We’re delighted to present an extract from Indyana Schneider’s new novel, Since The World Is Ending, published later this month by Simon & Schuster.
Indyana Schneider (pic) is an opera singer and novelist from Australia. She studied music at Oxford University and opera at the Hochschule für Musik, Theater und Medien in Hannover, completing her training at the International Opera Studio of Zurich Opera. Indyana now performs across the UK, Austria, France, Germany, Switzerland and Australia.
Here’s the extract:
Ding.
A few heads turn.
Ding.
The Conductor commands our attention clinking together two glasses of champagne. The
room falls silent. I can easily imagine this man leading an orchestra, long fingers wrapped
around a baton, infectious energy, encouraging smile.
‘Good evening guests and, once again, welcome to our home.’
A few people raise their glasses. I search the crowd for Lucia and find her standing next to
the Soprano on the other side of the room. She isn’t looking at me.
‘As you know, this has been a musical house for many generations, and we are very happy
to continue the tradition into the twenty-first century! This evening, we have a young trio
playing some Schubert for us all: I’d like to introduce: Lucia Rizzo, Maya Evans, and Sergei
Molchalin.’
The guests applaud and the three of us wave from where we’re standing. Lucia’s eyes find
mine, and she winks at me. The Conductor continues, ‘But first, because you all asked so
graciously, my wife and I will perform a little excerpt from Poulenc’s La Voix Humaine.’
A few people clap. Sergei looks at me knowingly over the rim of his glasses, like he himself
wrote the opera.
‘So, make sure you’re comfortable and please top up those empty glasses! The music will
begin shortly.’
Lucia appears beside me and grabs my hand, leading me towards our instruments in the
corner of the room. Her fingers are warm. Her grip is firm. I kind of love the way she pulls me
along, splitting the crowd as we walk, like I won’t find my way without her. The anxiety
simmers in my chest, then dissipates. Long may that last. Sergei follows behind us, gloved
hands in his pockets.
The Conductor removes his blazer and takes a seat at the piano. Oh, there’s no sheet
music. He’ll play by heart? The Soprano stands beside him, a new grace to her posture.
They lock eyes. There is a fresh intensity between them. I almost feel as if I’m intruding on a
private moment, but I can’t look away. The Conductor begins with piano trills, relentless trills,
trills, trills, trills. I feel my pulse quicken. Here we go. The guests have stopped breathing,
they’re making space for the music. Good. The Conductor lifts one hand from the piano; it
floats just above the keys. With the other, he plays a simple melody – the ringing telephone.
The Soprano takes her mobile from her pocket. I want to roll my eyes at the theatrics until I
see her face. Pain, grief, panic, desperation have rendered her features almost
unrecognisable. Her full lips are thin, worried. Her once-piercing eyes are vulnerable, doe-
like. She looks so fragile. Her stomach pushes against the fabric of her dress as she
breathes.
‘Allo? Allo?’
The way she speak-sings, it’s almost naturalistic. Between each phrase, the piano clangs
sound obtrusive. Dizzying. This music is designed to make you shiver – it’s almost scientific.
‘Je ne sais pas …’
She touches her fingers to her temple. The phone rings again in the piano.
‘Mon chéri—’
Her voice is honeyed with tenderness. I can feel Lucia breathing beside me. She touches
her fingers to mine so lightly it might be my imagination.
‘Tu es gentil. Tu es gentil.’
Then everything is hectic. There’s something frightening about the way she repeats herself.
Fear, nerves, fixation, suffering. Her posture tightens and her gaze fixes on a spot in the
distance. Her breathing quickens. The phrases accelerate. Her voice spins around the room
like a lasso, pulling us closer. I want to reach out and hold her. She needs to be held!
I only realise the audience is applauding because Lucia’s fingers leave mine. The Soprano
bows her head, touches her hand to her heart. She looks almost giddy; she’s grinning at her
guests, and I feel anger rumble in my chest. Anger at the man on the other end of the phone,
sure, anger at lost love, yes, obviously, but most of all, I’m angry at the Soprano for leaving
her character behind so swiftly. She seems completely unchanged by her performance. I
don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t understand. I’m angry that she’s able to smile at
us while I’m still shivering with the violence of her music. I feel cheated. Surely, she gave
herself over to the score. I saw it! I felt it! Was she really so detached? Isn’t that dishonest?
The applause thickens as the Conductor stands and takes his wife’s hand in his own. I
wonder how many times they’ve clasped hands and bowed together.
Lucia squeezes my arm before disappearing with a group of especially well-dressed
strangers. I find the bathroom. The walls are decorated with old-fashioned tiny white and
blue tiles and framed anniversary dinner invitations. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a frame in a
bathroom. I wet my hands and trickle cold water down the back of my neck. I think my body
is experiencing emotions that my jumbled thoughts are yet to catch up to. There is a dull
ache in my chest and neck. My lungs are somewhere near my shoulders. There are
butterflies in my stomach. They might catch fire in this heat. Someone taps on the door.
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