A Growth Story

Part I: Prelude to an opuscule

As the dawn began to break, I opened my eyes at the usual 5:30am. I made my way down the narrow flight of stairs to the main living area of my walk-up maisonette in central Amsterdam. The serene stillness of the early mornings captivated me in ways only a hopeless romantic would understand, as the birds began to chirp their morning song.

I had always started my day with a cup of hot oolong and watched the sky turn brilliant colours of pink and red just as the sun gently rose from its slumber on the horizon. It was the time before the commotion of the bustling streets that I often sat wondering if I would ever get to call some piece of land my own.

Just then, a longing desire came over me as I began to fantasize running freely amongst a blooming valley of wildflowers below the shadow of the soaring knolls of the Swiss Alps.

I am free, my heart professed. Freer than I had ever felt in my life. I often went back to that place in my mind, hoping and longing that one day, I would see that which my mind vividly created time and time again.

My father and I had dreamt of living there for many years before he was taken from me, the day before my eighteenth birthday. The memory struck me once again with the same dread I had felt that day. They had said they found his limp body surfaced in one of the industrial canals of Westpoort. He had apparently "drowned by suicide,” as the Department of Investigative Services ruled that there was no conclusive evidence of homicide.

I remember how deeply it hurt, being told the news only just after hearing of my acceptance into the University of Amsterdam for Bachelor of Arts in Music Comprehension.

The relationship I had with my father was the closest I had ever had with any one person. He supported my desires to become a professional singer in every way he could. He would have been proud, I thought, to see how far I had come. More so now that soon after having finished my bachelor's degree, I accepted an internship at the Dutch National Opera, the company I was now commissioned under. My dream. I grinned at the memory of his encouraging smile every time he heard me sing.

My daydreaming was suddenly disturbed when my dear-and seemingly only friend-Toulouse, a copper coloured tabby, jumped onto my lap. “Looking for your meal, are we?” I smiled and scratched behind his ear.

At once, he hurriedly and elegantly cantered toward his food dish as I got up, setting my mug on the counter space that had managed to take up nearly three-quarters of the kitchen.

My apartment was cramped, yet cozy. Not long after moving in, I had grown content with the lack of space and had stayed that way for the last eleven years I had spent studying and performing within the Schengen area. The meager walk-up was close to the theater I had now spent three years performing under the Dutch National Opera company.

I was one of the few commissioned contraltos, often handed the role of ‘second-lady’ to my soprano colleagues. The natural rarity of contralto roles, that is, at least in nineteenth-century operas too often left me outside of the limelight. But I was OK with that. I found that vanity and popularity often stole the magic from the art brought to life on stage in that position. I did, however, very much respect my colleagues for taking on such a colossal role as lead-character that I had never been interested in tackling myself.

I spent most of my time performing in early-music ensembles which led me to where I now stood as lead contralto in the Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra. Early music, that is music long before Beethoven and Brahms, always enchanted me, which was why I jumped at the opportunity to perform twelfth-century composer, Hildegard von Bingen’s 'O Virtus Sapientiae' in a production held by the University of Amsterdam in their early-music appreciation recital. In fact, the performance was tonight and I do admit to having been feeling uneasy for it. Even still, my admiration for the Benedictine’s music had stolen my heart in ways I felt I must reciprocate by sharing with the world the art she had created.

As a young child, I remember my father telling me "Elise, you mustn't let those who have wronged you steal your light,” wisely instructing that it was a virtue to possess the sort of wisdom found in responding to those undeserving of attention with silence. I pondered his words then and again. I hadn’t quite understood what he meant at the time, but as I look back, it became one of several life-lessons that I still held close to today.

That may have been why I had accepted the role to perform Bingen's piece. Not only because I admire the way the music moves me, but that it speaks of the rooted power held by the judgment of our perceptions having imprisoned within our own minds at times. The Latin chant translated to 'Oh, Strength In Acuity,’ reminds us of the essence of light that surrounds us, only speaking to those willing to listen to that still silence, the very thing my father had spoken about. It comforts me, knowing that my father is still with me in the spirit of his memory, supporting me every step of the way. All I had to do was listen for the signs.

Part II: Little Black Book

It was around 4:25pm when I arrived at the Amsterdam University Chapel. The recital was to begin at 7:00pm, and rehearsal was about to start. I went through the motions of the practice, warming up and running through the programme with my colleagues, before retiring to the chapel’s green room. I looked in the slightly warped mirror hanging on the wall and admired my white gown, topped by an emerald cloak draping down from my shoulders.

I caught myself beginning to pace the room. The room’s fluorescent lighting threatened a migraine as I looked up at it causing little purple dots to cloud my vision.

“Elise,” the voice of one of my colleagues came from the stage door of the green room. “Five minutes now.” I took in a low and calming breath.

“Thanks, Joas.” I replied with a smile and followed him to the backstage wings. That is if you could call a cramped corner darkened by a dusty brown curtain a stage wing, because in fact, there was no stage, just a slight step up where the chapel’s altar would have been. The university chaplain was kind enough to have it moved for the performance.

I heard the commotion of people fumbling to their seats along the solid oak pews. I began to feel butterflies turn and wondered if I would ever get over my stage fright. I peeked through the curtain and wished my father was there to settle my nerves. He always had a way with words that distracted me from any uneasiness or doubt my neural impulses could conjure up.

Before long, my colleagues of the string-quartet nodded to me as they made their way to the chairs set up neatly in a semi-circle at the center of the altar's platform, adjusting their instruments and began to play the opening movement.

When my time came, I made my way onto the platform from the stage wing. All heads turned to watch my entrance, withholding their applause, as the organ sounded its first chord. I began to sing.

The music overcame me and as the piece came to an end, I bowed my head and let my cloak fall to the ground as I held the final note. There was a moment of breathlessness as the crowd awaited the que that the piece was indeed over. I heard a faint sigh before the crowd arose from the pews giving a drawn out applause.

After the show, the guests gathered in the chapel foyer to commune. I hesitantly made my way out and was greeted by more applause as the crowd slowly moved in to shake my colleague’s and I's hands. Within the swarm of congratulations and commendation, I feel a light tap from behind on my shoulder, and as if the echo of the crowd had suddenly faded, I hear a deep voice. "Hello, Elise." I turn to find a man towering over me. He must be at least 6'5".

"My name is Leonidas, could you spare a moment?” he said as he waved his arm toward the chapel coat room. I hesitantly follow him, staring and confused.

"I understand you might be wondering who I am and why I am here." I knod.

He waited several seconds before deciding to explain.

"I am a friend of your fathers.” I focused intently on his eyes.

“He entrusted me to give you something before your thirtieth birthday." His arm reached inside his jacket and revealed a small black leather bound notebook. Handing it to me gently, he turns to leave before I grab his arm.

"Wait! How did you know my father!?” was all I could manage in response.

He breathed heavily and replied uncomfortably, darting occasional glares at the seemingly growing volume of the crowd.

"I am not at liberty to say,” he responded. “Just know that your father cared for you and never wished to leave you the way he did. Excuse me, I must go." I watched him stride toward the heavy chapel doors and effortlessly pressed through them, disappearing just as suspiciously as he had arrived.

I stood unconscious of my surroundings for what seemed like an hour. I peered down at the little black book that I now clutched tight to my chest with clammy hands, before purposefully disappearing back to the green room to retrieve my things.

Part III: "Be free, my dear..."

Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I fumbled with my keys to the front door. Without a moment wasted, I ran up the stairs and through the narrow doorway to the bathroom. I stare blankly at my plain, bewildered expression in the reflection of the mirror after splashing cold water on my face.

My mind begins to race and I feel anxious, not at all ready to see what awaited me in the small black Moleskine notebook that lay ominously on the laminate counter beside me.

Finally, making my way to the bedroom, I sit on the end of the bed opening the book to the first page.

My dear,

I have no words to explain how deeply sorry I am for causing you this grief. I have loved you from the first time I laid eyes on you, cradled by your mother. She made me promise before she passed that I would take care of you, and as I write this, I realize I am breaking that promise. I need you to understand that my leaving has nothing to do with my not caring for you. I know that I cannot undo what has already been done, but I can at that at the very least, show you what my plans were for us before everything changed. I love you with all my being and I am certain you will continue to thrive in this life. Be free, my dear.

Love,

Papa

I burst into tears, rereading my father’s words over and over. My vision blurred with tears, I then took notice of the postscript.

P.S. - Go to Amstelstraat 16, 1017 DA

Box# 1274

Account # 194786

I had no energy to think what this all could mean, I only knew that I was exhausted. I gently set the book down and collapsed, drifting into a deep sleep.

~

I woke abruptly to an alarm from my phone blaring underneath my pillow. I shot up, only to realize that I was stiff as the morning light streaming blinding rays through the window blinds. After recalling all that had happened the night before, I quickly dressed myself, grabbed the little black book that still laid on the corner of my bed, fumbled down the stairs and flew out the door.

The address took me to a Amstelstraat Bank. I pushed through the glass doors, my mind racing as to why my father would lead me here. I was then greeted by one of the bank clerks. It appeared as though I was the first patron of the day. It must have been early as I fumble through my coat pocket only to realize I had forgotten my phone.

I came up to the front desk and cleared my throat. "Hello, er... I am here to inquire about accessing a deposit box and an account that may be set up in my name.”

"Sure! What’s the account number?" The clerk’s crimson coated nails clicked rapidly on the keyboard in front of her after giving her the information.

After a few moments of confirmation, she arose from her chair and led me to what I assumed was the vault room. I was met with an entire wall of small lock boxes. The clerk muttered to herself as she pulled out the box number and placed it on the table in the middle of the small dim-lit room.

“I’ll give you a moment to sort through this while I go open the account information.” I smiled in response as she left the room.

The now apparent hum of the overhead light overwhelmed the silence. I went to open the small metal box to find an envelope with what looked like an array of legal documents. One document was what looked like a property deed. Another was my father’s final Will. Logic tried to explain what I was holding in my hands before I realized that my father had purchased a plot of land in Switzerland and had put it in my name. I turned over the envelope and read the blotted ink:

Take care and be free, my dear.

Streams of tears fell uncontrollably. Were they of sadness or of joy? I could not tell. I quickly attempted to wipe my tears with my coat sleeve as I heard the bank clerk’s heels click down the hall from behind the door. She knocked and opened it enough to peek her head in.

"I found funds attached to the account number you provided.” I sniffled and cleared my throat, “Er, Yes?”

“Would you like to deposit or withdraw?" I struggled to clear my thoughts. “Er, how much is available?”

"£20,000 ma'am. How would you like to proceed?"

Epilogue:

"Three wings you have:

One sours to the heights,

one distills its essence upon earth,

and the third is everywhere."