Narrative Essay
Aug. 23rd, 2004 01:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
spiderpigAn assignment for school. Nothing spectacular. Its dedicated to my best friend Cheryl, whose piano teacher has left the country to persue other things.
I had writer's block and asked for suggestions on what to write, so Cheryl gave me this idea. It isn't really my best piece of work, but I tried to infuse feelings into it. Maybe it'll score an A?
The Farewell
The majesty of the red-brick French style house, with its large ornate doors and intricately carved windows, could not be ignored on Tanglin Road. Though the area was populated by many houses of western influence, clearly, none could match the sheer size and beauty of Goh Wei Yen’s mansion.
A rubber plantation tycoon, the young Goh had arrived in Singapore in the late 1930s and started off by working odd jobs. After a few years, he managed to buy a plot of land and a few rubber tree saplings. With a blessing from Lady Luck, his business flourished and he was soon mingling with the hoi polloi of the early British colony.
He had only one daughter, his precious jewel, the light of his life. Since the post-natal depression his wife had suffered, she slowly faded away and died, leaving the young baby girl in the hands of her father who knew nothing about caring for a child. He looked after her the only way he knew how, by showering her with material possessions.
“Miss Cheryl Goh, please come and sit down! Your father hired me to teach you the beauté of music, not listen to the cacophony you are making!” cried out the youthful French teacher. Her hands rubbed against the ebonized birch wood of the Steinway & Sons’ piano, fingers trembling nervously. She had heard stories of the dreadful child who terrorized and wreaked havoc on all the teachers before her. The teacher wondered if she could handle such a little monster, and survive to tell the tale.
The girl of question, the age of 10 (that ambiguous age where children assume that they are adults because of the two digits in their age), bounced into the room, her poplin frock swishing about and hair all mussed up. She held a catapult in her hands. “Miss Adrienne Levine,” she deplored authoritatively, “My father wouldn’t care if you taught me anything or not. Besides, I don’t care for music.” The girl ran up to the teacher and placed the catapult threateningly in front of Miss Levine. “Jeremy taught me how to use this,” she explained, referring to her neighbour.
Adrienne moved back instinctively, hoping that the look of worry and fear would not betray her. It was a wonder that such a pleasant looking child, almost of angelic quality, could possess the mischief that she had. Without much thought, she reached out and grabbed the toy from Cheryl’s hands.
The girl was shocked. No one had dared defy her before.
“Music is all around us, child,” Adrienne responded. Her finger pulled back at the rubber band and her other finger struck at the tightened band. A loud twang was heard. Noting the interested gleam in Cheryl’s eyes, Adrienne tried her strategy again. This time, she did not pull the band so hard. A sound of lower pitch resounded through the air.
“How did you do that?” chirped Cheryl, mesmerized. She stepped closer to the lady and sat down beside her. “Can you teach me how?”
“Of course!” Adrienne exclaimed happily. She began speaking in rapid French, explaining the physical factors of what caused the sounds. Cheryl listened, feigning that she understood. “Now, let me show you the type of musique, I will be teaching you.” The piano teacher placed her hands, poised over the black and ivory Bavarian spruce keys. In a split second, her fingers began to scale the notes swiftly, belting out a solemn tune.
Cheryl sat by, on the soft Persian rug and listened in rapt attention.
The sound of huge bomber airplanes could be heard more often than the soothing resonance of the piano. The war had dragged on, and along with the house, the piano was also neglected. Despite Cheryl’s constant polishing of the instrument, the piano had lost its luster and the crystal clear sound it once had.
Adrienne no longer was the teacher of Cheryl, being dismissed by the elderly Goh. “War’s not the time for merry-making,” he had told her, “I’m sorry to let you go. You certainly have cultivated my daughter’s sense of music well.” Despite this, Adrienne still came to the mansion and constantly revised pieces with her ex-student. Ignoring the bad start, the two had become bosom buddies, confiding in each other and sharing their hopes and fears. Cheryl had come to greatly appreciate the woman’s expertise and blossomed under her guidance. She was now a talented pianist and had performed at numerous recitals, before the war.
“That bar, over there. Yes, that one. It’s a triplet, child. You have to play three notes in two counts, have you forgotten?” Adrienne repeated in mock-exasperation.
Cheryl chuckled. “Its hard to remember all these idiosyncrasies during these troubled times, Ms Levine. Many others do not even possess the luxury of having such a piano, even!” She obediently rectified her mistake.
The lesson continued for another fifteen minutes when the French woman suddenly stopped and sighed. She looked at Cheryl with her piercing blue eyes. “Ms Cheryl, I’m sad to inform you that I won’t be visiting you from next week. I will be returning to France to care for my mother.”
“But we’re in the middle of a war!” protested the seventeen-year-old. “You will be killed!”
“I have faith in the Lord. Besides, I might die here too,” Adrienne smiled wryly.
The student’s brow furrowed in worry. “We have not completed this piece yet.”
It was Adrienne’s turn to laugh. She reassured Cheryl, “You are a talented student. I’m sure you will get by.” She stood up and bowed courteously, “I bid you farewell.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go, Miss Levine.”
Adrienne smiled and left the house.
The letters from Adrienne Levine had stopped suddenly, two weeks before Germany conceded defeat. Cheryl fretted and vexed over the abrupt disappearance of her teacher. She sent out frantic pleas to French friends, asking them to check up on Adrienne. To her utmost dismay, all the replies were unhelpful.
She had despaired over the troublesome piece, poring over every detail, practicing hours-on-end, finally finishing it. It was a ardouos task, having to stop unexpectedly once the sirens blared. Cheryl wanted to tell her teacher that she had “defeated” it, conquered the difficulties and had emerged victorious. She wanted Adrienne to hear her play it.
Surprisingly, when she had nearly lost hope, a letter addressed to her, written in minute handwriting, came in the post. It was from Adrienne’s sickly mother.
Her fingers shaking as she ripped open the envelope. Cheryl’s eyes quickly scanned the contents of the letter. A prickling sensation began fill her. Adrienne’s mother had written to her, only to inform the devastated girl that Adrienne had passed away. She had not run to the bomb shelter in time, and the shrapnel had killed her. Apparently, Adrienne was practicing on her piano.
Cheryl could not help but cry out when she read the name of the ill-fated piece.
It was the very same piece that she was working on.
The soft tap, tap, tap pierced the cold, silent air.
She breathed in heavily, her fingers hovering over the now gleaming black and white keys in anticipation. Clearing her mind of all distractions, she began the song.
Her fingers went away rapidly, tap tap tapping as fast as she could, as fast as they would let her. The frigid atmosphere of Nice, France slowed her movements much more than she imagined. She had to keep up in time. Sonata In E Minor, Hadyn’s famous piece, reverberated through the surroundings. The piano’s crisp sound cutting through.
Nearby, Adrienne’s body laid in a Catholic cemetery, ‘neath a young birch sapling. A small crowd of people gathered there, listening solemnly to the Priest’s prayers.
Cheryl began the last movement, entitled The Sun, the tune filling her with much emotion. A solitary tear rolled down her smooth face.
“Goodbye, Ms Levine,” murmured Cheryl, as her fingers glided across the keyboard, soulfully playing.
In the East back home, the sun had just begun to rise.
Tell me its rubbish. :D;;
I had writer's block and asked for suggestions on what to write, so Cheryl gave me this idea. It isn't really my best piece of work, but I tried to infuse feelings into it. Maybe it'll score an A?
The Farewell
The majesty of the red-brick French style house, with its large ornate doors and intricately carved windows, could not be ignored on Tanglin Road. Though the area was populated by many houses of western influence, clearly, none could match the sheer size and beauty of Goh Wei Yen’s mansion.
A rubber plantation tycoon, the young Goh had arrived in Singapore in the late 1930s and started off by working odd jobs. After a few years, he managed to buy a plot of land and a few rubber tree saplings. With a blessing from Lady Luck, his business flourished and he was soon mingling with the hoi polloi of the early British colony.
He had only one daughter, his precious jewel, the light of his life. Since the post-natal depression his wife had suffered, she slowly faded away and died, leaving the young baby girl in the hands of her father who knew nothing about caring for a child. He looked after her the only way he knew how, by showering her with material possessions.
“Miss Cheryl Goh, please come and sit down! Your father hired me to teach you the beauté of music, not listen to the cacophony you are making!” cried out the youthful French teacher. Her hands rubbed against the ebonized birch wood of the Steinway & Sons’ piano, fingers trembling nervously. She had heard stories of the dreadful child who terrorized and wreaked havoc on all the teachers before her. The teacher wondered if she could handle such a little monster, and survive to tell the tale.
The girl of question, the age of 10 (that ambiguous age where children assume that they are adults because of the two digits in their age), bounced into the room, her poplin frock swishing about and hair all mussed up. She held a catapult in her hands. “Miss Adrienne Levine,” she deplored authoritatively, “My father wouldn’t care if you taught me anything or not. Besides, I don’t care for music.” The girl ran up to the teacher and placed the catapult threateningly in front of Miss Levine. “Jeremy taught me how to use this,” she explained, referring to her neighbour.
Adrienne moved back instinctively, hoping that the look of worry and fear would not betray her. It was a wonder that such a pleasant looking child, almost of angelic quality, could possess the mischief that she had. Without much thought, she reached out and grabbed the toy from Cheryl’s hands.
The girl was shocked. No one had dared defy her before.
“Music is all around us, child,” Adrienne responded. Her finger pulled back at the rubber band and her other finger struck at the tightened band. A loud twang was heard. Noting the interested gleam in Cheryl’s eyes, Adrienne tried her strategy again. This time, she did not pull the band so hard. A sound of lower pitch resounded through the air.
“How did you do that?” chirped Cheryl, mesmerized. She stepped closer to the lady and sat down beside her. “Can you teach me how?”
“Of course!” Adrienne exclaimed happily. She began speaking in rapid French, explaining the physical factors of what caused the sounds. Cheryl listened, feigning that she understood. “Now, let me show you the type of musique, I will be teaching you.” The piano teacher placed her hands, poised over the black and ivory Bavarian spruce keys. In a split second, her fingers began to scale the notes swiftly, belting out a solemn tune.
Cheryl sat by, on the soft Persian rug and listened in rapt attention.
The sound of huge bomber airplanes could be heard more often than the soothing resonance of the piano. The war had dragged on, and along with the house, the piano was also neglected. Despite Cheryl’s constant polishing of the instrument, the piano had lost its luster and the crystal clear sound it once had.
Adrienne no longer was the teacher of Cheryl, being dismissed by the elderly Goh. “War’s not the time for merry-making,” he had told her, “I’m sorry to let you go. You certainly have cultivated my daughter’s sense of music well.” Despite this, Adrienne still came to the mansion and constantly revised pieces with her ex-student. Ignoring the bad start, the two had become bosom buddies, confiding in each other and sharing their hopes and fears. Cheryl had come to greatly appreciate the woman’s expertise and blossomed under her guidance. She was now a talented pianist and had performed at numerous recitals, before the war.
“That bar, over there. Yes, that one. It’s a triplet, child. You have to play three notes in two counts, have you forgotten?” Adrienne repeated in mock-exasperation.
Cheryl chuckled. “Its hard to remember all these idiosyncrasies during these troubled times, Ms Levine. Many others do not even possess the luxury of having such a piano, even!” She obediently rectified her mistake.
The lesson continued for another fifteen minutes when the French woman suddenly stopped and sighed. She looked at Cheryl with her piercing blue eyes. “Ms Cheryl, I’m sad to inform you that I won’t be visiting you from next week. I will be returning to France to care for my mother.”
“But we’re in the middle of a war!” protested the seventeen-year-old. “You will be killed!”
“I have faith in the Lord. Besides, I might die here too,” Adrienne smiled wryly.
The student’s brow furrowed in worry. “We have not completed this piece yet.”
It was Adrienne’s turn to laugh. She reassured Cheryl, “You are a talented student. I’m sure you will get by.” She stood up and bowed courteously, “I bid you farewell.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go, Miss Levine.”
Adrienne smiled and left the house.
The letters from Adrienne Levine had stopped suddenly, two weeks before Germany conceded defeat. Cheryl fretted and vexed over the abrupt disappearance of her teacher. She sent out frantic pleas to French friends, asking them to check up on Adrienne. To her utmost dismay, all the replies were unhelpful.
She had despaired over the troublesome piece, poring over every detail, practicing hours-on-end, finally finishing it. It was a ardouos task, having to stop unexpectedly once the sirens blared. Cheryl wanted to tell her teacher that she had “defeated” it, conquered the difficulties and had emerged victorious. She wanted Adrienne to hear her play it.
Surprisingly, when she had nearly lost hope, a letter addressed to her, written in minute handwriting, came in the post. It was from Adrienne’s sickly mother.
Her fingers shaking as she ripped open the envelope. Cheryl’s eyes quickly scanned the contents of the letter. A prickling sensation began fill her. Adrienne’s mother had written to her, only to inform the devastated girl that Adrienne had passed away. She had not run to the bomb shelter in time, and the shrapnel had killed her. Apparently, Adrienne was practicing on her piano.
Cheryl could not help but cry out when she read the name of the ill-fated piece.
It was the very same piece that she was working on.
The soft tap, tap, tap pierced the cold, silent air.
She breathed in heavily, her fingers hovering over the now gleaming black and white keys in anticipation. Clearing her mind of all distractions, she began the song.
Her fingers went away rapidly, tap tap tapping as fast as she could, as fast as they would let her. The frigid atmosphere of Nice, France slowed her movements much more than she imagined. She had to keep up in time. Sonata In E Minor, Hadyn’s famous piece, reverberated through the surroundings. The piano’s crisp sound cutting through.
Nearby, Adrienne’s body laid in a Catholic cemetery, ‘neath a young birch sapling. A small crowd of people gathered there, listening solemnly to the Priest’s prayers.
Cheryl began the last movement, entitled The Sun, the tune filling her with much emotion. A solitary tear rolled down her smooth face.
“Goodbye, Ms Levine,” murmured Cheryl, as her fingers glided across the keyboard, soulfully playing.
In the East back home, the sun had just begun to rise.
Tell me its rubbish. :D;;
