Free The Song House by Trezza Azzopardi

faint sounds coming from her
lips.
    When the song is over and the next one begins, Maggie
moves swiftly back to the stereo and lifts the needle off the
record.
    Not this one, she says.
    I didn’t even know I had that, says Kenneth, Who is it?
    Fairport Convention. Their first album with Sandy Denny.
Maggie turns to the wall, searching out another record.
    Oh. And she’s dead, she says, matter-of-fact.
    That’s sad, he says, sensing a sudden awkwardness between
them. Maggie slides an album from the shelf, turns it over to
read the sleeve notes. When she speaks again, his suspicions are
realized.
    My mother used to love Sandy Denny. Then she hated her.
Here’s another dead one, look. It’s like a morgue in here,
Kenneth.
    A minute ago she sang to him, now she’s accusing him of something.
The cellophane cover glitters darkly in her hands.
Ordinarily, he’d fight back. What business is it of hers? Ordinarily,
and he feels the knowledge like a pinch, he’d tell her
to go to hell, that most of the great music, like art, like literature,
like everything, belongs to the dead. And she’s an
employee, and her opinion counts for nothing. But here she
is, and he’s buried in her hand, in that unnerving look of scorn
she wears. And he says,
    Well, they’re immortal really, aren’t they? And they’ll always
be alive in here.
    Maggie swings round to see him pressing his chest. He raises
his chin, peering over at the record.
    Who is that?
    Otis Redding. Also unplayed by the look of it.
    Shall we hear it now? he asks, moving slowly closer, You
could play me the good tunes.
    They’re all good tunes , Kenneth, she says, curling her tongue
over her lip, This is Otis we’re talking about, not Cliff Richard.
But no, she says, her eyes scanning the room, It’s not the right
weather.
    Not the right . . .?
    Maggie turns away to search again, her fingers tripping along
the spines.
    It’s not just alphabetical, he says, It’s alphabetical by genre.
    I know, she says, dipping down into a crouch, so that he can
only see the top of her head.
    What do you mean, ‘not the right weather’?
    Otis is rainy day music.
    Kenneth draws closer, staring down at the shadowy curve of
her cheek as she bends her head this way and that.
    Oh yes, he says, I see. Like my spring morning, my Poulenc.
So, something we both know? he offers, confident that they’re
on easy terms again. Maggie straightens up and faces him, sucks
air through her teeth.
    Well, it’s not quite that simple, she says, There are all sorts
of variables. Time of year, time of day, place, mood, of course—
    Company, offers Kenneth.
    Good, yes, we must always consider company.
    Maggie, are you making fun of me again? Because as you
know, I take my music very seriously.
    She ignores him, crossing to the nearest window and unclasping
the shutter. She lets in a long finger of sunlight.
    For example, what’s the most perfect music for this moment?
This one right here, she says, pointing at the floor. Kenneth
swallows hard. His mouth is dry. He looks about him, at the
woody softness split by the light, and the heat it brings in.
There’s the buzz of summer outside the window, and Maggie
in shadow, but smiling again. He feels he’s being tested.
    One song, Kenneth, she says, Just one. I’m not asking for
the world here. Don’t knock yourself out.
    Oh, but she is asking for the world, and Kenneth would easily
give it to her. His mind races through all the romantic summers
he’s known or dreamt of, all the times he’s sat alone and
daydreamed of such a moment, with a faceless woman who
now has a face and is asking a small price for him to pay. No,
a love song is too obvious: he veers into neutral: simple music
for a hot day; Tailleferre, or Schubert’s ‘Nachtviolen’. But he
doesn’t want to bore her, that would be a mistake. A song, she
said; it should have meaning. Bound to be someone dead, but
he can’t help that. Then he hits