Coda

Brian noticed that when they walked into the church, Violet’s eyes were not first drawn to the domed golden mosaic depicting the tree of life giving life to animals and plants. Rather than gazing at the painting of the twelve apostles in sheep form or the monolithic marble arches above the aisles, Violet bent down to the ground to get a closer look at the stonework arranged in geometric patterns on the floor. As Violet traced her fingers around the edges of the multicolored octagons, triangles, and squares, Brian went up to her and offered some knowledge. “This patterned style is called cosmatesque.” He explained, “You see all these different colors? The stone used to create this was cut from columns that were probably stolen from Roman ruins.”

Violet took a moment to let her eyes dart over the swirled yellow, pink, and grey marble polygons and then looked up and with lit up eyes burst out, “I love that! Cosmatesque.. That’s such a great sounding word. It reminds me of the universe. Where does it come from?”

Brian grinned knowingly. “Well, more specifically the word cosmatesque comes from the Italian Cosmati family, who started the style. But I’m sure their name is related to the Greek word cosmos.”

Brian and Violet continued to walk around the church, Violet now taking in the painted ceiling and larger decorations. After they had left and started walking back towards the subway station, Violet turned to him and whispered, “Brian, I just can’t get this image out of my head now. Dozens of slaves carrying stolen columns at night to this holy place. I can see it so clearly.”

Violet continued to tell Brian her thoughts until he cracked a joke and made her laugh. For a moment, Violet was looking at Brian while she giggled and Brian was looking right back at her, smiling like a fool. Brian loved and hated these moments. Through the proxy of her friends, Brian knew that Violet did not think of him in the same way that he felt about her. So each time they grinned at each other, under that feeling of joy and contentment there was a dull pit of reality in Brian’s stomach reminding him that they were not beaming at each other in the same way.

Brian decided that Violet was like the piano ballade he was learning, Chopin’s No. 3 in A flat major. Ballades were not repetitive or structurally concrete, but rather lyrical, narrative, and often poetic. When Brian had first faced the massive twelve-page piece, he had turned to his teacher and asked if any of the parts were recurring, as they would have been in most classical pieces. “Some themes do come back,” his piano teacher had said pensively, “but not in the way you would like.”

His teacher was right and each time Brian approached a seemingly familiar passage, he discovered that it always came in a different key or with a new flourish. The piece was technically demanding, requiring that the pianist be able to play wide chords at a quick tempo while still remaining flexible and relaxed. But even after hours of practicing and swearing, Brian still loved playing the piece with its singing melody and underlying harmonies, each time improving the slightest bit.