Your Mark on Me

Chapter 38: Interlude

Present 

When you're twenty-six and you sell out what is possibly the most prestigious performance venue in the world, it must mean you're somebody.

Or so they say.

I gaze at the sea of vacant seats upholstered in red velvet— two thousand eight hundred of them, to be precise — and picture them full of people, their eyes on me, their ears taking in the richness of the music rolling from under my fingers and rising all the way up to the stencilled ceiling of the Stern Auditorium. There are no heavy curtains in here, no frescoed walls, no chandeliers. No impairment to the celebration of music in this marvel of acoustical engineering.

A faint tingle crawls up my skin, just like it happens every single time I step into Carnegie Hall. It's a mixture of acquired reverential respect and wonder, a childlike awe that stayed with me as fresh as that first time, when my parents brought me here to see my very first classical concert. I was only four.

Back then I had no idea, but the concert we saw had a stellar line-up: Martha Argerich on the piano and Gidon Kremer on violin. Mom, a violinist herself, had taken us to see Kremer, but I couldn't care less for the bald man with glasses. For the whole ninety minutes of the concert, I couldn't take my eyes off of the dark-haired woman stroking the keys of the piano. She did it gently, ghastly at times, then with aggressive incandescence at others, in an intricate dance of light and shades, varying intentions and intensities that, despite my inability of consciously understanding them, had me completely mesmerized.

It's probably the most vivid early memory I have. That, and some scattered recollections of Mom crying and breaking dishes on the nights Dad didn't come home.

I was used to hearing Mom's violin all the time, but the piano — this woman's piano — was something else: strong, rich, able to contain a whole world by itself.

That was when I knew that I wanted to play.

That was when I first told myself that one day, when I grew up, I'd be just like that woman, making beautiful sounds on that very stage.

And here I am.

For a second, I think I feel something stronger, a flutter in my stomach, but it goes away before my brain can even fully register it.

I bite my lip in anticipation; there will be more of these flutters later, when the auditorium begins to fill with people. I must be crazy to draw such thrill from the nerves before a performance, but it's the only time when I can actually feel something. It's maybe, the main reason I still play. 

That, and because, sometimes, it makes me feel significant.

"You all right?"

The swift clacking of Maddie's high heels on the wooden surface of the stage draws me out of my daydreaming. I blink and nod, then reach out as if adjusting the height of the piano stool. I don't know why I feel the need to pretend. These days, Maddie is the closest thing I have to a friend. I see more of her than any of the other people in my life, and she knows more about my quirks than most of them.

"Your fiancée called, he wishes you luck." She giggles softly, showing her dimples. "Isn't he sweet? He asked me to make sure you don't skip dinner again. You're a lucky girl, you know that?"

The corners of my lips stretch in an attempt of a smile. I suppose she's right, but it only makes me feel guilty for being so ungrateful. I know I should be happier for how my life turned out, but I can't help it. 

"Maddie... about my little seating arrangement? Is it definitely done?"

"Yes. Third row, second seat from the middle, just like usual. Definitely reserved."

"Thank you."

I look down, for the millionth time wondering if she thinks I'm deranged. In almost eight years since she's been my manager, after hundreds of performances, flights and nights spent in hotels together, I never told her why I insist on having that seat empty, every single time.

I haven't told anyone. It's my little secret, the trick that got me where I am today.

Maddie rubs my arm in a friendly gesture, and leaves me to finish warming up. I don't bend over the keys right away, just listen to the increasingly distant tapping of her heels echoing in the hall, waiting for the noises to subside into an unspoiled canvas. Before the silence settles in, she pokes her head in once again, to threaten jokingly that she'll be back soon, to fetch me and feed me dinner. I smile and give her a thumbs up.

Maybe Maddie is my friend. Maybe, one day, I'll tell her.

Now she's gone, and it's just me and the quiet buzzing of the stage lights, in front of a sea of quiet, empty seats.

I draw in a deep breath, then take the silence and turn it into music.