Jack leaves his unhappy home in the countryside for New York and the local art scene. One day he lingers in a jazz café and is entranced by a theremin performance. Soon he meets the artist, a raven-haired man named Tegan.
Their friendship soon deepens into something more, but in the process Jack’s repressed memories begin to surface. His family is a ghost that continues to haunt him. He has to go back home to face his past, but how will these painful events affect his relationship with Tegan?
When I saw him the second time, it was quiet, save for the regulars’ idle chat, in hushed whispers, excitement lacing their words, bouncing in jittery waves. Whether it was from their conversation or the anticipated performance, I didn’t know. The small stage in front was still and dark.
There was me, almost detached from my body as I waited; my breath soft and shallow, my hands trembling, as my body sunk into the chair. I nursed my warm coffee, waiting for the moment when existence stopped and all I would see and hear and feel would be him. I couldn’t wait to see his whole act.
After a few minutes, there was a tapping, first slow and soft, then soon, more rhythmic and louder, faster. My heart seemed to follow the beats as though that’s all it had ever known, like my blood pumped and flowed in my body. Even though it was only my second time there, I felt a kinship with him, something I didn’t think I could ever fully explain.
Most in the audience started tapping along by this point. He appeared on the stage. Light applause went around the cloudy room, then silenced as he pulled out his theremin from its case. Soft lights bounced off him.
He first nodded to the crowd, bowed with a slight nod of his head. He turned the theremin and played it as though he was caressing a lover, then slowly, he built up the intensity, stroking faster and faster until it played like a million vibrating voices synchronizing in perfect harmony.
His playing reminded me strongly of Clara Rockmore. Both had the gift of making their music almost reachable, tangible. Like a good photograph. If it catches your eye, you’re hooked, and all you want is to know more about it; like, why was it taken at that angle? How did the photographer capture the light so perfectly? When you start to question it and think about it, then the picture works. Her music made you do that. Wonder, dream, and feel. Just like he did to me.
I was breathless by this point in time, still sunk deeply into my chair, my eyes in such a trance that the whole scene played like a movie. The music trembled and slowed to a gasping whisper as it ended, lingering.
The way his clothing clung to him in some areas and hung loose in others made my mouth go dry, as he languidly swayed and half twirled his body, sweating and clinging. I felt embarrassed to enjoy this so much, with at least ten other sets of eyes watching. I was confused in a lot of ways. I didn’t have time to think because it suddenly became so quiet, not even a damn cricket would chirp, and it almost hurt to breathe.
Then, in a flicker, his eyes opened, and he was at that second, that very second, the most gorgeous creature God had ever made. He had the most expressive eyes, the coolest shade of blue. It was almost yellow-gold in some areas of his iris.
The lights came on. And then, it seemed his voice was the only instrument as he began to sing.
Electric rhymes engulf my cries ... And send me to the deep ...
He sang in a very sleek, masculine tone, and it chilled me.
