Semblance (4 page)

The people of Anastasia used too many words
, I thought.

“Despite the dismal state of the man’s upright piano, the sound
s escaping from its wooden husk were never more beautiful. It was as if the winds of heaven were carrying her melody through the old man’s ears and filling his soul. For a brief moment, just before he died, he no longer felt pain. He only felt peace. It was her music that ushered him through the gates of heaven and into a life of eternal bliss.”

There was a moment of silence as Calisto allowed her preposterous story to sink into the hearts of everyone in the room. I’ll give her credit; she definitely knew how to captivate an audience.

“And now, without further ado, I am honored to present to you the lovely and mysterious Golden Virgin,” Calisto said, turning in my direction.

All eyes in the room, hidden behind enigmatic masks, fell upon me.

Though I had played to large audiences before and dealt with the pressure of pleasing hundreds of judgmental ears, it felt different this time. First off, I couldn’t see anyone’s face, so I had no idea what type of response I was going to receive from the audience. Usually I could judge by facial expressions.

Second, if what both Calisto and Abraham said was true, someone here was either going to help me realize my dream of becoming a world-renowned pianist, or obliterate it. It was a lot of pressure and the idea of spending the rest of my career playing drinking songs in local dive bars for pennies was too much to handle.

I needed to dazzle this crowd and give them a performance they’d remember for a lifetime.

As I made my way to the Heintzman piano, I sensed the anticipation from this eclectic crowd, and the excitement of hearing that first note resonate throughout the mansion. They craved to hear the sounds of my playing, and I vowed to deliver it to them.

I closed my eyes and brushed my fingertips across the cool, smooth piano keys, worshipping the craftsmanship of this majestic instrument. As I hit the first note, I heard and felt the perfect balance of sound and weight from the piano. I lost myself to the music, allowing it to touch me like a mysterious lover, the reverberations of the instrument reaching deep inside me as I let loose a long sigh. I released the haunting and pleasurable sounds of Liszt’s
Benediction de Dieu dans la Solitude
from the piano and played it with an absolute reverence.

Every beautiful note was a blessing from Franz Liszt’s creative genius.

When I was finished, I paused for a moment, and then went into another one of the composer’s masterpieces,
Harmonies Poetiques et Religieuses,
using the full range of the Heintzman to weave together sounds of this absolutely stunning work.

A few times I looked up from the keys to see the crowd’s reaction, but only saw the chilling sight o
f expressionless masks gazing in my direction. It was unnerving, and I decided that it was best to focus on the music alone, and not allow the people and the surroundings distract me from the music.

After I finished playing an eight-piece set, I had to stop and take a small break. My wrists and forearms were on fire from the sheer complexity of the pieces and to play another one right away would end up a butcher’s mess.

I glanced at the audience, many of them still focused in my direction. I had no idea if people were receptive to my playing, or if they were gawking at me like a sideshow attraction. I was glad that I was wearing this golden mask. At least they couldn’t see the nervous expression on my face.

“That was simply stunning,” said a voice from behind me. I turned around to see a tall man with blonde hair, his face hidden underneath a red Venetian mask resembling a fox. “Your combination of virtuoso playing and eloquent grace is a marvel to watch. I’m just surprised that I haven’t heard of you prior to tonight.”

“Thanks for the compliments,” I replied. I was excited to hear someone acknowledge my performance. “I’ve been kind of keeping a low profile lately, you know, preparing for my big North American debut.”

The fox
’s eyes glanced over me. “Your European English sounds very…North American.”

“I spent a lot of time studying in North America,” I was quick to reply. “I’ve assimilated the language pretty fast.”

There was another long pause from Mr. Fox. “Speak in your native tongue over in Anastasia.”

What was with the twenty questions? Why was he so concerned about my background and where I came from?

“Tranqata oblingonata kaliquicky ayamana,” I replied, ranting off gibberish from the top of my head.

“Translation?” Mr. Fox asked.

Go away,
I wanted to say. However what actually came out of my mouth was, “You’re a curious one Mr. Fox.”

“Calisto is storytelling again, isn’t she?” he said.

Damn it. Was there any point in continuing this ridiculous rouse any longer? I knew that the further down the rabbit hole I went, the smaller the tunnel would become.

“Look,” he said. “I personally don’t care which way the wind blows and how far the story goes. I appreciate talent, which you have an abundance of. However, there is one aspect of Calisto’s story that needs to be proved, and any failure to do so will be a poor reflection on your capabilities as an A-list artist.”

“Oh?”

“Play your father’s song,” the fox said. “Play Breathless.”

Perhaps the one thing about Calisto’s yarn that had some fibers of truth to it was that I did write a song for my dad shortly after he died.

His passing away wasn’t an easy thing to get over. He was the only family I had. My dad was the pillar that held me up when I wanted to crumble emotionally.

I remember on one snowy evening, not long after my father died, my loneliness and depression felt like a gun pressed up against my temple. I decided to head over to the university’s conservatory and found myself an old upright piano that was outside one of the examination rooms, waiting to be tossed out the very next day.

It was a little out of tune and missing the F sharp key in the lower octave, but at that moment in time, the piano was perfect for me. This lonely, broken and abandoned instrument was an exact reflection of me, both physically and mentally.

I closed my eyes and my fingers unearthed a simple and sad melody that had long been buried inside me. It was a melody that had haunted my imagination before, but up until then, I lacked the raw emotions to do it any justice. I stored the tune in the back of my mind until the time was right—when I felt the most vulnerable.

I played the song on that old piano with my heart bleeding out into the music while tears streamed down my cheeks. I allowed the world around me to dissolve into nothing, imagining that the only thing left in the universe was that old piano, a heartbroken daughter that played it, and the spirit of her father listening to her one final gift to him.

Since that day, I never played that song again. There were too many raw emotions associated with it and I feared that playing it would tear open deep wounds.

“I don’t think I can,” I replied to Mr. Fox. “I’m sorry.”

The fox shook his head. “Please,” he said. “I wish to hear it. It would mean a great deal to me and everyone here as well.”

I looked around and noticed that Mr. Fox had effortlessly drawn the attention of the room to us.

“What do you say?” he said aloud to everyone. “Wouldn’t we love for the Golden Virgin to bless us with her beautiful tribute to her father?”

The applause and the cheers of everyone provided a definite answer. But I just wasn’t ready, was I?

Oh dad, what would you like me to do?
I silently prayed to him. That song was like a secret message to my father, one that was meant for his ears only. The idea of playing it for anyone else felt blasphemous.

No. That wasn’t true. It was just an excuse I was making. I knew exactly what my dad would have said to me.

“Enchant them all,” I whispered aloud. Without another word, I turned my attention back to the Heintzman piano, closed my eyes and allowed the feelings of loss and hurt to overtake me. In my mind and heart, I was no longer at the mansion but sitting in front of that broken old upright on that lonely winter night a couple of years ago.

The music that resonated all around me was filled with pain, as if the loss of my father were still a fresh wound. It would always feel that way.

I played that song with my heart torn apart; the ache of my dad’s passing now at the forefront of my thoughts. It sounded sad, lovely, and wounded. As I reached the finale, I realized that I was crying underneath the mask. My fingers fell on the final chord and I held my hands there and allowed the note to linger until it eventually faded away into silence.

The entire room was hushed. The only sounds audible to me were those of my heavy breathing.

I bowed my head, closed my eyes and swallowed hard. I had bared my heart to everyone in this room, and I was met with silence.

It wasn’t until Mr. Fox began clapping that I realized that the silence was a result of the emotions everyone felt after listening to my father’s song.

Like a musical chorus, the applause started off softly at first but it didn’t take long for it to crescendo into cheers and praise.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Abraham, still in his wolf mask.

“My heart is breaking with that haunting piece you’ve just played,” he said, “And though you cannot see it, I assure you that I am tasting my bittersweet tears.”

“Thank you Abraham,” I replied. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. This is the first time I’ve played it for anyone.”

“What an outstanding job you’ve done,” he replied, “Simply outstanding.”

For the next ten minutes, I was met with continuous adoration and praise. My heart was racing and I felt delighted every time someone showered me with kind words.

“You’re a treasure,” Mr. Fox said as he took my hands in his. “I would kiss your priceless hands, but alas, this mask stands in the way between my lips and your skin.”

“I guess you liked it huh?”

“I won’t lie, I’m a cruel and cold hearted man and the emotions I identify with the most are jealousy and greed. But listening to your music, it stirred something inside me,” he said. “But don’t let these kind words get to your head, Golden Virgin from Anastasia. I see a lot of money being made between the two of us. I’ll have someone call you.”

“Really?” I beamed.

“Yes. As beautiful as your tune was, nothing sounds better than money raining down from the wallets of the public,” Mr. Fox said. “Now if you excuse me, there’s a lovely lady in this room that I’ve had my eye on for a while.”

“We’re all wearing masks here,” I laughed. “How do you know what she looks like underneath?”

“These stupid things are a façade and a novelty. True beauty radiates through a simple piece of dried plaster and can slay a man’s heart in seconds,” Mr. Fox said.

“You sound like quite the hopeless romantic.”

“Once again, you mistake me for being a gentleman. I’m actually a sexual deviant,” he replied. “I’ve been dying to taste her skin again.”

As appalling as it sounded, I couldn’t help but laugh. Mr. Fox seemed harmless enough, and the fact that he offered me an opportunity had me on cloud nine.

“Well, I won’t be a cock block any longer then,” I replied. He bowed graciously and made his way through the crowd. I watched him pass by a dozen ogling girls, paying them no attention and finally stopped in front of Calisto and offer her a greeting.

I didn’t blame him. Calisto looked absolutely stunning in her dress. For a split second, I almost felt envy for all that she had and all that she was.

I continued chatting with other party guests for the better part of an hour, playing along to Calisto’s lies as I practiced my storytelling abilities. I discussed the politics and scandals behind the fictional city of Anastasia. It was actually kind of fun pulling the wool over people’s eyes, coming up with elaborate and outrageous stories.

I was ashamed to think it, but I was becoming better at lying.

I was in the middle of telling a story of how the last Mayor of Anastasia was caught in a sex scandal involving transvestite prostitutes and raccoons when suddenly, I heard the heavy chimes of what sounded like church bells.

Everyone’s attention was drawn to the origins of the bells outside in the gardens, just beyond the sun parlor and through the towering French doors. The guests made their way outside towards the sound, bewitched by every vibrant chime.

My curiosity was peaked and I fell in line with everyone else, leaving the warmth of the mansion and immersing myself into the cool air of the night. I looked up and saw the stars fill the sky like tiny speckled diamonds.

It was
a magical night.

The sweet
scent of blooming flowers flooded my nostrils and I was amazed by how enchanting the gardens looked. It was something out of a fairy tale.

I was captivated while continuing to follow the crowd through the spellbinding gardens.

How odd it was that in a matter of seconds something could go from appearing so lovely to so fucked up.