The Stranger Who Surrendered to the Rhythm of My Music

That week, during the evening rehearsals in the auditorium, I realized someone was watching me from the back of the hall. I wasn’t alarmed. I’d spent thirty years hauling my cello across stages around the world, and I’d learned to tell real danger from an harmless shadow. But that presence, crouched among the empty seats, awakened my curiosity.

I was the first guest soloist for the advanced summer course, in a coastal town on the Mediterranean. The auditorium was, in theory, reserved just for me after classes, though a dozen employees wandered through the building. All it would have taken was one shout from me for someone to come running. That was why I let that intruder return night after night without exposing her.

—This time I’ll catch you —I murmured that Friday as I adjusted the strings.

Her routine never varied. She took advantage of the chaos as my students left to slip into the stalls and sit near the door. I guessed she was young from the stealthy way she moved. I kept playing the repertoire as if nothing were happening, my eyes fixed on the score. I didn’t need it: you don’t become first cello soloist of the Boston Symphony by accident.

I’m a hopeless romantic, and that justified her presence to me. I know better than anyone the effect classical music has on the soul. I’ve cried like a little girl from the first bars of an opera to the final ovation. For me, music isn’t a profession: it’s life itself. I could understand another person wanting to glimpse it from the dark.

There was one piece in particular that made her lose her stealth. When I got to that sonata, she let out little gasps that reached my ears. Then, if I switched pieces, she stayed perfectly still until I put the cello away and left the stage. Only then would she slip off like a cat.

That Friday I made up my mind: I persuaded a young janitor with my best mean face. For the first time, the escape door didn’t open.

—Don’t bother —I called from the stage, my voice steady—. All the doors are locked. They only open with a key you don’t have.

I set the cello down and went barefoot down the stairs to the stalls. I walked down the center aisle with the bow in my hand. I know it isn’t a real weapon, but I’ve seen its deterrent effect more than once. It’s one thing not to be afraid and quite another not to take precautions.

—I don’t bite, you know? —I added.

The intruder didn’t run or try anything. She stayed standing by the door, motionless as a statue.

—If you wanted to hear me play, all you had to do was ask. There’s no need to come and go like a shadow. It’s childish behavior, don’t you think?

Silence. I was about to continue my sermon when, as I got closer, I understood my mistake.

My eyes, already used to the half-light, made out a tiny, terrified girl. Her skin was the color of milk tea and she was wearing the cleaning staff uniform. She stared at me wide-eyed, her hands trembling so badly I was afraid she might faint at any moment.

—Hey, calm down. It’s all right. Are you okay?

She looked ready to collapse. I, who had come down brandishing the bow like a sword, felt responsible. I gently took her by the shoulders and led her toward the brightest part of the theater. I helped her sit in the front row and ran to my dressing room. I came back with a glass of fresh juice and some tea biscuits; I figured they’d help her recover from the fright.

At first she refused. I had to insist several times before she accepted. She ate the biscuits in tiny bites, as though they were a delicate delicacy. Meanwhile, I tried to learn something about her. Her features weren’t African but Asian, probably Southeast Asian. I’ve traveled the world with my cello and I can usually identify an ethnicity with fair accuracy. Hers has always seemed beautiful to me: tanned skin, almond-shaped eyes, soft features.

—Feeling better?

She nodded slightly. At least she understood something. When she finished eating, she made as if to stand. I stopped her, firm but gentle.

—Easy, there’s no rush. Do you like the cello?

She looked at me as if I were speaking another language. I cleared up the confusion by miming playing. Her face lit up and she offered a brief smile that brought out all her natural beauty.

—Do you want me to play for you?

She shook her head, I suppose out of politeness. I wasn’t going to give up. To get where I am, persistence is just as necessary as talent.

—I’d be happy to. My name is Elena —I insisted, tapping my chest—. E-le-na.

—Mei —she imitated me—. M-e-i.

We both laughed. I could see her relaxing. I thought that if someone was risking their job just to hear me play, they deserved more credit than any box-seat subscriber.

***

I positioned myself in front of her onstage and began my routine. I close my eyes, curl my bare feet, caress the floor with my toes, and visualize the pieces as a palette of colors. I have musical chromesthesia: I perceive colors while the bow brushes the strings. They’re not blotches, but an intimate sensation that blends with the sound, amplifies it, and makes me vibrate.

“I’ll start with a sky blue. It’ll calm her.”

I took a deep breath. As strange as it may seem, I’m shy. My ease onstage has been forged over years, by forcing myself through embarrassing panic attacks I prefer to forget. At the first chord, the nerves evaporated. I opened my eyes. Mei was transfixed in her seat, her gaze fixed on me.

I played several familiar pieces, but her expression still didn’t quite fit. “She doesn’t like it. A pastel green suite? Maybe a yellow sonata?” After many years with the cello, I accepted that it’s impossible to choose a repertoire that pleases everyone, but with a single spectator I felt frustrated not to get it right. Until I remembered the piece that had given her away on all those previous afternoons.

I scrapped everything I’d planned and went straight for it.

Hardly had the first notes sounded when Mei reacted. Her body tensed like when an unexpected bell rings. The sonata was passionate and intimate, polychromatic in my mind. The first movement, orange with pinkish flashes, made her bring her hands to the outer sides of her thighs and start rubbing them with an almost imperceptible motion. As the music advanced, she slowly caressed inward, until she trapped the backs of her hands between her legs.

The second movement, in melancholy whites, left her still as an ebony statue, swaying only slightly. In the third, much more intense, something changed. Mauve wrapped everything and with it, her most visceral reaction. She spread her legs, freed her hands, and brought them to the hot place that good manners forbid touching in public. Her sighs turned into gasps, the gasps into moans. The rhythmic movements soon became spasms. Mei had an outrageously intense orgasm right there, without undressing, without anyone touching her, with only the stimulus of my music.

And she didn’t stop there.

Her fingers kept searching over the top of her trousers. First shyly, then shamelessly, rubbing herself with an open palm through the thick fabric of the uniform. I missed several notes, something unheard of for me. I had experienced being paralyzed in front of a painting, the dazed wonder of a sculpture, but this was another level. The Stendhal syndrome in its purest form.

I didn’t believe I was the cause of that reaction. It was obvious that the sonata, for some reason I couldn’t grasp, awakened something dormant in her body. The sensible thing would have been to stop, throw a diva fit, and kick her out. But something inside me wouldn’t let go of the bow. Watching her enjoy herself so naturally, so purely, turned me on. My own body began to respond. Denying it would have been absurd.

Ever since I accepted my sexual identity, after a few disappointing flings with men, I’d always known I was a lesbian without having time to actually live it. The cello was everything, and encounters with women were occasional distractions. But at that moment I felt a physical attraction toward Mei I had never felt for a stranger.

The final part of the score was fire-red, intense as an erupting volcano, and it demanded considerable physical effort from me. Mei threw her head back as if possessed, gasping for air with her mouth half-open and abandoning the last trace of modesty. As my fingers pressed the strings, hers delved beneath her T-shirt, stroking her breasts. As my right hand moved the bow, hers slipped into the waistband of her trousers.

I could make out the bulge of her hand moving in her crotch and the spasms that ran through her body when she sank her fingers inside herself. What unsettled me most was hearing, even over the cello, the gasps that burst from her throat when she came a second time. I didn’t know what to think of her: admiration, desire, envy. All at once. The only thing I knew for certain was that I wanted to be part of that.

When the music ended there was no ovation or applause, only a pair of wet panties, complicit looks, and silly laughter between two women who had recognized each other without needing words.

***

The sound of a lock broke the spell. Mei sprang to her feet. Hot and flushed, I had to fan myself with the score.

—Everything all right in here? —said the theater director as he came into the hall—. We need to close now, ma’am.

He was a stocky, bald, mustached man. His daughter Sandra followed him, a cheeky young woman who dreamed of the show business world. When she saw Mei, she frowned.

—What are you doing here? Your shift ended a while ago.

Mei left almost running, without saying goodbye.

—I asked her to stay —I cut in—. Don’t hold it against her. It’s awkward to play alone.

—Maybe. Though because of some labor inspection or other, we can’t have anyone in the building outside their working hours. A shame it’s her last day. She’s very punctual, works well, and never causes any trouble.

That alarmed me.

—Why? Is it because of today?

—No, no, don’t worry. The useless guy she’s replacing comes back on Monday, and since he has a permanent contract... you know how it is. We have to put up with the homegrown sort and bad-mouth the foreign one, even when they run circles around us.

I stopped listening. I had other priorities.

—Excuse me, I’m running late —I interrupted him.

I ran to the dressing room, grabbed my bag, my umbrella, and the cello, and took up position on the sidewalk in front of the staff exit. Hope that Mei hadn’t already evaporated into the boulevard crowd was fragile. It started to rain. Summer storms on that coast are brutal and catch the unwary off guard.

It was hard to recognize her. In her cinnamon-colored pleated skirt and white top that left her navel exposed, she could have passed for one of the teenage tourists rushing for shelter. The storm had caught her off guard and she was covering her long black hair with her backpack.

—Mei! Over here!

I ran toward her without caring about the puddles and sheltered her under my umbrella. After the initial surprise, she gave me a wide smile. Her beauty was even more breathtaking up close.

—Elena! —she said in a melodious voice.

I was glad she remembered my name. Despite being forty, I was clumsy at reading other women’s signals. The storm worsened before we reached the parking lot. Mei, sensibly, protected the cello case with the umbrella. The gesture was noble; the consequences, disastrous. We arrived soaked to the skin in the car and, once we sat down, our clothes clung to our bodies.

My navy-blue dress maintained a decent amount of discretion. Her white top became almost transparent. Her dark nipples peeked through the fabric, pointed, defiant. I couldn’t help staring. She noticed, but instead of covering up, she looked at the dashboard. Another silent victory.

—Would you like to come to my house? —I asked.

My voice trembled, and it wasn’t because of the cold. I’d always handled rejection badly. Her silence almost triggered a panic attack. Taking advantage of a traffic light, I looked at her: she shrugged and smiled at me again. She hadn’t understood me.

—You! —I pointed at her, then at myself—. My house. Yes?

—Yes, yes! —she answered brightly.

***

My townhouse was far from the coast, in a quiet neighborhood. Mei let out an admiring sound as she came in. We went up from the garage laughing, the cello in tow.

—Husband? —she whispered in rudimentary Spanish—. Children?

—No. Neither husband nor children. This house is mine alone. M-I-N-E.

Her face lit up. I couldn’t hold back any longer and kissed her. One step separated us and brought us to the same height. Just a tiny peck. I know it sounds childish, but for me it was a huge step. The few times I’d hooked up, it had always been the other woman who made the first move. I just let myself be carried along. Until that night.

I carried her in my arms to the bathroom. I left the cello on its stand. Mei looked around every corner as if she’d entered a cave of treasures. We prepared a hot bath between caresses and little kisses. When I took off her soaked clothes, I indulged my eyes. Her small breasts, her neatly trimmed pubic hair, the delicate curve of her ass. She looked like a doll: everything in its place, everything in proportion.

I undressed quickly. My body doesn’t have much to note, except my height and an impossible-to-tame mass of curly brown hair. I have a wiry build, inherited from my mother. As a child I wanted to be a ballerina, but a badly healed ankle sprain drove me into the cello’s arms.

In the water, the kisses multiplied without starting the battle. I brushed her sex, she brushed mine, but we kept our composure. She kissed wonderfully. I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable with my impatience.

In the bedroom I laid out the robe, which reached the floor on her. I laid her on the bed and explored her body. I traced her neck with my lips, played with her nipples, licked every inch of skin I could reach. What most drove my libido was the texture of her ass, soft and firm as velvet.

But something still wasn’t right. I didn’t sense rejection, but I expected more participation. Then I understood the complaints of my former lovers: I had been passive and waiting just like her. Mei returned my kisses, her tongue worked precise little devilry in my mouth, but her body didn’t surrender to the game.

I blamed my inexperience. I panicked.

—Is something wrong? —I asked—. Am I doing it wrong? Don’t you like me?

The language got in the way again. She wanted to speak and couldn’t find the words. Fortunately, her eyes pointed me in the right direction: they drifted to the stand where the cello rested.

When I understood, I smiled in relief. My strategy had an enormous flaw in its basic premise. I let go of her nipples and went over to the instrument. Mei slightly parted her legs as soon as I opened the case. The glow returned to her eyes.

I swear I had never been so nervous before playing. Not in the school performance, not in the conservatory final exam, not in my debut as a soloist. That night, more than ever, I felt my future depended on my virtuosity. For the first time I did my routine with my eyes open: I wanted to see Mei in every last detail. The repertoire was reduced to her favorite piece.

Modesty aside, it was the best performance of my life. Mei lit up to the first chords like a pot over a flame. When the sonata reached its climax, she twisted on the bed in time with the music. She caressed her body, opened her sex, and masturbated in front of me with a new shamelessness. One, two, three fingers entered her with astonishing ease. Her other hand squeezed one breast with lust, without tipping into violence.

Moments before the peak, her whole body convulsed. Her hair fell over her face and moans poured from her throat that drove me crazy. Her orgasm was so immense it infected me. I wanted to fuse my body with hers and experience even a tenth of what she was feeling. Even so, professionally, I finished the sonata to the last note despite my sex being welded to the seat by my own wetness.

—Elena! —she whispered breathlessly, opening her arms to invite me in.

I put the cello down in a hurry. If it didn’t crash to the floor, it was pure miracle. I melted into her and her change in attitude was obvious. She stroked me, kissed me, devoured me, giving me no chance to breathe. She licked my breasts, stimulated my nipples with her tongue, and when she moved down to my sex, everything else ceased to exist. She touched exactly where she needed to touch, inserted her fingers at the right moment and in just the right amount. Intense, without roughness. Pure delight.

Mei, with her innocent-little-girl appearance, revealed herself to be an expert. She didn’t need artifice or flourishes. She knew perfectly well the territory she was in. With her tongue she lapped up my wetness and, with little effort, made more of it come. My previous lovers considered me frigid. That tanned young woman proved how wrong they were: it was they who didn’t know how to touch me.

If I made her come with the cello, she was no slouch with her hands. I’d say it was an unforgettable night. I’d be lying if I said it was one of a kind: that first one was followed by many more.

***

Mei’s impact on my life was immediate. Sharing a bed with her triggered a series of changes I hadn’t dared to tackle. I accepted the post I’d been turning down for a year in a nearby orchestra and moved my residence. She gave me the peace I’d spent years looking for and, at the same time, a passion I’d never known before. Over time, through trial and error, we expanded our intimate musical repertoire.

Two years later, here we still are. About to become mothers to a little girl Mei is carrying. Fighting against everything and everyone, but happy, sharing our passion for music in our own way.