by K. Makansi
The audience erupts in cheers. I stand, out of breath, as if surfacing from too long spent underwater. There’s a ringing in my ears that’s swelled up in the empty space left by the music. It sounds like bells. I always have trouble disengaging after a performance. This time is no different. It takes me several seconds to remember that I am expected to bow, to wave, to smile. I feel the pinpricks of sweat on my forehead, and have to fight the urge to brush them away. When I stand, my foot almost gets tangled in the legs of the piano bench. My smile falters, and I have to catch myself to stop from falling. I’ve never been comfortable with the moments before and after. Only the music keeps me performing.
I step up to the edge of the platform and stare out at the faces in the audience. My mother, Cara, sitting in the Chancellor’s place of honor next to the podium. Odin, my father, sits next to her. The other contestants sit in the front row of the audience. Valerian Orleán, clapping reluctantly. I flash my teeth at him—he knows I just beat him. Hana Lyon, a girl a year younger than us, and every bit as talented, smiles at me. Her skin is the color of dark honey in the light. Mallory Flint, a year older, in her last year of eligibility for this contest, her face expressionless. I know she was hoping to win, for once, but her performance pales in comparison to the others on stage.
Vale fancies himself my only true competition, but his performances are dull and mechanical. Technically perfect, I’ll give him that, but he plays like he’s keeping time with a metronome. He has no sense of musicianship. If anyone beats me today, it’ll be Hana, whose performance of one of the Sector’s composers was unparalleled. She did it better than I could.
I remember, finally, to smile and wave. I’ve been standing here too long. I bow, and hurry off the stage. I take my seat next to Vale, who acknowledges me with a terse nod. We have nothing to say to each other. We never do. Hana, though, leans over to whisper in my ear.
“Beat the pants off the rest of us, Soren!”
I smile.
Gabriel Alexander, the Sector’s Poet Laureate, leaves his two daughters behind and takes my place on the stage.
“Thank you to all the competitors for their wonderful performances.” He smiles benevolently. “Each year, the Council for the Arts puts on this competition as a way to celebrate how far the Sector has come since the Famine Years. Although our educational system focuses primarily on the sciences, as Okaria needs researchers and engineers far more than it needs pianists—” there are some laughs around the hall, “—it’s critical to remember that the arts and the sciences complement each other. One represents freedom, and the other truth. Without freedom, you cannot discover truth. Without truth, you cannot experience freedom. So it goes with art and science.”
Gabriel pauses. I’m trying to figure out if this speech is rehearsed or if he’s making it up as he goes. He’s such a natural speaker that it’s almost impossible to tell.
“This year, while we wait for the judges to decide on a victor,” Gabriel continues, smiling at us as if letting the audience in on a secret, “I’d like to tell the story behind the feather we give out as an award. During the Famine Years, there was a woman named Icaria who went around begging from anyone who would talk to her. Of course, during that time no one had much food to spare, and there was no common currency and most everyone got by—if they got by—bartering what little they had to trade. Ikaria had nothing to trade and so, at first, she was shunned, ignored, or chased away. But gradually people realized she didn’t want food or money. She wanted feathers. Surprised, those she begged from almost always obliged if they could. Those who watched her from a careful distance said that when she wasn’t begging, she was staring at the sky, or watching birds in the forest. People began saving found feathers for her, waiting until she happened by again. After several years, Icaria had collected thousands of feathers. And finally, one day, she used hot wax and twine to construct a pair of wings. Some said they watched her as she strapped her wings to her shoulders and stepped off the edge of a cliff near where Okaria is today. Instead of crashing to the ground below, her wings kept her aloft and she soared off like a bird. She was never seen again.”
He laughs quietly, as though at his own joke. The audience is still, holding its breath. Everyone in this room has heard the legend of Icaria. It’s a child’s story. I haven’t heard it told since I was very young. But Gabriel’s narration gives it new meaning. I lean in, despite myself.
“Some say Icaria gave her name to the territories that would band together to form the Okarian Sector. Others say Icaria is just a myth. But stories are valuable for more than just the truth behind them. What we learn from Icaria is that freedom is always just around the corner, if you have the strength and the humility to seek it.
“Aha!” he exclaims, straightening. “The judges have decided on a victor.” I sit up. He must have gotten the notification delivered to his contacts. “At last, you won’t have to listen to my ramblings.” There’s a few voices of protest from the audience at this pronouncement, but Gabriel waves them away. “This year’s winner of the annual Okarian Council of the Arts Piano Competition is Soren Skaarsgard!”
That’s me, a voice says somewhere inside my head.
The warm glow of triumph spreads over me. I fight the temptation to turn to Vale and grin wildly, reveling in my victory for the second year in a row. Instead, I stand and walk back up the stairs to the stage. I refuse to meet anyone’s eyes except my mother’s. She nods at me with the merest hint of a smile. I bite at my lip to keep my excitement from showing. I can hear her voice in my head: Be dignified when you can; be emotional when you must. Now is not the time for pride or boasting.
But when Gabriel smiles at me and takes my hand, his warmth is contagious. Even I can’t keep the happiness off my face. He hands me the feather—not a real one, of course. This is just a cast made of aluminum filaments.
“Thank you,” I say, turning to the silent crowd, as my voice is automatically amplified to fill the auditorium. “It’s an honor to perform alongside my talented peers—” I meet Hana’s eyes, and fancy for a half-second that Vale’s disappeared off the face of the planet “—and to play for such a wonderful crowd. Thank you.” I duck my head slightly, trying to avoid saying anything further. I hate public speaking. I’ve always tried to avoid the limelight, though my mother’s election to the Chancellorship made that difficult. A bitter thought flashes through my head: Vale had probably already prepared his acceptance speech. He’s always been so much more the performer than I am.
I swallow my jealousy as I feel the chill of the aluminum feather against my fingers. He might be better suited for the public gaze, but I have the feather in my hands.
“A young man of few words.” Gabriel laughs. “Congratulations, Soren. I know I speak for everyone here when I say the award is well-deserved. And congratulations, as well, to our other talented pianists, who represent some of the most promising young students at the Academy.”
Gabriel raises his arms above his head, and the ceremony is over. As the tension in the audience dissipates and a murmur of conversation starts up around the hall, Gabriel turns to me.
“Really, Soren,” he says, his voice a hush, “that was incredible. I wish I could persuade you to pursue a scholarship with the Council of the Arts rather than the Research Institute, but… .”
“Thank you,” I respond automatically. “I wish I could. But there’s no future for me as a pianist.”
The truth is, I’ve thought long and hard about doing as Gabriel’s suggested. I still think about it. I would be happy to spend the rest of my life doing nothing but playing piano. But as a biologist with the OAC or as a researcher at the SRI, I can contribute much more to the future of the Sector than as an artist. Even so, the thought of it keeps me up at night. I toss and turn, wondering if I’ve made the right choice.
Gabriel hesitates before he puts a hand on my shoulder.
“With your talent, Soren, there’s a future wherever you want to make it. I understa
nd that the sciences offer many more opportunities in our society. But don’t forget Icaria,” he says, with a sad smile, gesturing to the feather I hold in my hand, “who flew to a better world on the wings of both science and artistry. You, too, have a gift for both.”
While I’m trying to think of a way to gracefully accept this compliment, his daughters, Remy and Tai, come up to Gabriel’s side, sparing me that difficulty. Tai and I are acquaintances—she’s a few years older than I am. She tutored me in mathematics last year. She’s very nice, but we’ve never really known each other outside of school. Remy, I’ve only met a handful of times. Last I saw her she was much shorter, still mostly a child. She’s grown in the year or so since then.
“Great job, Soren,” Tai says, politely standing on her tiptoes to offer me a kiss on the cheek. It makes me realize how much I’ve grown, too. When Tai tutored me, we were the same height.
“Remy,” Gabriel says, “why don’t you show Soren what you drew while he was playing?”
“Oh, it’s not very good,” she responds, too quickly.
“It’s fantastic,” Tai says quietly. “You should show him.”
While I glance between the three of them, fighting a smile, Remy pulls a plasma out from behind her back. It’s one of the larger screen sizes, specifically given to art students. I remember that Remy’s in her second year at the Academy’s prestigious Art and Design program, following in her father’s footsteps.
She hands me the plasma. On it is a gorgeous black-and-white sketch, unmistakably Lake Okaria with a brutal summer storm coming through.
“Holy sh—” I stop myself before the word comes out. Tai chokes back a laugh as she realizes what I was about to say. “Remy, that’s fantastic. That’s exactly how I feel when I’m playing that piece. Like there’s a storm rolling through me.”
Suddenly enthusiastic, Remy takes the plasma back from me.
“I could feel same thing! I felt like there was a storm building in the hall here, like it was going to break right over us as you were playing. Especially during the last part.”
“You know, in the Old World, the piece I played was nicknamed The Storm. So your drawing is even more appropriate.”
“That’s perfect! I did a sketch for everyone’s performance. I’m really proud of the one I did for Vale. Do you want to see?”
“Thank you, Remy, but that’s okay. Maybe your sketches should be something special, just between you and the musician.” I think I’m going to strain a muscle, trying to hold my smile in place. Vale’s name always strikes a dissonant chord in my ears.
Remy’s eyes go up behind me. I hear footsteps across the platform and turn to see my mother and father approaching. Cara, all blue and white, her hair so fair it might be cotton filaments, her eyes the same icy blue as my own. My father’s darker, taller, with brown hair and olive skin. I got my mother’s complexion but Odin’s build.
“Hello, Chancellor,” Gabriel says. “I was just trying to convince your son to enroll in the Council of the Arts scholarship program.”
“Were you?” Cara asks, looking at me appraisingly. “And what does Soren think?”
“Apparently he’s not interested,” Gabriel laughs. He puts one arm around each of his daughters. “A pleasure to see you both, Chancellor, Doctor. I ought to go congratulate the other performers as well.”
My mother smiles at him warmly, but her eyes are as cold as ever. She’s a brilliant politician, elected to the Chancellorship after ten years serving in the College of Deans, but she’s never been very good at showing emotion. Maybe that’s what makes her so good at what she does.
“Congratulations, Soren,” Tai says again. “I hope I’ll see you soon.”
“Good luck at the SRI,” I respond. “And Remy, keep drawing. That one you did for me was really good.”
I turn to my parents.
“That was excellent, Soren,” my mother says, her voice quiet.
“All of this year’s performances were,” Odin agrees. “Vale’s was flawless.”
I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, let’s all talk about how great Vale is. Because I haven’t heard enough on that subject recently.”
Just then, as if somehow summoned by my sarcasm, the Orleáns materialize nearby. Vale isn’t with them—he’s probably off flattering politicians and academics—but Corine and Philip are all fake smiles and condescending remarks. I glance around quickly and, to my surprise, spot Vale talking with Remy as she shows him something on her plasma, presumably her sketches.
“Soren,” Corine smiles blithely at me. I refocus on her and Philip. “What an amazing job you did up there. Congratulations on your second victory.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I respond dully. My mother glares at me.
“Vale was telling us just now how impressed he was. He could never have performed that Prelude with the intensity you did,” Philip says, reaching out a hand to me.
“He did really well too.” I force the words out. “I’ve always struggled with Liszt.”
“Oh, yes,” Philip says, waving his hand as though it was nothing. “Vale’s very good at playing to his strengths, you know.”
“But you play with such an emotional fervor,” Corine adds, nodding very seriously. I can’t help but translate in my head: You’re a sloppy musician. “It’s beautiful to watch.”
I bite my tongue and try to pretend that they mean these remarks. I don’t believe it, but it helps.
“Thank you.” I smile back at them.
“Chancellor Skaarsgard, Odin,” Philip says, “it’s great to see you as well.”
I notice the subtle jab as Philip refuses to address my father by his title of Doctor. The anger I had kept at bay comes coursing back through me. I have to fight the urge to turn away and leave without warning. But then Philip leans in closer to my mother and speaks quietly, and I’m suddenly interested again.
“Chancellor, if you wouldn’t mind reviewing the contingency plan I’ve sent you on behalf of the People’s College. I’d like to bring a vote to the table as soon as possible, and it would be wonderful to have your support.”
My mother responds slowly. Her eyes are glazed with a far away look.
“It’s pressing?” she asks.
“It’s critical,” Philip says.
“We need to confirm the contingency plan before my department can effectively begin our research,” Corine says, her voice equally quiet. Her eyes dart to me, and then back to my mother. It’s clear she doesn’t want to have this conversation in public.
“That’s true,” my mother says. My ears are pricked, trying to catch every word. “I’ll review it as soon as possible. With luck, you can have it in front of the People for a vote tomorrow.”
She smiles suddenly, as if returning to herself. She takes my father’s arm.
“Odin, would you mind if we got a glass of sparkling? I’d love to get some fresh air, and I think the Dieticians have set up some snacks outside.” She smiles at me, and I get the distinct sense that this is her own form of contingency plan: an escape from the Orleáns. I grin back at her.
“It was great to see you again,” I say to them. I follow my parents off the platform and through the crowd, leaving the them staring after us, whispering to themselves. I can feel their eyes on my back as I walk away.
I’m almost out the door when someone grabs my arm. It startles me, and I jerk back in surprise. I tense when I see Vale standing at my side.
“Hey.” He smiles at me. I frown.
“Hi, Vale.” It occurs to me that I’m looking down on him, that I’m suddenly several centimeters taller than he is. It’s disconcerting. Weren’t we the same height recently?
“I just wanted to say that your performance was amazing. The best I’ve ever seen of that piece.”
“Thanks.”
“You definitely deserved the award this year.” He nods down at the feather in my hand. I’d forgotten I was holding it. His smile seems too bright, his words too enthusiastic.
Is he implying I didn’t deserve it last year?
“Thanks,” I respond. “Yours was too. I can barely play that Liszt piece. Well, that’s not true, but I can’t play it half as well as you did …” As usual, I can’t put my words together. I trail off and stare around, trying to think of some way to save face.
Then I see Hana coming down the aisle, and my heart skips a beat. I wave at her, trying to beckon her over to us.
“Hey!” she calls. She sidles up to me and wraps an arm around me in a hug. I flush. I can feel my cheeks go rosy as her skin brushes against mine.
“Congratulations, Soren,” she says. “I knew you had it in the bag! I’d forgotten how beautiful Chopin’s 24th Prelude is.”
Happiness swells in my chest.
“Thank you.”
I smile down at her, her dark eyelashes batting flippantly up at me. I’m halfway to returning her embrace when she leaves me and darts over to Vale. She presses herself into his side, and he puts his arm over her shoulders in a single fluid motion. They look too comfortable together. She fits snugly into the curve in his body, like the pieces of a puzzle. My smile dims.
“Did you know that the 24th was sometimes called The Storm in the Old World?” Vale asks, glancing back and forth between me and Hana, tucked into the crook in his arm. He looks extremely pleased with himself for being able to share this bit of knowledge. I glare at him.
“I didn’t,” Hana says. “The title fits the piece.”
“You did well, too, Hana,” I say, trying to draw her attention away from Vale.
“Oh,” she bats at the air, as if to wave my words away, “My performance had nothing on yours. Maybe in a few years when neither of you are eligible, I’ll finally have a shot at winning.”
“That’s not true—” I start to protest. But her attention is on Vale.
