Unquenchable's Blog

She is listening for trust in his step so that the pictures in her head fit with the hiss of the summer rain hitting the pavement. He is right behind her. He is with her all the way. They walk towards the concert hall.

Inside, her husband lifts his baton and the harpist runs her long fingers down three octaves.

Around them, invisible spirits swirl and seep into the cortex but these two pause for a second. They are standing outside the large windows of the concert hall. Inside is all gilt, and warm red leather. Music is audible, It floats out in cold streams like air conditioning.

She steps inside and he follows, shadowing her along the leather lined corridors.

The programme booth is situated under a strange painting. It catches her eye. Semi abstract, with great swirling arcs of red, it seems to represent two women making love. Their pose reminds her of early Chinese erotica. It has the same naïve joy. She stops and buys a programme, and the young attendant smiles at her as she hands her the change.

“The concert’s already started, Mrs Pope, but I’m sure you’d be able to watch from the listening room.” She smiles again. The woman wonders if the attendant has slept with her husband. The young man stands facing a framed photo, an image of her husband, his eyes bright and slightly salacious, hair elegantly ruffled in a thin attempt to look casual, the gap between nose and upper lip betraying a Romanian heritage.

She watches him look at the photo of her husband. He gazes up at the images, his weight poised forward. He turns and smiles at her and carefully raises his hand in the exact same gesture, in a parody without malice.

She is amused and suddenly she is older, in control. She takes his hand and leads him down the corridor.

They reach a small red door set into the wall of the auditorium. The music playing within is audible and vibrates beneath their feet. The brass section reaches a crescendo and she can see the exact stance of her husband, both hands jerking up in that curious half knowing, half abandoned impulse which music, like electricity induces in him. His face will be wildly out of control, revealing a sensuality he has never been able to express.

She reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a small gold key. She unlocks the door.

Gently he pushes her in from behind, and she stumbles into the darkened room. The sound of music is near deafening. He places his hands over her breasts, caressing the orbs, pulling at the nipples. They harden beneath the satin. She pushes the door shut with her foot.

The room is small, set into the left wall of the auditorium facing the stage. Ordinarily it is used for the recordings by the BBC. The proximity of the stage and the acoustics incurred by such geography make this possible. Two large windows open directly onto the auditorium and face the stage, thus enabling a complete panoramic view of both conductor and orchestra. Because of its darkened walls and the manner in which the windows are set slightly above and into the walls of the auditorium, both the audience and performers are oblivious to the existence of the room unless otherwise informed.

Mr Pop raises his baton and the cellist begins the second movement. Mrs Pope pushes the young man away from her. She gestures for him to keep quiet. Slowly, from within her briefcase she pulls out a black net corset and two highly polished Italian patent leather high heels. She bends over, and the man begins rolling her skirt above her hips. She stands and pushes her skirt back down. He moves across the darkened room and leans into the window. Just then the conductor raises his arms and with a wild flailing sweeps the orchestra into the second movement. She slips on the corset under her dress, a quarter cup black number. The cups cut under her breasts, as if a man is holding them up and squeezing them.

She begins rolling down her fishnet tights. They catch slightly on her toenail. She turns to the young man.

His head is nodding in time with the music. He leans against the wide shelf of the window, beyond which she can see her husband vacillate with the music. At that instance she can see through the young man’s eyes. She knows what stirs him beneath his trousers. It is the proximity of the audience just outside the window. They are her captive audience, blind to her presence yet so close that if she wanted to she could throw her lingerie and it would fall, perhaps dangle across their faces.

On stage, the fourth violinist studies a twist of blonde hair. It curls teasing on the neck of the cellist sitting in front of him. The fourth violinist, barely nineteen and still a virgin, wonders what the hair would taste like. He imagines salty. He imagines running his fingers up the smooth nape then plunging his fingers into the soft mass of hair. Taking a handful he would push her head down, push her soft pliant mouth down to his cock and …… the third violinist nudges him hard in the ribs. He is late with his note by twenty seconds.

He follows the conductor’s baton as it spirals slowly up into the air. His eye is caught by something set into the wall.

(continued in The Listening Room- Part Three)