The Composed Heart

The next day at work, Amelia had butterflies in her stomach, but she did well to conceal her anticipation. She needn’t have bothered though; Marina wasn’t holding back . Every time the phone rang, Marina would say “this is it” before answering, only to be disappointed.

This happened about six times, before the call they were, both apparently, waiting for finally came in. She handed the phone to Amelia, managing to sneak in one last “this is it”.

The lady on the other end confirmed every detail, and two days later Amelia had received her flight details and tickets.

With each day, the realisation set in a little more. Tickets, passports, itineraries, were all tangible evidence. A little over two weeks after August Ellery’s visit, Marina was seeing Amelia off at the airport.

Amelia had spent her life being quite independent. She had moved around a lot. But this was different. Amelia had never been to another country before, she had never been on an airplane before, she had never owned a passport before, and until two weeks ago she had never imagined that such an adventure was on her horizon.

Amelia took a deep breath, summoning her courage.

Marina, in an unprecedented display of sentiment, kissed her forehead.

“Don’t worry, you’ll blow them away”.

Amelia smiled. Marina was the closest thing she’d had to a mother for a while.

The final announcement called for ‘all boarding passengers’. There was no turning back. She gave Marina one last nervous smile and boarded the plane.

An older couple occupied the neighbouring seats in her row. Amelia awkwardly navigated her way past them and seated herself squashed up against the window. They watched her curiously.

She inserted her earphones and turned on her music, so there would be no mistaking her desire for solitude. It worked but it didn’t stop the man from staring at her. Amelia was too busy in her own world to notice. But his wife did, and she was not impressed. To ensure a satisfactory distance, she made her husband swap seats with her.

As they made their ascent, she stared warily out the window, watching Sydney disappear into the past. For how long she did not know. She tried to relax and enjoy her music.

After falling asleep for half the trip, the fourteen-hour journey didn’t feel so long. Amelia watched as the New York City skyline came into view, covered in a mystical white blanket of haze. She had never seen such a sight before.

She stepped out into the hustle and bustle of one of the busiest airports in the world, looking every bit the fish out of water that she, in fact, was. A backpack slung over her shoulder, and another in her hand, she had no other bags to collect from the carousel.

She walked aimlessly, looking in every direction, until eventually heading toward the exit.

A sharply dressed man stood near the doors, holding up a board with her name on it.

‘Just as they do in the movies’ she thought to herself.

“I’m Amelia Preston”.

He greeted her and took her bags.

“Is this all?” He asked, realising she only had two carry bags.

He was now the third person to ask her that question.

“That’s it,” she assured him.

They made their way outside. It was mid-January. Amelia, wearing only a pair of jeans and t-shirt, immediately felt the cutting chill of the New York Winter.

The man in the suit proceeded to place her bags in the boot,

“I’ll take them,” Amelia requested.

He handed her the bags and ushered her into the town car.

It was warm and comfortable inside. Amelia settled back in her seat and closed her eyes, looking forward to a relaxing trip. But her garrulous driver had other ideas.

“So off to the New York Institute of Music? A student there, are you?”

“Yes”, she replied, her eyes still closed.

“Must be pretty good if you’re a student there” he continued.

“I guess,” she replied.

“So, you’re from Sydney, Australia?” he persisted.

“Yes,” she replied again.

“Never been there myself,” he added, keen for conversation.

“First time in New York?”

“Yes” she replied for the third time.

After a concession of one-word answers, the driver took the hint and stopped talking.

Amelia didn’t mean to be dismissive, sometimes she just didn’t have much to say, and she wasn’t one for doing things just for the sake of it either. Besides which, she had a lot on her mind. It was all starting to feel so dauntingly real.

They pulled up outside a grand old building. In fact, there were three grand old buildings that met to create a giant horse shoe around a cobblestone and concrete courtyard, scattered with a few large trees that appeared as old as the buildings. A few perfectly manicured gardens completed the serenely historical setting. It was like a page straight out of a fairy-tale. Albeit, a pigeon-pooped tarnished, wet, and cold fairy-tale.

He opened the door for her.

“You might want to put a sweater on, Miss” he advised and offered to escort her inside, but she politely declined.

After the car had left, Amelia stood staring at the monstrous buildings. She could smell the dampness of their brickwork, and the wet cobblestones that lay beneath.

She picked up her bags and headed toward the main entrance. Patches of snow littered the paths and made the plants in the gardens glitter when a glint of sunlight managed to break through, making it appear as though they were lighting the way.

Walking through the large oak doors, she once again found herself in a chasm of history, drenched with old-world sophistication.

The smell struck her first: The deteriorating, musty, yet hypnotic smell of once new things that had now grown old. It seemed to ooze from the framework of the building, appearing to be nowhere and everywhere at once.

The long corridor was lined with framed portraits of whom Amelia could only assume were significant historical figures of classical music. She could play all their pieces, but she couldn’t recognise most of them by sight.

As she continued down the corridor, she could feel the weight of their eyes following her; judging her perhaps? She’d rather think they were welcoming her. Was she worthy of their welcome? Or just a mere impostor in their hallowed halls?

She reached the office and tried to shut off her thoughts. The receptionist greeted her by name. She had been expecting her.

“You’ll need to fill out this paperwork” she stated, handing her a neatly organised folder.

“Don’t worry, you can fill them out later,” she added.

“Now let’s show you your accommodation. Are these your only bags?”

Amelia nodded, but she couldn’t understand why everyone kept asking her?

“Well, that’s a pleasant change, most of the students come with a car full of luggage. It’s refreshing to see a young lady who knows how to prioritise”.

“It’s easy when it’s all you own,” Amelia replied honestly.

“I guess so” she concurred, feeling a little guilty for mentioning it in the first place.

“Well let’s get going then”, she said, walking into the corridor.

Amelia picked up her bags and followed.

“I’m Annie Wilkes, by the way”.

Amelia offered a nod of acknowledgement.

Annie escorted her through the maze of corridors, pointing out places of interest along the way. When they came to a large room toward the end of the corridor, she made a point of drawing Amelia’s attention to it.

“Now this is the conference room, where the panel of alumni meet. You’ll have a meeting with them today at 3pm sharp, so you will have plenty of time to settle in, clean up, and rest”.

She began to walk off. She was a petite woman, probably in her late fifties, but she moved fast and with purpose. Amelia hurried to catch up.

They found themselves at the foot of a large stairwell.

“Now, up here is the accommodation section of the institute. The east wing is for the female students and the west wing is for the male students”.

She paused, as though expecting a reaction to her latter statement.

“They take tradition quite seriously around here, and students don’t need extra distractions after all, do they, dear?” she added defensively.

It didn’t bother Amelia. She was rarely off the radar of the opposite sex. But prioritising boys wasn’t a consideration. She wasn’t very good at relating to others and had always found herself more absorbed with her music.

She couldn’t explain why. Her gift came to her at an early age. Everyone knew it was her calling, and there was something inside her that always seemed to pull her toward a piano, or other instrument. She figured it was meant to be.

They made their arduous journey up the stairs, passing two young men, who had decided to stop for a rest half way down.

“Gentlemen, this is Amelia, she’ll be joining us, and here we have Henry and Eric”.

They were smartly dressed young men. Probably in their late teens or early twenties. Upper class bred for certain; most of the students there were.

“It’s a pleasure,” Henry noted.

“Yeah a real pleasure” Eric concurred, looking her up and down.

“OK gentlemen, I’m sure you were heading somewhere.”

“Yes ma’am” they replied, smiling cheekily and continuing down the stairs, staring at Amelia as they went.

“That’s some hot new talent right there” one of them whispered to the other, forgetting that voices carry in big old buildings.

“Classes commence next week” her host continued, choosing not to acknowledge their comments.

“…So, you’ll find the place will become more crowded over the next few days, as the students come back from break”.

The two ladies continued up the stairs and down another long corridor. Once again, the walls held the history of those maestros that came before.

They passed about a dozen doors before stopping outside a room at the very end of the corridor. Beside it was a discreet, narrow stairwell, lit precariously by a flickering ‘Emergency Exit’ sign.

“This is it”, she announced, opening the door.

“Home, sweet home…well as close as you’ll get to it whilst you’re here. I’m sure you’ll find it adequate?”

“It’s lovely,” Amelia replied in earnest.

A girl whose whole life fitted into two backpacks didn’t really need much to be comfortable. Amelia sat on the bed, looking around.

The room was impersonal, and rather bare but for a lovely double bed, a wardrobe, a bedside table, a desk, and a quaint little window seat. Amelia smiled. It might as well have been a palace to her. She had her own space and it felt good.

“Well, I don’t know about ‘lovely’, but you can certainly make it your own. Well I’ll leave you to it”. Annie walked to the door “and don’t forget, 3pm sharp”.

Amelia looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table, it was 11am. She wandered around the room wistfully. She was tired, but too much so to sleep.

She emptied the contents of her bags on the bed. Some clothes, (barely sufficient for the bitter New York Winters), a few pairs of shoes, some toiletries, her passport and papers, a purse, a small laptop, and a hard drive that held all her compositions. There were no personal effects, no signs of a family history. It may have appeared a sad sight to others, but to Amelia, it merely represented the simplicity of her life so far.

She glanced at the alarm clock again. It was 11:05am. She casually put her things away, trying to fill in time. She considered exploring the institute, but worried about getting lost. Instead, she decided to scribe some of her compositions. She sat down at the little desk and set up her laptop.

Before long she was immersed in the project, and glancing at the clock, she realised it was 3:05pm. She was late. She grabbed her paperwork and raced out into the corridor.