by Ron C. Nieto
And that was the reason we had to hurry it up. The moment Beatrice realized we were taking out her alternate feeding venues, she'd turn to her descendant. Lena was a lot like ghostly fast-food, though she wouldn't appreciate the comparison. Beatrice wouldn't play around with her, wouldn't use the song to haunt her and to worm her way into her head because she was already in her blood, pumping through her veins and through her very core. She'd just take Lena's living soul, rip it out and swallow it full like candy. So like it or not, we rushed to save the life of the one girl at school who hated me more than anyone else, Lena.
I made a phone call.
“Who bought the piano?” I asked while the phone rang on the other end.
“We don't know. But the trust manager said he'd try to find the auction records and that he'd let me know when he did.”
“As good as we can get, I guess,” I muttered.
Then, the phone call went through and I put my plan in motion.
Chapter 25
One exact week later, we were in the local concert hall. The chandelier hung like a beautiful, innocent piece of decor over the seats. It lent a decadent, rich air to a place that otherwise was too modern to be considered enchanting on its own. The few cameras standing awkwardly around the pine wood with mahogany varnish and the cheap red velvet contributed to make it more comic than majestic. For a moment I wondered how it'd feel like to play in a real opera house, one of the old ones were you can almost feel Mozart and Bach looking over your shoulder and judging your worthiness to play their sacred halls.
Then, Stuart rushed up to me with a frown and an unlit cig hanging from his lips and I had to shake the reverie.
“This is not a good idea,” he said. “Whoever heard of a launch planned like this?”
I shrugged. He might be right, and it might doom my whole musical career, but I doubted it.
“It's unorthodox. That's part of what we want to convey, right? That we're different,” I said, going over the same lines I had used to convince him to agree in the first place. “Bringing an electric guitar into a music hall will shock people, and at the same time, it'll represent the kind of music I make. It'll be fine.”
“It's too local,” he said.
“Local's good. It adds flavor.” I wasn't sure at all about that one, but there was one thing I was sure of. “Don't worry: by tomorrow, everyone will be talking about this.”
They'd talk about how the chandelier fell on their heads and hopefully disintegrated before impact, not about me, but if my luck held out, it would attract attention to me too—and not to my being jinxed. However, even if those rumors did start, I was counting on the morbid fascination of rockers to check out the single anyway.
“Well, good idea or not, we're in. Get ready, kid,” he said, pointing at me with his unlit, gnawed cigar. “Don't make me regret listening to you.”
I nodded and got to work. The studio had deployed the Mesa for the night, and preparing it was a challenge that I welcomed because it took my mind off what we were really doing. I needed a sound that would accommodate the more aggressive “Shattered Silence,” but would also allow for more symphonic melodies—because if I was right, which I had no guarantee of being, it'd take a special kind of feeling to bring that chandelier down.
Stuart had agreed to give me three songs tonight, and he had warned me that they couldn't be fifteen-minute, three-movement kind of songs. Afterward, the plan was to hold a small conference where he'd present me and, if I promised to be good, would allow me to answer whatever questions the media asked. At first, I had thought the media part was just wishful thinking, but in a short period, I'd seen no less than four magazines and a handful of guys with press credentials that must've been from the radio stations. There was even the symbolic presence of the local TV, which made this a challenge.
I did my best to forget about the public, Beatrice and her stupid chandelier, and Alice and Lena sitting in the back, watching. I had to focus on the music or it wouldn't work. Hiding a smirk, I realized how similar this was to that one time when I was a kid: everything riding on a single performance. The stakes might be different, but the analogy served to fire me up and to get my mind in an appropriate state.
Hector, who had come along to take care of the technical stuff, approached me after a few minutes for a final check over of the adjustments I had made. He gave me a thumbs-up.
“Everything's in order. It's always a pleasure to work with folks who know their stuff.”
“Thanks. But I should be saying that.”
He gave me a bright-white grin. “Smart enough to recognize quality when you see it. I knew I liked you for a reason. Now get on that stage and rock this place until it falls down.”
He had no idea I planned to do just that.
When the curtains rose to reveal plain old me, I could almost feel the disappointment of the journalists. I didn't know what Stuart had told them to lure them here, but it surely hadn't mentioned that someone like me was their main dish.
I relished the skepticism and disdain, though. It gave me a chance to prove them wrong as I started to pick the notes for “Shattered Silence.”
The first notes I played were slow, melodious. Just setting a sultry and relaxed mood. The sound got some interest, but not much. Almost any guitarist worth his salt can play a nice riff without practice. But not every guitarist can change from such a riff into a one-instrument duet of arpeggios and hammered harmonics, and that got their attention.
It surprised me, how good it felt to be back on stage. True, I'd played for the theater group, but it had been different. Hidden in my corner, I had only provided the background to their play. My music had been there, had touched the public, and allowed me to weave a better Lady Windermere than it would've been otherwise, but it hadn't been about me. The hundreds of parents, friends, and neighbors who had come to see the play hadn't seen me, hadn't truly reacted to my music, but to a mixture of my music and the play's words and the actor's emotions. Besides, I'd been sharing head space with a ghost at the time, and it certainly detracted from the enjoyment factor.
Here, the stage was mine. The moods swayed from gentle to excited to determined. The tone was crushed under despair and then rose to meet the challenge, and the notes fought each other and strove for victory. And then, when all was lost, the melody found a reason to keep going in spite of the odds and exploded forward, gathering the strength of a storm as it abated its obstacles and closed in around the final prize.
When I finished, the expressions on the faces below me ranged from grins to tears, and it made my heart swell. What was truly different was that this time, they hadn't shared Lady Windermere's tribulations. They had found their own fears, their own obstacles, and each one of them had felt themselves soaring over them. I had written the song from my experiences, but had played it with my emotions and it had touched theirs. The media guys listening to my first release had seen their self-imposed limits for the first time, whatever they were. Some were shocked or scared, but some would decide to push past those limits and would remember how to dream, just like I had.
I didn't allow them time to relish their new resolutions. Almost as soon as the last notes had died, with the echo still reverberating in my bones, I wove a different story. This one was for Alice, and I found her eyes and held them while I told her exactly how much she meant to me, how much she had changed me, how unbelievably happy I was that she thought I was worth taking a chance.
The notes vibrated because there was nothing as frail as a heart, but they raced and rose with the certitude that even if they broke, the beauty their melody would leave behind would be enough.
I had to keep the song short because the third piece would need a little extra time, and I didn't want to use up more than what I had been allotted, but that was okay. There was no single song that would tell her all I wanted anyway, so I'd just keep writing them in the future.
Again, I didn't dwell in the warm aftermath
of that song. I didn't look at the public, and I tried very hard not to feel guilty from bringing them all the way from heaven into hell.
Taking a deep breath, I began to play my last song.
Alice winced, and of all things she could've done, she clutched Lena's hand when Beatrice's song took over the music hall. The transcription had involved a lot of cutting and editing and repeating and then deconstructing the next chunk, but as soon as the notes started to float in the air, I knew it was right. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention and the hall felt darker, stuffier. The order I had brought to the composition, the notes of love and hope that Alice influence had woven into it, kept me grounded while I fast-played the bloody piece and the journalists shivered in their seats, not knowing that they were the first people to listen to this melody and live to tell it.
When I reached the second half of the song, I felt a presence by my side. It wasn't Beatrice, though. If she were present, the warmth that surrounded me kept her at bay. It was Alice, just like that first time in the Nightray ruinous manor. She might be standing in the back of the room, but she focused and I could feel her. She gave me a trembling smile and a nod. Her hand left Lena's and rose to rest on her chest, over her heart. She felt the same way, and her fingers warmed my skin. For just a single moment, we were a single soul, split and rejoined with two hearts beating side by side.
I threw a spin into the song, a quick turn of unity and a phrase of destiny, and the chandelier cracked in a loud boom above our heads.
Stuart went ballistic when it fell. For a moment, seeing the gathered public look up in confusion, I panicked. But then the whole thing exploded. By the time it reached the heads of the people below, it was a fine curtain of gold and crystal dust and the confusion was replaced by “oooh” and “ahhh” expressions.
The song ended. The round of applause was slow to come as the crowd took a moment to get back to their senses, and ear-shattering once it began.
The curtain fell and I realized I was shaking a bit.
“Do you think that was funny?” Stuart hissed in my face as soon as he reached me.
“I think I played well.”
“Hah, very funny. You know, that chandelier out there? That's the kind of stunt you don't pull without consulting with your company first. What if you had squashed all those people?”
I tried to look innocent, but then remembered my absolute inability to lie convincingly and went with a blank face and a heavy dose of the simplest denial.
“I didn't do anything with the lamp. I just played.”
“You really expect me to believe that?”
Alice jumped backstage right then, throwing her arms around my neck. “That was amazing!” She turned to Stuart and grinned. “Hey, nice touch with the confetti lamp. I bet everyone will be talking about it tomorrow! What was it, a hologram or something?”
She looked so eager, so innocent, that he was taken aback. “Glad you liked our secret touch, yeah.”
Alice's reaction was representative of what awaited us in the press conference. Everybody had loved the performance, most people wanted to ask how the company had arranged for the special effects, and Stuart was simply unable to confess that it had been an accident without ruining everything. So he went along with it for the short duration of the Q&A.
When we were about to leave, he dropped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “It worked fine this once,” he said. “It'll suit your image. Tomorrow the media will have titles like the Phantom of the Opera and will be dying to talk to you. But don't even think to do it again.”
I thought about denying it once more, about saying I didn't know what he was talking about. But while he wasn't particularly nice, he wasn't stupid either. And if all went according to plan, he was going to become my manager, so I didn't want hard feelings between us when they weren't necessary.
“I hope nothing odd happens ever again,” I said.
He gave me a stern look that turned into a curt nod when I didn't budge. “Just as well. Now go and celebrate your first success with your pretty girl.”
The innuendo in his voice was clear and I amused myself wondering what he'd think when he realized that Alice was, in fact, Lara's daughter all grown up. It would be fun.
But it was true that I did want to celebrate our very personal victory, so I just nodded and rushed out, where Alice was waiting with Lena. Thankfully, there were no press stragglers, so I just picked her up and spun her around with a laugh.
“It worked!” she squealed. “You were right!”
When I set her down, her eyes held onto mine and I saw she'd been as aware as I had of the moment we'd shared, even yards apart.
“Hate to spoil your moment,” Lena said, her countenance serious. “But I got a message from the trust manager.”
“He's got a name for us? This must be our lucky night,” I said, my arms still wrapped comfortably around Alice.
“I don't think so. It's Heffner.”
We froze. “As in... Anna Heffner?”
She nodded.
“Oh God,” Alice breathed out. “We've to go to her place right now!”
We piled into Lena's Cabrio and she drove, following Alice's instructions to Anna's home. It was big, but classy in ways that screamed “old money” instead of “executive shark,” like Lena's and, in a lesser measure, Alice's. It wasn't the first time I passed by it, but it was the first time I realized how comfortable Beatrice's ghost would feel in those halls. Out of all her anchors, this one had ended up in the most similar to her home.
“How are we going to get rid of it?” I asked, but Alice wasn't listening. She jumped out of the car before it had time to stop completely and rushed up the porch, ringing the bell with an insistency that suggested fire trucks and police cars instead of just a disheveled teenager group.
“Oh, Miss Alice,” said the woman who opened the door, barely above thirty and with impeccable manners. “What a surprise. Aren't you rehearsing with Miss Anna?”
“No, no, the theater group's not running yet... Listen, Mindy, you know where Anna is?”
The woman, Mindy, whom I just realized was actually the maid—who had real maids these days?—frowned in confusion. “But I clearly recall she planned to rehearse the new play today.”
Alice turned around and punched a speed-dial key on her phone. Mindy looked bewildered.
“Ah, Mindy, did Anna mention when she planned to be back?” I asked.
“No. But it's late already, so she should be back. Especially if she's not spending time with her friends afterward...” She obviously wasn't because we were camped in her front door asking for her rather maniacally.
I glanced back and Alice shook her head.
“Perhaps we can wait for her inside for a little bit?” I said.
“Of course.” Mindy smiled. “Where are my manners? Please come in. I'll prepare you something to eat and drink while you wait.”
“No need,” Lena cut in. “But you could show us to the piano. We came to listen to Wonderboy here, so we could get started until she gets back.”
I shot Lena a look. Not smooth. She shrugged, as if saying “well, it got us where we wanted to be” and the three of us followed Mindy inside to the main living room.
The piano was old and beautiful, its wood hydrated and well cared for. I pressed a couple of random keys, and the sound was rich and deep, like the mahogany that encased the strings. It was a well-loved piano. The tones are lost when one stops playing the instrument for long periods of time, but this one felt like it was regularly practiced on.
I felt really, really bad about destroying a friend's beloved property.
“Could we be looking for a piece of the piano?” I suggested after the maid left. The instrument would be damaged either way, but it'd be less conspicuous if we actually left an instrument behind.
“Who cares?” said Lena. “Just do your thing. Whatever needs to be blown up will disappear, and we'l
l be good to go.”
“Guitar's in the car,” I said. “And I don't have the effects rack with me today, but we'll see what we can do without.”
“That big thing in front of you is a piano and it makes music. Use it.”
I snorted. “I can't play the piano half as well as I can play the guitar, and not nearly good enough to pull off the song we need,” I said, leaving the room and heading back to the car.
I raced back again, guitar slung over one shoulder. Mindy sent me a glance from the shadows of a corridor when I navigated my way back to the piano room, but she refrained from judging me. She was too polite.
“Will it work?” Alice asked from her perch in the piano bench when I entered.
“It should,” I said, trying to sound more convinced than I felt. “We'll hear a different melody, even though I'll be playing the same song—that's because there are no effects, no overdrive, no reverb… But Andrew's original piano didn't have those things either, and it worked well enough, so I don't see why we should fail.”
I pulled out a small hand-held speaker I'd stuffed into the gig bag. It was the one I had taken to the Nightray manor, and I could testify it had worked back then, so I hoped our luck would hold. Connecting it to the guitar's raw signal proved to be slightly more tricky, but after a bit of fumbling, I got the sound up and going, a clean tone, almost like an acoustic guitar corded with steel, with a harsher core and an iron aftertaste.
