Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
I giggle. “I would not have pegged you for a disco guy.”
“Because I’m not covered in gold chains and big hair?” He finishes off his gin and tonic, grinning slightly. “I can’t deny the feeling those grooves put into my body. Something about them just scratches my brain the right way. But it’s not just disco. I also love The Beatles. Especially the stuff they wrote during their acid phase.”
I cock my head. “Oh, you mean their weird stuff. ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.’ ‘I Am the Walrus.’”
“And The Carpenters, too.” He absentmindedly stirs the ice in his now-empty drink. “Something about their music just lulls me into a sense of comfort, of safety.”
“I’ll have to put them on my playlist the next time I go running,” I say.
I don’t run. God knows I don’t have the time for that. But I do want to listen to some of the music Maddox is talking about. These are all bona fide classics, after all. And I’ve found the best way to get to know a man is to listen to the music he likes. Maybe it’s the flute performance major in me, but a man who doesn’t have good taste in music usually doesn’t last long with me.
“Do you ever go to the symphony?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to. Chicago has a world-class symphony orchestra.”
“I’ll have to take you sometime. I have a few friends who work in the box office, colleagues of mine from school. They can get us discounted tickets. I catch a performance now and then, when my schedule allows. I usually drag Dinah along. But it would be much nicer to have a handsome man on my arm.”
He leans in. “I’d love to accompany you to a concert of theirs sometime. Who’s your favorite composer?”
Oh, God. Here we go. He’s expecting me to say Mozart or Beethoven. A household name.
I chuckle nervously. “Shostakovich.”
He widens his eyes. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s a Russian composer. Soviet, technically. He composed some fantastic music, mostly while living under the rule of Stalin.”
He narrows his eyes. “A communist composer?”
I raise a hand. “He was actually against the regime, but of course he couldn’t say anything directly about it. Stalin would have had him executed. But music scholars have decrypted his music ever since the Soviet Union fell, and they’ve found lots of musical codes and clues depicting his true feelings.”
“Really? That’s fascinating.”
I’ve heard men say those exact words before. That’s fascinating. Usually I can tell that they’re humoring me, just staying interested enough to keep my attention until they can get me into bed.
But Maddox seems genuinely absorbed in what I have to say.
“Do you have a favorite work of his?”
I smile. “I’m partial to his fifth symphony. Not only because there is a magnificent flute solo in the first movement, but also because of the way he composed the ending of the piece. It’s this big, booming, patriotic march, which Stalin of course interpreted as his love of the motherland.”
“But there’s a code in it?” he asks.
I nod. “In a way. He chose a very specific tempo. Just slow enough to imply that he’s being forced to put on a happy face. To rejoice the glorious rule. He threads the needle perfectly, just enough for the party leaders to be pleased, but to also get a message of defiance out to people who were listening carefully enough.”
“Let me look up the CSO’s calendar.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls for a minute. “Looks like they’re playing Shostakovich’s eleventh symphony next week. Maybe we can get tickets.”
I widen my eyes. “I’d love to. The eleventh is another favorite. It’s very dark, and another deliberate critique of the regime.”
God, I sound like a nerd. Maddox seems to be into it, but I’d better curb this for now. I could talk about Shostakovich all night, but that’s not what this date is about.
Maddox isn’t the first man who’s suggested the symphony as a date after I jabber on about my musical tastes. I’ve had at least three or four men do exactly what he’s doing—pull out their phone and suggest a concert we could attend. None of them ever followed up.
But there’s something different about Maddox. My gut tells me that he would actually buy the tickets, get all dressed up—he’s got the bloody clothes for it—and escort me to Symphony Center on Michigan Avenue.
I guess we’ll see.
“You really don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Maddox.”
He shakes his head. “Nonsense. Seems very romantic. A date to see a symphony by your favorite composer. I like to listen to music someone else likes. No better way to get to know a person.”
I almost spit out my sip of gin and tonic. I was thinking the exact same thing just a few minutes ago.