanks so much for reading my story. I want to make this story interactive with my followers, so please feel free to chose which vision Camille has in mind, while Rene play the piano. (EDIT: The decision has been made. I am happy to see your thoughts for the next chapters. :-) )

What is Camille thinking about?

A) I thought about a lonely and vast landscape

B) A sad story about loss he once heard. (We decided together for this option!)

C) Sodom and Ghomorra destroyed by sin.

All three visions are already ready to read in my romance simulator right here:

https://selfmaiden.itch.io/teleny