London, England, October 25, 1965
Every music student at the Guildhall was required to perform in a few recitals a year, and every other music student was required to sit in the audience, comparing themselves to their peers, glorying in their slips, cheering on their friends, and half-heartedly clapping for rivals. Felicity’s turn came after many of her classmates had already had their baptisms.
She wanted to perform “O luce,” but Philip said, “No opera in recital. Not yet. You’ll sing enough of that in rehearsals. For now, we’ll start with song repertoire. Your German needs the most work, so you will sing three Schubert lieder,” he told her. “And then, as a treat, I’ll give you a big girl song. Something by Strauss. ‘Im Abendrot,’ one you will grow into.” Felicity tried to wipe the disappointment from her face, but Philip said, “Cheer up. There’ll be plenty of time for opera later.”
“How about Brahms? ‘Wie Melodien’?” Will was practicing it to perform with a second-year at the next recital, and Felicity loved how lush it sounded.
“Oh, no,” Philip said. “That’s for a low voice.”
“Couldn’t I sing the high voice transposition?”
“My dear.” Philip wore a pained expression. “The composer writes the music for a certain vocal weight and timbre. I don’t hold with this idea that you can change the key willy-nilly and nothing will be lost. Stick to the music written for your voice type. Schubert and Strauss.” Felicity looked away, chastened. She should have kept her mouth shut.
“Have you thought of a pianist?” Philip didn’t seem to notice her change of mood.
“Will. I mean, William Nesbitt-Jennings.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve noticed you chumming around with that young man. Not flashy, keeps things steady.” Felicity knew that this was Philip’s mark of approval. Will would be ecstatic when she told him. “‘Rastlose Liebe’ is a bit of work for a pianist, so you’d better get the music to him and have him come to your next lesson.”
Felicity had grown increasingly frustrated, preparing four songs in a language that knotted her tongue at the very sight of it. One afternoon, in a practice room with Will, she threw the Schubert book against the wall.
“Now, now, that’s not any way to treat an old master,” said Will. “One more time, and then we’ll go round the back, shall we?” That meant smoking weed in the courtyard. “Ad meliora,” he added. When she shrugged her lack of comprehension, he said, “Remember? ‘To better things.’”
She complained to Claude about Schubert so much when she saw him that he began every conversation with, “How’s the German?” They studied together almost every evening at the law library with Neville, who waited for Claude to brief the cases and then copied his conclusions. On the night before her recital, as Felicity reviewed vocabulary for German class, Claude looked up from a volume of contracts cases. “How’s it coming, Cinnamon?”
She pushed the book away. “I hate German,” she whined.
“German?” Claude grinned. “Do I have to watch out for flying books?”
“My back hurts,” she complained.
Claude came around the table to sit beside her. “Aw, poor Felicity.” He probed it with his fingers. “Where is it the worst? Here?”
She pointed, and he began to massage the area, his knuckles moving rhythmically up and down. He looked down at her German book. “What is that, parts of the body?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s a song the teacher taught us, like we’re little kids. You know ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes’?”
“I remember it.”
“Well, in German it’s Kopf und Schultern, Knie und Zeh, Augen, Ohren, Nase und Mund.”
“Oh, I see,” said Claude. He took one hand away from Felicity’s back and touched his head. “This is Kopf?” He pronounced it perfectly. She nodded. “And Schultern? Knie? Zeh?” He pointed to each part, pronouncing them correctly.
“I’ve been studying this language for weeks, and it takes you a minute?” Felicity pouted.
“Sorry. I like languages. I was just trying to help,” said Claude.
“Well, don’t.”
“Come on, Cinnamon, it’s just your back hurting,” Claude said. “Let me finish this case brief and then I’ll rub it again.” He went back to his side of the table.
“If you two lovebirds are finished, I’m wondering if you have the ratio decidendi for High Trees anywhere, Claude,” said Neville.
In the morning, Felicity put on another of the dresses Aunt Rose had packed for her. She now knew from Will that all her clothes were terribly dated and out-of-style in London, but she didn’t have the money for anything new. She was saving her grant money for a gown to wear at the hurricane relief concert being organized by the West Indian students. She woke up without enough time to touch up her hair with the hot comb, so she pulled it back into a tight bun. Perhaps too tight, because her scalp felt achy and tender for the rest of the morning. The ache burrowed into her spine during Italian diction class where, instead of open vowels, Felicity’s head was filled with Claude. As soon as class was dismissed, she hurried to the front door of the school, where he was waiting. “Hi, Cinnamon,” he said, moving to kiss her, but she ducked.
“Lipstick.”
“Your hair is up,” he said. “I haven’t seen it like that before.” He traced the shape of her jaw with his finger. “It shows off this lovely face.”
From behind her, Will grumped, “Oh, will you two stop it?” He held out a hand to Claude. “I’m Will. I’ve heard more than enough about your big brown eyes, so it’s past time we met.”
Claude, prepared by Felicity, simply smiled and said, “Nice to meet you, Will.”
When it was her turn to sing, Felicity climbed the stairs to the stage and settled herself into the piano’s curve as Will spread out his music, cupped his hands, and blew into them. The first piece was “An die Musik,” an ode to music. The holy art that in so many painful moments had transported the singer to a better world.
She knew what to do. Her breath was steady, her sound was even, she pronounced the words more-or-less correctly. But it felt stodgy. Her emotions felt contrived. She plodded through the songs, arriving at “Im Abendrot.” Felicity had puzzled over the words for hours; “Wenn das Rot, das in der Wolke blinkt, In mein stilles Fenster sinkt.” When the red light that flashes in the cloud sinks into my quiet window. As she sang them now, she thought, the red light. The way the Grenadian skies had illuminated as she stood in the brush, her face turned to the spreading flames. And Claude had seen that too, years before they met.
The applause was enthusiastic, but Felicity found it hard not to scowl as she bowed. They were being polite. She knew she could sing better. Philip would know that too. Her chest burned as she walked off stage. Will was beaming, having played flawlessly. “That was great, Felicity,” he whispered. Claude looked at her as she approached, his eyes soft, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. But Felicity could not bear to return to that hard seat. She walked down the aisle and out through the auditorium doors. She sat down on a bench and let the tears start. A moment later, Claude and Will were sitting, one on either side of her.
“Felicity? Cinnamon?” Claude held out his arms, but she turned away.
“Jesus Christ,” Will said, “don’t be such a prima donna, Felicity. You sang splendidly. Your German is becoming quite passable.”
“I was terrible.
“You were not terrible,” Will scolded, “you’ve just got your bloody period coming and you want to suffer.”
Of course. But the knowledge made her feel worse, not better, and she began to sob harder.
“What?” she heard Will say to Claude. “You didn’t know?”
Claude bent his head close to Felicity’s. “Are you not feeling well, Cinnamon?” he asked.
“My back hurts.”
She felt Claude’s hands probing. “Here? Here?” She nodded when he found the spot, then turned and buried her head against his chest.
A minute later, she heard Philip’s voice. “Dear me. What a hullabaloo on a Thursday afternoon.” She couldn’t look at him. “Ah. This must be Mr. Brown Eyes,” Philip said next. Philip knelt before Felicity and Claude. “Haven’t you seen your doctor yet?”
She shook her head inside the fence of Claude’s arms.
“Why on earth not? There is absolutely no reason for you to carry on like this, when there is a medical solution.”
Claude asked, “What kind of doctor?”
“One who will prescribe contraceptives,” Philip said. “Which I imagine is in your best interest, too. The law is that the woman must be married, and some doctors are stricter than others in verifying that, you understand.”
Claude said, “I know someone.”
“Good,” Philip said. “I suggest you make her an appointment immediately. And take her home,” he added. “She’s no good to anyone like that.”
“I have keyboard harmony —” Felicity said.
“I will speak to Lewis about that. Just go home,” Philip said. Then he added, “I suppose it’s my fault really, for not checking the blasted calendar before suggesting you sing today.”
“I’ve got to get to a coaching,” Will said. “Good luck, Claude.”
Claude led Felicity out of the building to the Tube station. “Are you really the only Black student in this entire school, Felicity?” he asked as they walked.
Felicity shrugged. She was used to being the only one.
“That doesn’t bother you? I got a funny feeling just walking in there.”
“Not many Black people study classical music, Claude.”
“Because they don’t have the opportunity. They don’t come from money.”
“Do you think I grew up rich?” Felicity asked. “You do, don’t you? My mother raised me on her own. Some days, she didn’t eat so that I could. She saw that I had potential, and she made sacrifices to get me music lessons. I wish more of our people had the same chances. Maybe if I make it big, it will encourage others.”
“That’s nice,” Claude said, slipping his hand into hers, and she felt him relax.
“What is?”
“What you said about your mother. The first really nice thing you’ve said about her.”
The train was full, the air laced with the smoke of countless cigarettes. Felicity and Claude were separated and had to stand. As Felicity gripped the metal pole, her back began to spasm. She put her purse down on the ground and tried to massage the ache, reaching behind her as the train swung her from side to side. Giving up, she bent over, trying to relieve the pressure.
“Cinnamon.” Claude shoved his way through the crowds to get to her. “It’s hurting again?” He addressed the women sitting in a row against the window. “Can you let my girlfriend sit down, please? She isn’t feeling well.”
“Young girl like that can stand,” one of the women muttered.
“No, she really can’t,” said Claude.
“Looks all right to me,” said another woman, her shopping bag tucked between her stout legs.
“I can’t believe this!” said Claude.
Felicity pulled on his coat. “Forget it.”
“You English!” he said. “Treat dogs better than people.”
“Rather dogs than wogs!” shouted a male voice behind them. Claude’s shoulders tensed and he backed away.
“I’m sorry, Cinnamon,” he said. “You’ll have to stand, since these prejudiced pigs won’t give up their seats. Can you manage? I’ll try to rub your back at the stops.”
“What does wog mean?” she asked.
His pupils constricted and his eyes grew dark and glittering. “Short for golliwog. Stupid colonialist dolls made to look like Black people with these big fat red lips. It’s like calling someone a … you know.”
When the train emptied out, Felicity was able to sit. Claude sat beside her and rubbed her back. As the pain eased, Felicity said, “You didn’t say anything about my performance.”
“It was beautiful,” he said. “I’ve never heard anyone sing like that.”
She saw his Adam’s apple jump and patted him on the crotch. He started. “Felicity!”
“You felt it here,” she said.
“Felicity, you’re killing me.”
“So you liked it. You felt love.”
“I did,” he said. “But …”
She twisted her head to look at him. “But what?”
She saw him measuring what to say, not wanting to set her off again. “It was all in German, and I couldn’t understand any of it.”
“Well, I only understand it because I studied it. But I told you, the first one’s thanking music for being a comfort, and the second one —”
“I meant, what does it have to do with us?” Claude asked. “Our struggle. Black people.”
“We love, too!” Felicity shouted. “We have the same hearts, the same feelings as anyone else!”
“You’re right. You’re right.” Claude reached for the spot on her back again, but she batted his hand away. Heads were turning to look at them. “Did I tell you how pretty you looked on stage?”
“Shut up, Claude!”
“I say, that’s not how we behave in England,” said a white-haired man with a cane hooked over the opposite seat.
“Mind your own business,” Felicity told him. Claude’s hand came down over hers in warning, and she fell silent.
He spoke into her ear, “Never mind. I don’t know what I’m saying. Watching you made me” — he stopped and then whispered — “gooey inside.” Her anger faded as she remembered the revelation she’d had on stage.
“Claude,” she said. “When I sang my last song, I realized that it could be talking about the Red Sky Revolution.” She repeated the translation, right to the last line: And this heart, before it breaks, still drinks in the embers and revels in, savours the light.
“Yes,” Claude said. “The red light. Bon jay, that was a beautiful night, Cinnamon.” He put an arm around her. “I bet no one has sung those German things and made them about Grenada before.” He pressed his lips to her cheek. “You’re right, Cinnamon. You will make our little island great. To the Revo.”
“To the Revo.” She rested her head on his shoulder, drinking in the fire and savouring the light. The world needed art as much as it needed revolution.