Philip And Victoria

Philip And Victoria

Philip was restless. It was a hot summer night in the south of Spain and he couldn't sleep. Nothing new there. He switched off the air-con - he knew he shouldn't sleep with it on, but hey, life's not perfect. And as if he didn't have enough to deal with. He opened the window, and, to his surprise, he smelt rain on the air, the wind whipping up with the promise of respite, albeit temporary. Since the accident had left him dependent on his helper and his stick, his other senses had become heightened. Movement around him, touch, smell, but especially sound. Bach, Dowland, a heavenly choir, a nightingale in the moonlight. And Victoria, especially Victoria.

The first time he heard her voice he was captivated. Melodious, seductive, clear as glass, it cut through the air, like an echo across a still lake. He’d heard her on the radio, talking about split personalities, roles we create for ourselves, the endless games we play to protect or hide us from a truth we may not wish to see. She had crystal clear diction, firm, yet soft, consonants, precise and fluid vowels and her diphthongs set his heart racing. Her intonation hinted at a foreign background, an exotic lilt which drew him further in. He imagined her mouth. It would be small, and when it broke into a smile, the whole stadium would turn to look, and audibly sigh, before going back to that penalty. Her teeth were a dentist’s dream, white, all natural, all in proportion, he bet she never got bits of artichoke or fish bones stuck in there. If she did, he’d volunteer to floss.

He’d never seen her picture but he didn’t need to, the voice and the way she spoke were enough. Could somebody be ugly with a voice as beautiful as that? Or could she be just normal looking. Did it matter? It might to others, but not to him. He listened to her psychology show every week. She clearly knew her stuff, so she must have a lot of experience, probably had a Doctorate, ran courses internationally, spoke at top conferences. That’s my girl. Intelligence, perceptiveness were so attractive, often the defining qualities. And they gained with every passing year, the depth of an experienced person was felt, like a wave of human spirit, sensed even before they came into the room.

So she’s probably in her forties, minimum late thirties, he hazarded. There are some seriously talented young achievers out there, like he’d been himself. Ah, but he hadn’t finished achieving, he was still listened to, complimented, spoken of with reverence. Oh, Philip, yes, I know him. Philip’s coming tomorrow. Great, can’t wait. I can always ask Philip, he’ll know. Philip always says that… He was aware of his own reputation, his life’s work, the position he held, not just his academic post, but as a reference, somebody who helped people, gave them a perspective they hadn’t been aware of.

All you had to do was read, reflect, and trust your own thoughts. It didn’t matter if you were right or wrong, what did that mean anyway? This isn’t Maths or Physics, there’s no exam next Friday. We all have a right to our own ideas, and a right within ourselves to give it the best shot we can. We’ve all come equipped with the same toolbox, so why can’t I be capable of being at the top of my field, just like the greats, the untouchables? Sure, there’s only one Shakespeare, one Giotto, one Hildegaard of Bingen, one Woolf. But they were all just like us, had their crises, their depressions, their joys, their tempers. It was what they created which made them different. Maybe I think I can never do it, maybe I can never do it, but that’s not going to stop me trying. His mother had instilled in him the confidence to trust himself, to confront his limitations, to be fearless. And the woman behind that voice which trilled, sang, soothed him in Psychology Hour was fearless too. She answered everything thrown at her, turned the problems on their head, gave the listeners new stimulus, new nuances buried deep. That’s my girl, he thought, like an old 60s soul song.

He called in, asked her a question, she answered succinctly and they moved on to the next caller. He didn’t want to bother her, make some over-complimentary comment about how he loved her voice, how she was a nightingale in a secret garden, because then she’d be aware of it, and it would fly away, lose its innocence, the very quality which made it special. Once you believed your own press, you were finished. There are some things you should know, but I can’t tell you.

He wrote in to the show and she responded in person. Polite, professional, he expected nothing less, and she’d look into what he’d asked her. She wrote back soon after, what an interesting question, with a little clarification, some references for further reading. He responded, gave it some depth, raised a few other points. She wrote back, a few new twists, did you know that..? She’d heard of him, of his work. You come very highly regarded, she said, and he felt himself blush like a first timer. Ah, but when it’s real we’re always first timers.

The correspondence continued all that winter, an intellectual connection it was hard to switch off. The tone, while not personal, got warmer, a mutual intellectual attraction, a sharing of the great mental universe, and what is the universe if not the unfathomed depths and farthest reaches of the conscious and unconscious mind? Like opening the skylight, taking tentative steps out into the great beyond. Hand in hand, huckleberry friends, such a lot of world to see.

Then one day in the spring on her radio show she announced a book presentation at the Casa del Libro in Tetuán Street the following Friday. Twenty-five people in a room on the fourth floor, she spoke eloquently of her latest research and theories into behavioural psychology. He listened attentively from the back row, nodding when she made a clear point, smiling at every variation in tone of her nuanced intonation. He was at an advantage, about the only time that he was. His full concentration and heightened sense of hearing meant the full breadth of her expression flew straight and true to his ears, undistracted by the twinkle of an eye, a lock of hair come loose, or a bare forearm.

He sat and waited for her at the end, while she signed copies of her book, made connections, greeted old friends. Her assistant told her there was a man waiting at the back and she knew it was him. She knew her voice carried in his direction, and when she looked his way while talking, his ear cocked like a puppy’s and he felt the surge of young blood inside him once more.

“You must be Philip.”

“Charmed to finally meet you.” He held out a gentlemanly hand, which she pressed between hers. “It’s a pleasure to hear someone speak with such authority. You sound even better than on the airwaves. I’d follow that voice of yours anywhere.” She laughed, the Puck-like spirit set free to flit among the willows. It wasn’t just her voice it was the laugh, light and airy, allegro, then adagio.

We debate, write, argue, declaim, dissert, whisper, reason and many other verbs besides, but often we don’t need words. The soft tickle of a sigh. An involuntary giggle, like an escaped convict from the conscious mind, or a lazy yawn, like a ripple along a cat’s back. We understand faster than we realise what’s inside a look, an unguarded smile, a touch on the arm, the message not open to misinterpretation. That comes later when we try to explain, so maybe I should stop.

They found a quiet bar for a Martini, not an easy task on a Friday evening - the quiet bar not the Martini - but guided by stealth and Victoria’s assistant Francesca, they sat under a street lamp, a light breeze tickling the edge of her blouse, his neck. They talked, they listened, they talked some more. Another Martini, well, it’s never just one, their tongues loosened, a world of ideas flowed, time stood still, or seemed to. It was late when they paid up, though neither realised nor cared. Francesca came back to escort Victoria, Philip took an Uber.

On Sunday they sat on a bench by the river. They didn’t talk much this time, they didn’t have to. She took his hand, and felt his smile, the wave of warmth it unleashed. Later over another Martini, alright two, he asked her a question he’d been pondering for some time, though he was sure he knew the answer.

“Do you sing?”

“When I’m cooking. Cleaning. In the shower.”

“I’d love to hear you.”

“I’ve just had the water heater mended.”

Like a ringing open 'e' chord from a twelve string guitar, the girl skating past heard the harmony, the music in the two laughing voices, and smiled.

The following week they took their seats at the three hundred capacity Sala Joaquín Turina and heard an evening of Renaissance polyphony from a visiting Belgian choir. Gombert, Desprez, Tallis, Ockeghem. Uplifted by the soaring, intertwined voices and devotional intensity, they were silent throughout apart from the thunderous ovation at the end.

Joking that they could take in the exhibition of Dutch miniatures currently on at the local Art Museum he’d heard it was ‘outta sight,’ they drank more Martinis at the terrace bar overlooking the river. Philip said it wouldn’t be necessary to call Francesca, he’d take care of getting home. The next morning, neither saw the blinds as he pulled them up but they felt the bright sunshine invade the room and heard the rumble of distant traffic as they took coffee on the balcony.

As she was putting on her coat, she faced him and gently intoned Anthony Phillip’s Credo in Cantus, its melodic arc like slow motion swifts at sunset, and his heart wavered. They hugged wordlessly, her voice, the song, said it all. On the porch, the door open, she sang snippets from Dowland’s Now Oh Now, I Needs Must Part, he stroked her arm, she kissed his cheek. Francesca was downstairs. Needs must part. Be in touch.

Barry Smith, Sevilla, Spain