This short story was initially published on in Dreams of Sleeping Gods, an online science fiction magazine. Since the website and operation has been indefinitely suspended, I am now providing the short story here.
Since this short story is part of a shared world, some context is necessary.
Dreams of Sleeping Gods was an ambitious project created by Curtis Brown in which many writers submitted short stories that take place in the shared world of the Endless City. This futuristic city is comprised of three tiers:
The Canopy: This is the upper crust where the affluent and upper class reside.
Limbo (a.k.a. Purgatory): This sandwiched tier belongs to the middle class and is the setting of this story.
The Deep (a.k.a. Hell): This is the bottom rung of the city where the lower class struggle to survive.
The city is reminiscent to popular sci-fi settings like Minority Report and Blade Runner. With this context, the story can be easily understood.
Measures in Forfeiture
Briar’s fingers fell upon the keys like lead nuggets. The combined weight of her frustration and fatigue caused every note to ring sharp. Light on the mezzo and heavy on the forte. It was an injustice to the melody, but she was performing the song more out of necessity than desire. She would worry about the pitch tomorrow, when she was refreshed. For now, it was about timing — executing the score within the parameters of the tempo.
When she reached the end, she flicked a switch on the music rack and the pages flittered back to the beginning and recommenced. Although she had perfected the tempo months ago, Briar knew the shortcoming of an artist was to be content with mere perfection.
“Bri,” Rosa, her wife, called from a rear corridor. Treble tones clashed with contralto notes, an indignity to the music. Briar was instantly withdrawn from the melody.
“What is it?” Rosa’s interruption was vexing, but Briar didn’t intend for her response to sound so callous.
“I’m going to bed,” said Rosa, appearing unperturbed by the curtness. “How much longer will you be?” Briar was still transitioning from her reverie into the real world. She struggled to find the right words. “I don’t know,” Briar said.
“Did you even come to bed last night? You weren’t there when I woke up.”
Briar contemplated the truth: that she’d fallen asleep with her head upon the fallboard. “I got some sleep, but I didn’t want to wake you.”
The room was silent, but not the good kind of silence. Not the hush of an audience anticipating a performance—a calm rarely achieved at the boisterous Vellum Lounge. No. It was a muteness that laid a person bare. A sullenness that accentuated vulnerability.
“Please come to bed, Bri,” Rosa pleaded.
“Four more days. Four more days, and then, there’ll be time for us.”
“How much time?” Rosa snapped. “How much time will we have until you lock yourself away in this room again? It’s clear you’d much rather make love to your music than to me.”
Briar turned from the piano to face Rosa. Boisterous guilt berated her as she tore her focus from her sonorous beloved. “This is different,” Briar countered. “How often is the lounge visited by someone from the Canopy, never mind someone as influential as Grand Maestro Sergeyevna?”
“What is it you think he can offer you? Fortune and fame? I couldn’t give a fuck about either. I’d waste away in Hell if it meant you’d be by my side.” Rosa’s face was now blemished with tears.
“I, too, don’t wish for either. I don’t care for anything but his admiration,” said Briar.
“Admiration?” Rosa murmured.
“I love you, Rosa, but this man is among a dying breed of people who can truly appreciate organic compositions. His station in the Canopy only makes his admiration all the more covetable.”
“It’s a packed house every night, Bri. The Vellum Lounge is a lure for music enthusiasts,” Rosa exclaimed, arms tightly hugging her chest. “I’ve said it a million times now, you’ve already proven your worth!”
Briar rubbed her eyes. This argument was distracting her from what truly mattered. “The lounge attendants, they can’t tell the difference between human compositions and cybernetic ditties. This programmed music that’s dominating the airwaves, it’s not art; it’s mathematics.”
“Who cares that it’s mathematical? Who cares that it’s just an amalgamation of history’s entire music collection?” said Rosa.
Briar grew exasperated. “These technological sonority systems produce tunes based on popular tempos and algorithmic pitches. It’s so…”
“Formulaic?” said Rosa. This argument was familiar to her.
“Listen, Rosa. The audience is just there for the ambiance. They’re there to see what it feels like to have someone perform for them. A performer in the flesh. Gives them a taste of what it’s like to be a Canopy resident. But to have an Upper descend to Purgatory in pursuit of a live performance, well, that’s someone who can appreciate the sensitivity and subtle imperfections of man-made music.” Briar paused to collect her thoughts.
“It’s emotions that set us apart from machines, Rosa.”
Rosa frowned. “You certainly have a calculated way of showing these emotions you’re so wrapped up in.”
Briar stood up, sending the piano bench skirting across the floor, but Rosa was already out of sight. Before she could bellow a harsh retort, her partner had already slammed the door to their bedroom.
Briar spent the rest of the night using her anger to experiment with the sheet music.
“You’re the meaning behind the melody.”
That’s what you told me during your proposal.
But music evolves, and so, too, has my meaning to you.
It’s clear to me that you need to find your new muse.
Three days until her performance. Their loft had never seemed so big in the absence of her spouse. But this is what she wanted, wasn’t it? To be left alone to her music?
She sat down at the piano, but an impermeable blanket of grief and regret smothered her will to compose sound. She reluctantly played a note. A-sharp. The piano was properly tuned, but the note fell flat.
She spent the remainder of the day trying to reach Rosa to no avail. The piano made no more sound that day.
The following day, dust settled upon the piano. Undisturbed.
On the day before her performance, Briar had given up hope of finding Rosa. If they were to be reunited, it would be by Rosa’s will.
So, she returned to her first love, and she played a melody. A new melody.
It was the day of the performance.
Silverware clinked against glass plates, sounding like metallic rain. Most were there for the atmosphere, but Briar knew that at least one person was there for the music: Grand Maestro Sergeyevna.
The curtain hid the stage and the lights were still dim when Briar took her seat at the piano. She curressed the keys, silently miming the melody. She breathed deeply, trying to settle her nerves. This performance was to be an argument in favor of the human arts—a dissertation about the superiority of man-made compositions over mathematical, synthetic melodies.
Just as her mind began to wander, the curtain rose.
Briar surveyed the audience. In the center, at a circular table, sat Grand Maestro Sergeyevna. His features appeared artificial, but his unwavering concentration was confirmation that he’d not fallen victim to the city’s simulated tones. His perception of music would not be swayed by techno-melodies. His table was the only one free of all distractions—no food, no drink, not even a guest.
Briar looked to the table on the left — her table, Rosa’s table — hoping to see a familiar face. But the table was occupied by strangers. It hurt her, but why did it matter? Briar wasn’t playing for anyone but the Grand Maestro.
But, if not for him, who would she be playing for? Rosa was gone, and the audience was made up almost entirely of casual listeners. Tomorrow, the Grand Maestro would be gone. Then who would she have? This revelation shook her, and she let out a sob.
The audience suddenly became quiet. The stillness that overtook the venue was so abrupt Briar nearly succumbed to its spell. But this was her opportunity. These were the perfect conditions in which to begin her composition.
And so she played. She didn’t play from her sheet notes nor did she play the altered melody from the night before. This was something new. This was improvisation.
She let her tears wet the keys. Her fingers slipped, creating an unintended theme of desperation and fallibility. This was the music that could not be extrapolated by computerized sonority systems.
For once, she wasn’t playing for anyone else. She was playing for herself. She was taken by the current of the music. Each bend unseen. Every note, new and exciting. All her transgressions and feelings of misery and guilt were drowned in rhythmic refrain.
The melody rose and sank, riding upon the joy and sorrow that stained her life. This was a summary of her. An homage to her love. A eulogy to the love lost. A field of tulips erased by a tumultuous tempest, and a song that derived beauty from the muted colors that remained.
When she finished the piece, the silence remained. There was no round of applause. The audience wasn’t used to the unexpected.
Briar looked at the Grand Maestro. He was a portrait of tranquility, eyes closed and arms draped over his armrests. There was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. She’d succeeded.
Much of the audience went back to eating as the next performer took the stage.
Backstage, Briar found a private corner and sank to the floor. She’d done it. The audience wouldn’t have recognized the masterpiece, but she was sure the Grand Maestro had approved. She had beaten the mechanized melodies of sonority systems with emotion, imagination, and spontaneity.
“Bri,” said a familiar voice.
Briar looked up and saw Rosa. Despite the streaks of tears muddling her makeup, she was beautiful. Her frame was tightly wound by a lavish and colorful gown. She stood in stark contrast to the pockmarked and colorless cement walls.
“Why is it you could never make love to me the way you do that piano?” Rosa said with an impish smile.
Briar remained seated on the floor, her knees too weak. She knew this was not Rosa seeking clemency. Reunification was beyond reach. For too many years Briar had ignored Rosa.
Briar didn’t want their marriage to end. She truly did love Rosa, but Briar knew that they could never be. She’d said it herself but never lived by it: Gratification is the adversary of creation. Rosa was a source of contentment, and without her, Briar had given her entirety to her music in an attempt to fill that void.
By leaving her, Rosa bestowed upon Briar this gift. It would be imprudent to squander it. It would be an injustice to her sacrifice. Briar knew that her love for Rosa would never fade, which was an ideal way to preserve this fountain of creation.
“I’m sorry,” said Briar. Years of indiscretion couldn’t be forgiven in so few words. But amnesty wasn’t Briar’s intention; it was closure.
Rosa understood. She smiled and left her for the final time. A pianissimo coda.