Lost and Found
by Jack Kendle
Chapter 1
It had been a long day. I had listened to countless renderings of the set pieces and what seemed to me to be thousands of excruciating scales and arpeggios on violins in the hands of various kids with wildly varying talent (or lack of it). I had earmarked a number of promising candidates for the school orchestra, all girls. Why is it that playing a violin or 'cello is regarded as too "cissy" for boys? There are enough lovely young Adonises playing trumpets, trombones and drums, the traditional "male" instruments. And my guitar-playing colleague I envied: his entire student body was made up of young teen boys all wanting to be the next Hendrix or Clapton, whilst I, the string-teacher on the faculty was landed with hordes of whimpering girls who were either trying to catch my eye with their outrageously skimpy outfits or else spent the rehearsals bitching about each other and scratching away half-heartedly, trying not to break their nails or mess up their hair. Actually, I'm not being very fair: I have to say that the senior string orchestra is very good and the girls are at the stage when they begin to take music-making seriously; but where, oh where, are the boys?
From the above, you can't help but assume that I am gay. And you are right, though it would be more than my job's worth to come out of the closet; so I keep my true feelings buried deep, deep down. Added to that, I am married, which I have to admit was a state I entered into when I was younger in order to try and "straighten myself out." Of course, it was doomed not to work, but my wife and I have been together now for nearly fifteen years and somehow or other I have managed to bury my true feelings. The girls in the senior orchestra don't bother trying to catch my attention any more: they seem to have given me up for lost and the parents and faculty are obviously pleased and relieved that there is not a whiff of scandal connected with me and the girls. I have taken them on tours and to competitions and there has never been any trouble; so I am regarded as very "safe." If they only knew! My long hours reading the adult-youth gay stories on Nifty, my secret lustings watching the brass bands playing and marching... and I always try and support my guitar-teacher colleague's concerts - but not for musical reasons!
So, there I was, the end of a long hard day having my ear bent by some wildly bad playing, when the last student was announced. I had seen the name on the list as soon as the day began, Leo. Leo Nielsen. In fact, I have to admit that some of my time when I should have been concentrating on some young violinist's squeaky attempts at some difficult passage, I was speculating about this Leo. All I knew about him was that he was the younger brother of one of the girls already in the senior orchestra, Catherine Nielsen, whom we all, including the teaching faculty, called Cat. She took every opportunity to tell me that her "little brother" couldn't wait to join the orchestra. I only paid this passing attention as I knew from past experience that by the time the young lad hit adolescence he would give up the violin - music - altogether and go into sports... much more masculine. But, it seems, he had stuck with it. He had been studying the violin since the age of six, so I was more than eager to hear him and not least to see what he looked like. On paper, he seemed the ideal candidate for the Senior Orchestra, so I just hoped that he would meet my expectations and hopes - and not just as a violinist!
I looked expectantly toward the door with what I hoped was my warmest smile and most encouraging attitude on display, despite my tiredness from the day's auditions. Then he walked through the door, or rather, seemed to materialise: a golden vision of such breathtaking beauty that my jaw dropped and my eyes just stared at this angel of light. He stopped at the door, shyly uncertain where he was meant to be and for a moment I just stood transfixed. Somehow or other after what seemed an eternity, I must have found my voice, as I croakingly bade him good afternoon and extended my hand. He moved shyly forward, eyes lowered, and took my hand. It was then he glanced at me. His eyes were of such startling blueness, like semi-transparent sapphires. I was transfixed and held his hand longer than was strictly necessary. His long slender fingers gripped my hand with a shy, yet firm, hold and I felt his delicate bones beneath the skin. I just seemed to forget time and space, taking in that slightly long golden-blond hair, those jewel-like eyes, and a gentle blush gradually colouring his creamy complexion.
Somehow or other I returned to my senses, but I felt the wind had been knocked out of me, or that I had had some sort of out-of-body experience. Covering my confusion, I looked quickly away and mumbled something about where he was to stand and asked him what music he had prepared for me. Of course he was nervous and stammered back his reply. I sat down and somehow or other gathered my wits about me. I told him not to be nervous, that I 'didn't bite' (OMG how lame!) and that he should just try and forget that I was there listening.
He seemed to settle down a bit with that by now almost automatic spiel of mine and gave me a shy grin as he glanced again at me through his fringe, which flopped over his eyes, causing him to toss his head now and again in that carefree unselfconscious gesture which I find so adorable.
I said, "Take a good deep breath and when you're ready, just go ahead." He nodded, shook the hair out of those spectacular eyes, adjusted his stance, looked down at the floor, breathed deeply a couple of times to steady his nerves, closed his eyes, and began to play.
He began a little nervously, which was to be expected. I noticed him glance once or twice at me from under his half-closed eyelids and I tried to give him an encouraging smile. Gradually, he settled into it and I noticed his playing become freer as he forgot the - for him - daunting situation he was in. He visibly relaxed, and as he did so his playing took on a convincing fluency and a natural feel for the music he was interpreting.
As I listened, I studied the spectacular specimen of boyhood beauty before me. He was dressed in the de rigeur trainers, loosely laced and, I noticed, absolutely pristine in their whiteness. His baggy trousers hung low on his slim hips and occasionally I caught a glimpse of his white Calvin Kleins beneath. How I hate this fashion in young men for these skaters' pants! I remember in my day, jeans were faded and worn obscenely tight, leaving virtually nothing to the imagination. But these sacklike trousers are not a good idea, as far as I'm concerned! He wore a plain white tee shirt, and not a tent-like hooded top so much in favour with the young boys. I suppose it was in order to free his arms to play, so at least I had a good view of his torso ... well defined, slim, and his arms lightly covered with a very pale down. He obviously was outdoors quite a bit, as his skin had that rich honey-coloured tone from long exposure to the sun. His Nordic good looks were astounding! Involuntarily, my hand surreptitiously moved to my crotch, where my cock was also appreciating the view!
But, as I listened, something made me forget about his obvious beauty... he seemed to be playing with an extra passion, almost desperation; at least it wasn't just another student playing the notes parrot-like, by rote. There was an extra depth to the notes, as if he had some underlying scenario playing in his head along with the music. It made me sit up and listen all the more intently. This was no mere 16-year-old playing; this was a deep conviction coming from somewhere deep within. Whether or not he knew it himself, something or other was making his playing speak to me in a way I would never have expected from one so young.
He reached the end and the silence following the fiery passionate music was almost as eloquent. I stayed still, giving the young boy time to come out of whatever inner world he had been in. He raised his eyes to mine and something in the intensity of that glance, at once aggressive and vulnerable, seemed to find my inner being.
"Thank you so much for that, Leo," I said. "That was exceptionally good. Have you been learning that piece long?"
"No, not really," he replied in that adorable husky voice that only teen boys have.
"I just liked it so much, I wanted to play it as soon as I heard it."
I complimented him again on his playing, at which he blushed again, so sweetly.
"Now, the set piece," I said, becoming business-like again; though I had already made up my mind he would be perfect for the orchestra, I just couldn't bring myself to dismiss him yet. The set piece was one of my own compositions, designed to test the abilities of the young players.
For a moment, he looked a little uncomfortable and then, looking directly at me said, almost accusingly: "It hasn't got a title!"
I replied that as it was an audition piece, I rather thought it better not to give it a title so that the students would have no preconceived ideas about how to approach it.
"Is that a problem?" I enquired.
"Well, noooo," he said, but it was obvious he wanted to say something more:
"But, I gave it a title, in my head. Just to help me find a way to play it."
"Oh, really?" I replied, "Do you want to tell me what you called it?"
Again, he seemed to look a little uncomfortable. He scuffed his foot along the ground, looking at it for a few seconds. Then, as if he had made some decision, he looked back at me, flicked his hair from his eyes and said, "I call it 'Where am I?'"
For a moment, I was taken aback at the strange title he had given my piece.
"Why that name?" I asked, curious, and at the same time inexplicably nervous.
He was again studying his foot.
"Dunno," he mumbled. It seemed obvious to me that telling me what he had named my piece suddenly embarrassed him.
"It's just, when I am playing it, it's like I am lost somewhere and can't find the way out and it's a bit scary, but at the same time it's like I know the feeling will go and I will find the way out."
These last words came all in a rush as if they had almost escaped his lips without his permission.
I thought about what he had said.
"Not a bad description" I said, as cheerfully as I could, though inside I was wondering how he could possibly have known what I had been thinking when I had written that piece. He had got bloody close, even though I thought that it was not so obvious in the music, he seemed to have found the key to it.
"Let me hear how you interpret it," I said.
Funny: a sixteen-year-old interpreting my own hidden dark corners, about which I thought only I knew anything. I did not want to admit that he was very accurate in his assessment of the music. I looked at him long and hard, my mind racing, as he retuned his violin and again settled himself down to play.
I had written the piece in memory of a boyhood friend of mine, Pete, with whom I had been very, very close. In fact, he had been my first Grand Passion. We had been together in our local youth orchestra and gradually became closer to one another, ending up one night whilst on a sleepover consummating our passion. In fact, we were as horny as hell and our hormones took over and for nearly a year we were inseparable, and insatiable!
However, Fate, being the fickle lady she is, (i.e. never on my side), decreed that his family leave the country. We wrote to each other at first, but gradually the letters stopped. I heard from a mutual friend about ten years after he left the country, that he had got married and had a family of his own. We had met up, once, just before he got married, but the reunion was not a success. We were both constrained by the fact he was now engaged, with a girlfriend in tow. Now, just a few weeks ago I heard that he had died. More out of duty than anything else, I had written a letter of condolence to his wife, Elizabeth, but had had no reply. The piece I wrote was a sort of catharsis for me and a memorial to him. I never stopped loving him, and I shall remember that year we were sixteen until the day I die.
That's what was in the music. Could Leo have sensed it? If so, how? I looked at him as he played. He was really into it, I saw, playing my music with such a passion and, yes, a real understanding. I felt as though he were looking at my very soul. As I listened, I remembered my Pete, all our times together, the tender kisses, the exultant orgasms, the long quiet times by his side in bed. I saw it all before me and, with my elegy playing in the background, the memories flooded back.
The music stopped. I was still in another world, seeing, remembering, reliving those passionate months. A gentle cough roused me from my reverie. Looking up, I saw Leo standing, staring at me, an expression of some confusion on his face. He looked as though he too, was on the verge of tears.
"Bravo, Leo," I managed to say, my voice hoarse with emotion. "I think you really got to the soul of the piece." His face relaxed and he gave me a watery smile. I could see that he was himself a little surprised at how he had let himself go whilst playing, and was uncertain as to what my reaction would be.
"Thank you," he said, gently, almost in a whisper. He was looking at me a little anxiously, trying to read my reaction.
"Welcome to the Senior Orchestra," I smiled. He let out a long breath and his face at last lit up.
"Thank you," he said again. "I really want to play with you, er, er, I mean..." he stammered in confusion, realising how it must have sounded.
It was my turn to smile. "I know what you mean," I chuckled. "Rehearsals start on Saturday. I very much look forward to having you with us, Leo. You will be a real asset to the orchestra." I extended my hand and he stepped forward, taking it in a firm grip as his eyes met mine. It was as if a message flashed between us; too fast to really register but at the same time as if there was some sort of secret understanding that had been established between us. His playing had certainly charged the atmosphere and our handshake, to me, seemed to polarise it into a single electric bolt that gave me a jolt. I think he felt it too, as he dropped my hand in a sudden gesture. His eyes remained fixed on mine.
"See you on Saturday, then," he said in a low voice, and turned to leave the room. It was as if the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud as he closed the door behind him, and I shivered involuntarily as if from a gust of cold air. I stayed there, alone in the empty room, my thoughts whirling. Where am I? he had called my piece. Where indeed, I wondered. More to the point, why am I here and where am I going? I absently packed my briefcase, turned out the lights in the room and made my way to my car. It was raining and ahead of me, by the school gates, I saw the figure of Leo, huddling under a tree, his violin case held close to his body, trying to stay dry. It seemed to me he was using his violin as some sort of protection, almost like a shield. I wondered if that was the case and that this remarkable boy was indeed using music to protect himself - a buffer between him and the world. I knew from my own experiences, that is exactly what I did at his age. I felt I could express myself better in music than in words, and that if I felt something, I could let off steam through my playing; a very necessary safety-valve. If things got on top of me, I could always retreat behind the music. I guessed that that was what Leo was doing. Certainly his playing earlier on had been mature beyond his years and I felt he was both trying to conceal himself behind the notes and paradoxically at the same time, he could not help but expose his inner soul. My chest tightened as I looked at him and I whispered to myself, "I love you, Leo, and I want to help you. Please let me help you." A car drew up beside the boy and he got in. Cat, who was driving waved to me and obviously Leo had said he had got into the orchestra. She called out: "Thank you so much, Mr Kendle. I just knew he would make it!" Laughing, she drove off and I got into my car to go home.
