So I'm a soprano.
That sounds so official, so fancy.
Me. Please-don't-sing-happy-birthday-monstre, a soprano.
Golly.
Huddling in the sound-proofed room at the conservatory, eyes wandering from the piano to the carpeted blue walls and sound-swallowing boxes hanging from them, Maja was a different person.
Patient, wise, funny, excited, a good teacher.
She sang solfaggios and I repeated them, cringeing at my own voice. She admonished me patiently, tickled my stomach and re-arranged my shoulders and when I'd slacken my jaw like she said to take the breath wayyyy into my stomach, she'd surprise me by putting her hand on my abs just as I was about to sing...
...and afterwards we both stood there and marvelled.
Those notes came out of my mouth. High and sweet, almost, almost ringing.
We sang together until I went out of her range and then I sang with the piano, stomach straining.
Apparently the swim-team was good for my breathing techniques, she was thrilled that I've apparently gotten the hardest part down.
And the biggest surprise?
I can hear the melodies. I can follow them. Not the first time, but the second, sometimes, and sometimes on the third try I even got the entire eighteen notes with flats and sharps and all and it didn't make her turn away screaming.
You'd think that with all these complaints of aching abs, they'd be muscling up slowly, but I was sent away with orders to do my sit-ups every morning.
(I just did)
We left, arm in arm, singing the old theme from Star Trek, me desperately trying to sing precisely an octave higer like she'd instructed, struggling, but happy.
Happy knowing that it's work I need, practice. It's not hopeless. Daddy said it was, but it isn't.
One more step in the liberation of my spirit.
Afterwards, we had a rushed dinner chez elle with Seb, dropped her off at the opera and headed out to the bar with the kebekois. I hid in the corner surrounded by good faces, Alain and Daniel and Seb and Sophie and Guillaume, Francois finally finding a girl to hit on and leaving me in peace.
Daniel explained that french girls LIKE getting hit on. They LIKE being given lines. They go to bars to hear them, then leave feeling bigger somehow.
I'll never be a parisian, but I'm learning to cope, hiding in the crook of Daniel's shoulder and discussing architecture with Sophie.
This time it was Guillaume that got a little too drunk, a little too fast, problems at work giving him the urge to loosen somewhat.
We carried him up his stairs and put him to bed and left, knowing he'd be alright and happy in the morning.
Tonight is Jocelyne's housewarming party, and I'm charged with the housewarming gift shopping and a bottle of bordeaux.
Tomorrow morning I leave for Marseilles.
Tuesday I leave for Limoges.
The whirlwind begins again, but I am happy again inside.
Now, I just need to do laundry.