There was another reason why I was nervous more than I should have been: Johan had insisted on filming my performances and putting them on YouTube.
“I don’t want to be filmed,” I protested when he told me what he was up to.
“I don’t understand what’s so wrong with it. Every musician out there does it,” he replied.
“I just don’t feel comfortable putting my amateur performances up on the internet for the world to see,” I shrugged.
“Uh, newsflash: the internet is full of amateurs. And you know just as well as I do that your skills are not at a beginner level.” He gave me a stern look, the one he always used when he wanted me, really wanted me to do as he said. I usually wasn’t intimidated by Johan in the slightest, but when he pulled out the serious, no-bullshit look, it meant it was time for you to get your shit together. No more messing around. At work or elsewhere.
My shoulders sunk in defeat and I exhaled loudly so he’d know just how frustrated I was with him. Sometimes, I tended to act more like a teenager than a grown-up around him and Helga, I was aware of that. I thought it was because I looked up to the two of them as foster parents. They had taken care of me from the first day I showed up on their doorstep. It didn’t matter we didn’t have a blood bond; they were my family.
“Listen,” Johan leaned on the bar and looking straight into my eyes. “You’re going back to school, right? To be a musician? Because that’s what you want to be, right?”
“Yes,” I said quietly, my voice just a whisper.
“Then this is what you’re going to have to get used to. One day it’s going to be you, out there,” he said with a tip of his chin. “Playing your own music, being judged by everyone. If this is what you really want to do, you better start to toughen up, child. I had a few friends that tried to have a career in music…they were talented, but they were weak,” he grimaced. “They gave up in a matter of months. My point is…this is no business for the weak of heart.”
He pointed his finger at me, accompanied by his serious look, and I shuddered. I knew he was right, about everything.
“Plus, let’s be honest,” he smirked, the hardness gone from his face and replaced by a softer look in his eyes. “You kind of owe us. The least you can do is agree to let me film you singing here, in my restaurant,” he added proudly. “One day, when you’re gone, I can say…Ik voor het eerst wist dat haar.”
I tried to make out what he had just said, but my confused expression gave me away before I could decipher it on my own.
“One day, when you become famous, I can say ‘I knew her first.’”
Helga, who must have overheard our conversation, joined us, and hugged him around his waist, leaning into his side. I loved seeing the little gestures of love and affection between them. They had been together more than twenty years. They gave me hope true love was hard, but not impossible to find.
“If he says what he says,” she said, snuggling against her burly man but looking at me. “It’s because you’re like a daughter to us. We just want the best for you.”
Their sweet words brought a smile to my face, and I wanted to say something just as meaningful and epic, but I was too busy trying to contain the knot in my throat that made me want to start crying. I just gave them a nod, the two of them looking blurry through my eyes full of tears.
In the end, we agreed on the YouTube channel. I had no idea who would even want to watch my covers, but I thought of one person I was hoping to reach. Playing music always seemed to be the way we communicated best. I wondered if it was going to work this time too, with an ocean between us.
As weeks went by, I had come to the conclusion that since I hadn’t figured out a way not to think about Lou, I should just stop fighting it. My mind always seemed too eager to relinquish any sense of self-preservation. So I just surrendered to the memories. I welcomed them. They gutted me from time to time, but mostly when I thought of him I would only feel love and my soul was instantly filled by a strange sense of calm. I felt the same feeling of calmness when I walked the streets and saw the places where we hung out together. It made me think of his smile and his soft lips kissing me, or murmuring something in my ear. I also thought about his music, and his beautiful voice. It felt like I could hear his music everywhere; it was as if it filled the air surrounding me. A very sentimental part of me had deluded itself into thinking I was breathing the essence of him. Strangely, I didn’t hate it. It was a constant source of comfort. It made me feel I wasn’t alone. It was also a constant source of inspiration: it made me want to write lyrics, music and pretty much anything else I hadn’t tried to do before.
Now that I sort of knew what I wanted, I started making a plan. I listened to more contemporary music than I ever had. I scoured the internet, checked the latest trends. I had an idea of who I wanted to be, but I was going to have to do a lot of work.
I was trying to learn as much as I could before going back to school, and also trying to find a way to express what I wanted. I started studying what other aspiring artist where doing. I watched their videos, followed blogs, listened and studied their songs. I started writing a lot. I set the bar really high for myself and I knew I had a lot of ground to cover. I was terrified of failure, but most times I was too excited to care. I would focus on the way I felt when we were in the recording studio and I would almost instantly feel slightly more confident.
I followed Lou’s advice and took note of everything that came to mind.
Anytime I had a verse, even a single one, I would write in my notebook, or in my phone. Sometimes I’d write a whole stanza. Pretty soon I had lyrics for a few songs. Sometimes I’d think of a melody at the same time I was writing, singing the words to myself; other times I’d just have a solitary verse and I would be stuck on it for hours. I started writing the random verses as pretty as I could in my handwriting and hung them as little notes in my bedroom. I’d stare at them sometimes from my bed, and try to think of another line to add, another rhyme that would go with it.
The rhymes and the music started taking more and more space in my head. It was thrilling and it drove me crazy at the same time. Some days I would be so focused on a line, or a melody, it was all I could think about for hours. When school started, I was almost relieved. I had to start focusing on other things rather than the words and the verses that constantly kept popping up in my head.
The school I decided to attend was known for their internationality. First off, all courses were in English, which was what really sealed the deal for me. My knowledge of Dutch was obviously still so limited, I couldn’t possibly think of going to any other school. The students attending The Amsterdam School of Music and Arts—ASMA for short — were from all over Europe, which made lessons quite interesting; I was the only American, therefore I was considered the “exotic” one.
The class of my master’s degree only had twenty-four students, and in a few weeks, they had us all working together on a couple of different projects.
Unlike school in New York, the courses at ASMA felt like a real workshop. The classes had more of a hands-on approach and the atmosphere was more relaxed in comparison. In New York I always felt so alone, surrounded by freakishly competitive people; here the students seemed to be focused on what they were studying, as well as on making friends.
“We’re going to have a master class on songwriting next week,” Sara, a British student I had become close to, announced excitedly.
“What do you mean a ‘master class?”
“Actually, we’re going to have a few master classes throughout the year. Haven’t you looked at the program? Anyway, I was talking to Professor Berg and he didn’t want to say who it was going to be, but he told me he’s someone pretty famous!” she said, brimming with excitement.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, darling, but I don’t think it’s any of the guys from One Direction,” I told her with a sly smile, trying to contain my chuckle.
“Oh, fuck off, you twat!” she said, dropping in the
seat next to me, slapping me with her notebook. Another good thing about attending an international type of school? Every day was a full-immersion course in British slang. Apparently twat was my word of the day.
The day of the master class rolled around, but neither my friend nor any of the other students had been able to figure out who the mystery guest would be. Our professor had been particularly secretive about it.
As Professor Berg entered the classroom, he hushed us and then began to introduce the guest teacher.
“There’s a reason why I have been particularly mum about our guest for the master class,” he said. “This person has a long list of accomplishments and you can all learn very much from him. Our time with him will be limited, so please, if you have questions to ask him, choose wisely.” As I listened to my teacher’s words I realized that every credit he listed for the mystery guest sounded a little too familiar. As soon as he finished the speech, he went to open the door. I turned my head, and the first thing I noticed was icy blue eyes. My ears started buzzing, and I couldn’t hear anything else after that, not the oooohhhs or aahhhhs of surprise, nor the words of my professor or the clapping of my friends, as Hans Koll took his place next to my teacher.
Turns out, Sara was misinformed. She thought each master class would be with someone different. Instead, all the master classes of the semester were going to be with Hans Koll. We were supposed to write a song and perform it in front of the guest teacher. He would be the one to judge us. Great. I should have felt like I had some kind of advantage over the others, as I had already embarrassed myself in front of him before, but that didn’t seem to be enough to calm my nerves. It didn’t help that I constantly felt his eyes scrutinizing me during the sessions we had with him. I snuck out after the first lesson, but I knew I couldn’t avoid talking to him forever. I didn’t participate in class as much as I usually did, and I was pretty sure Professor Berg had noticed. I didn’t want to get a bad grade because of Hans Koll.
“We meet again,” he said to me as I approached him. He stretched out his hand and I shook it. He looked bemused, as he couldn’t possibly imagine something more unlikely than finding me here.
“Yes, sir.” I wanted to say, “It’s nice to see you again,” but I couldn’t bring myself to.
Amsterdam was really awfully small sometimes.
The day before we were supposed to perform our original songs in front of Hans Koll, we were all looking a little green. Later that night I couldn’t fall asleep, tossing and turning in my bed, chanting the lyrics in my head to the point of hating them. There was only one person I wanted to talk to. I almost called up Ally in the middle of the night to get his phone number, which I had deleted weeks before, to prevent myself from calling him in a moment of weakness. A moment like this. I wanted to ask him what he did when he was nervous like I was. How did he calm himself down and deliver? Was there a special technique I should learn? I closed my eyes, and I imagined him, in my bed with me, and I stopped thinking about the song and tomorrow’s performance. My hand traveled south, and I pretended they were his fingers—instead of mine—circling and pressing like they used to. I pinched my nipple with my other hand, and as the movements of the hand in my underwear grew faster and faster, I wished I could feel his body pressed on me, I dreamt it could be him filling me, his tongue driving me to the edge. It wasn’t enough. I wanted, I needed more, but this had to do. My fingers moved faster and faster, my breaths became staggered and uneven as I reached my climax. After accomplishing what I yearned for, I fell asleep with thoughts of him filling my mind.
The next day, Sara was just as much of a mess as I was. I held her hand until it was her time to take the stage.
“You’ll do great,” I told her with a smile. She gave me a nod and she pursed her lips before letting go of my hand. She took a deep breath before stepping out on stage, and suddenly, the fearful expression was gone from her face, replaced by a radiant, confident smile. I watched her breeze through her performance, mesmerized. I had never seen her “stage persona” come out so much during class. It was like seeing a different side of her altogether. She was just performing with her guitar, and although she messed up on a couple of notes, she never lost the confident demeanor. She was owning it. I wanted to do just as good of a job as she was. I closed my eyes and started breathing slowly, telling myself I had this.
When she finished, I clapped from the sidelines, and I waited to hear my name called out before putting the same confident smile Sara had on her face.
I took my seat at the piano and said, “My name is Ella Fitzpatrick, and this is my original song.”
CHAPTER 24
Lou
I had become an internet stalker. Shouldn’t it have been the other way around? I was the famous one, I thought, chuckling at my own joke. Instead, here I was, watching videos on her YouTube channel. Over and over and over. I hadn’t found it on my own, though. It wasn’t that my stalker skills were that awful, I simply didn’t think this would be something she’d want to do.
I would have missed out if I didn’t have good informants, or more accurately one good informant: Johan. He and I had stayed in touch and emailed each other pretty frequently. I was in touch with Ally too, but we would rarely discuss Ella. She had gotten really defensive before and told me to leave Ella alone, so I would just limit myself to asking Ally if Ella was doing okay. If I asked anything more, she reminded me I was the one who decided not to keep in touch. Yes, I was constantly reminded of my stupid decision. If it wasn’t me taking a jab at my own foolishness, it was Ally, reminding me I had made my bed and I had to lie in it.
On the other hand, talking—or better yet, writing—to Johan was easy. He was no-nonsense. If I asked anything about Ella, he’d just tell me. It had been three months since we had parted. I had finished the album, which was now being mixed. I added a few songs I felt were missing. My record company was planning to release it early next year. I wanted it to come out as soon as possible. For some reason, I was eager more than ever to go back on the road and start playing again; I couldn’t remember how long it had been since my last show.
I loved touring. It was sometimes draining, but nothing compared to the thrill I felt every night I’d step on a stage; I was always, always chasing that thrill. I was convinced that I’d always be chasing it all my life, until my body was old and couldn’t strum a guitar anymore.
I wanted to go back on the road, and I wanted to go back to her, but after the way I had behaved, I knew I couldn’t force my way back into her life. I needed to give her the time and the space to chase her dreams. Johan said she was different. For starters, she was focused on school. She had kept her word and had enrolled in school and was now studying in a one year Master’s program in modern music. Why, I wasn’t exactly sure, but it was probably just part of her plan to try to learn anything beyond her classical background. And while she was no longer playing on the streets of Amsterdam like when I met her, she was playing more and more around town, according to Johan.
In the videos I watched, she looked beautiful, alive and passionate, as passionate as I remembered her when she was naked in my arms. Her wild hair followed her movements, covering her face, just as it did the day I saw her for the first time. There was something about her, something new: a spark, a certain energy I hadn’t seen before. It was a far departure from the girl I had met on the street months before. Now, she seemed to possess a hunger, a need that she hadn’t displayed before. She seemed to own the piano, not the other way around. She was so fucking beautiful and I loved every minute I could get of her. I felt like a creep watching her videos over and over. I wondered if she knew I knew. I wondered if she thought of me like I thought of her. I felt foolish and I knew I had to stop tormenting myself. I had to get back to work, focus on the final touches for the album, then the promotion.
I called my manager on the phone.
“Otto, let’s start talking about a tour. And let’s make sure we plan to go to Europe too as soon as po
ssible.”
CHAPTER 25
“Ella! Ella wake up!”
Let me sleep, I thought, but I couldn’t manage to say the words.
“Ella wake up! Open your eyes! Ella, if you don’t wake up, you leave me no choice…”
I immediately sat up gasping, thinking I had been having a nightmare...or maybe I was coming out of a coma. I felt water in my eyes, in my nostrils, dripping down my cheeks, running down my neck. I found Ally staring at me, amused, holding the culprit, an empty bottle of water.
“Ally…what the fuck!” I yelled, drops of water dripping everywhere, as I was trying to get up on my feet.
“Dude! You feel asleep during savasana! I have been trying to wake you up for the last five minutes! You didn’t leave me a choice!”
“You couldn’t have waited a few more seconds?”
“No, I couldn’t. There’s another class after this one. I doubt they want to listen to your snoring!”
“I wasn’t snoring!”
“Yes, you were! Now let’s go, didn’t you tell me you have a million things to do tonight?”
Yes. Homework.
I gathered my things and followed Ally.
“Bye, Ella,” said Lars, our yoga instructor, as we made our way to the door.
“Bye Lars,” I replied, smiling. He gave me a longing look.
“Lars wants to get in your pants,” Ally joked after we left the place. She gave me a teasing look, and bumped her shoulder against mine.
“No, he doesn’t,” I replied, dismissing the idea.
“Yes, he does. Didn’t he just ask you tonight what were you doing after class? Why are you walking home with me and not him? Is he not good-looking enough for you?”
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