Chapter One
Three months ago.
There were some days I seriously considered stripping at the Skin Bar a couple of blocks away from the university, just so I could make enough money for a nice hot meal and to save myself from another month of eviction threats from my red-faced Serbian landlord. However, the thought of my dad’s spirit, God rest his soul, scowling at me while I shoved my breasts into some pervert’s face was enough of a deterrent for me to think anymore into it. This was the life of a struggling music student, constantly fantasizing of ways to make ends meet.
Whoever said, “Money can’t buy happiness” clearly never starved a day in their lives.
I picked up the local campus paper and flipped through the classifieds. They were littered with jobs for servers, which I had tried my hand at before, and loathed with a passion. Consider it a character flaw, but I was far too blunt and headstrong to put up with anyone’s bullshit. Blame my dad for instilling in me a strong sense of pride and confidence from the day I was born up until the day he left this world.
Though people considered me a cheerful person, there were three sure-fire things that transformed this sweet, happy-go-lucky girl into a snarling beast that was best left imprisoned inside seven-foot thick steel walls.
The first was having my body inappropriately touched by drooling perverts. Unless you were my boyfriend, which no one was at the moment, then your hands were not allowed anywhere near my rear. Any attempts were met with an unholy wave of verbal profanities in addition to having all five of my fingers rake your eyes like they were dead leaves on a lawn.
The second was being judged unfairly, which was a constant occurrence for a classical performance music student. Every time I went on stage and performed one of Chopin’s preludes on the campus’s Steinway pianos—the most beautiful sounding instrument in existence—I was at the mercy of all the critics and their biased opinions. Granted, most of them left me with constructive criticism, there were the handful of critiques that infuriated me with their snooty perfectionism that made me want to give up this dream of mine altogether. But dad taught me never to quit and I always ended up picturing his Jedi spirit (yes I was a fan girl) and the look of joy on his face as I played. This carried me through the worst criticisms and those difficult times when I believed myself to be a failure.
Finally, the last item on my list of not-so-awesome things was hunger, which I endured a lot of lately. It was turning me into a Frankenstein-like-bitch.
I contemplated the serving job once again, almost giving into the temptation of having some pocket money, but decided that I wasn’t in the correct mindset to deal with people. Also the threat of having my ass grabbed by drunken frat boys was not worth it for minimum wage.
I felt my stomach rumble and cursed at it.
“Stop complaining,” I said to my belly. “I fed you a chocolate bar four hours ago.”
Great, I was standing in the middle of the street talking to my stomach like only psychos or pregnant women did.
Hunger had struck at my sanity once again.
“Oh Aria,” I wondered out loud to myself, “How are you going to survive another semester?”
#
I plopped down on my bed, exhausted and utterly defeated. My pride had given way to my hunger and for the first time in a long while, I had succumbed to the charity of others.
Justin had bought me lunch at the pub, which I refused at first. However, watching him eat his delectable burger while working on our musical counterpoint theory assignment was excruciating.
I lied to him at first and told him I wasn’t hungry at all, but my stomach betrayed me and moaned like the chained ghost of Christmas Past.
“Oooooh, Cheeseburger,” it howled. “French fries with gravy, oooooh.”
It became such a distraction that finally Justin smiled and said. “Hey Aria, remember when you finished my music history assignment a couple of weeks ago? I still owe you for that one. Let me buy you a burger platter.”
I had to hand it to my study buddy; Justin knew how to word things in a way that didn’t make me look as pathetic as I actually was.
I gave in and nodded.
It turned out to be the most delicious burger in the world and I devoured it in a matter of minutes. I must have looked like a Neanderthal to Justin, but I couldn’t have cared less at that point. I was lost in the finger-licking land of greasy beef and salty fries.
It was only after I had finished eating that I felt ashamed of accepting the meal. I hoped the look of guilt on my face wasn’t too noticeable.
“You have ketchup on your nose,” Justin laughed.
Damn it—guilt and ketchup. What an embarrassing combination.
The second I had some spare change I was going to return the favor and buy him a burger. I didn’t want him to get any wrong ideas from me.
Justin was cute in a hipster sort of way—tall and lanky, baby-faced with sun-kissed hair and a fashion guru—but he wasn’t my cup of tea. I didn’t even like tea.
I always fell for guys that were more hard vodka than earl grey.
I suspected Justin had a thing for me but I ignored it, hoping that he would eventually direct his smitten eyes in another direction.
Justin’s friendship was valuable to me, but that’s all I saw it being—a friendship. Being broke didn’t allow me the luxury of going out and meeting new people and so he became the centre of my social universe. I couldn’t lose the current relationship I had with Justin.
Not now, and probably not ever.
I stared at the water-stained ceiling of my cramped studio apartment, sleepy from the grease oozing through my bloodstream. I longed to pass out for the rest of the evening but sleep had to wait. I had too much work to do.
I needed to figure out a way to survive another semester.
I logged onto my computer and checked my email, hoping that today my inbox provided me with some sort of salvation.
There were two types of emails that I usually received. The first was daily group coupon deals, which I checked religiously, hoping for some miraculous discovery that kept me fed for another week. There was one this one time that I discovered a deal for four microwavable pizzas for four dollars at the local grocery store and I practically came at the thought of having a steady supply of food for a week. Before stumbling across the holy grail of pizza deals, I had honestly considered crafting myself a makeshift bow and arrows and entering into the wilderness to hunt for some dinner.
The second type of email I got was rejection letters. Each week I sent emails to fifteen local entertainment establishments that housed pianos, inquiring about potential gigs along with a link to my webpage with samples of my music. And every week I received either some form of rejection or no response. It was hard to decide which was worse.
I desperately needed someone to cut me a break.
However on this magical night in March while scanning through my emails, I discovered that the China White club had emailed me saying they had an opening for a pianist this Saturday night.
I read the email over and over again in a state of euphoria.
“Dear Ms. Aria Valencia,
The China White Supper Club is interested in having you perform for us this Saturday on the Thirteenth of March. Please arrive promptly at 5:00 pm so we can discuss the set list as well as fit you into wardrobe. We are looking forward to your performance as you’ve come highly recommended.
Management.”
For a moment I feared it was a joke. The China White was one of the more exclusive supper clubs in the city, one that only the elite dined at: movie stars, fortune five hundred business moguls, and people of social influence. If the wealthy needed to stuff their faces with succulent Chinese meals, they went to the China White.
It was unexpected and astonishing for them to contact me, especially since I never sent an email to them in the first place, but I was so giddy from the prospect of working the crowd at the China White—and getting paid for it—that I didn’t bother thinking about the logistics of it.
I replied within two minutes.
“Dear Management @ the China White,
I would be delighted to play for your fine establishment this Saturday. You will not be disappointed.
Aria Valencia.”
My destiny was waiting for me, whether I was ready or not.
#
By the time Saturday rolled around, I was high off of adrenaline. I felt like a fired-up athlete about to play game seven of a championship series. I was ready to go out there beating my chest and putting on the performance of a lifetime.
I burst through the doors of the China White, ready to tear the house down with my dexterous fingers and dazzle the eardrums of all that entered into the restaurant that night.
All I needed was someone to show me to the piano.
After a brief introduction and some pleasant conversation, Abraham Constantine, the owner of the China White, showed me to the dressing room instead.
He offered me a shimmering white gown that was more suited for an actress on the red carpet than a broke-ass music student in a Chinese restaurant.
I was nervous as I tried it on. I couldn’t help but feel like a peasant deflowering an outfit fit for a princess.
Thankfully Abraham’s kindness eased my nerves, his words as warm and soothing as chamomile tea.
“Lovely,” he smiled. “You’re like a princess wearing a glass slipper, but in this case replace the slipper with an elegant Vera Wang exclusive.”
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to wear this?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” Abraham replied, rubbing his grey stubble chin. “This dress on another’s skin would be an absolute sin. If I were twenty years younger, I would have made you my queen in a heartbeat.”
“Your tongue is all sugar and spice,” I smiled. I always had a misconception of the wealthy, picturing them as eclipse-sized assholes that shat all over the simpler ways of life, while wiping their rears on the sleeves of the lower class.
Abraham certainly proved me wrong. He reminded me of my dearly loved and missed uncle, both in physical features and characteristics. He was in his late sixties, aged by his light grey hair and the crow’s feet around his eyes. However he walked and talked with vibrant energy that convinced me he was possessed by a twenty year old.
I also admired how he interacted with his employees, treating every one of them like his equal. I was surprised to see him consult with a baby-faced junior cook about the evening’s menu selection.
He treated me, a poor girl dressed in hand-me-downs, with respect at first sight, shaking my hand graciously and asking me what music I thought was best to set the mood for tonight’s dinner.
I had suggested some Chopin right off the bat, eager to show off my ability to perform his hauntingly beautiful and technically challenging pieces. I wanted the audience to witness my bravura on the ivory keys, hopefully garnering enough positive attention to get invited back for a second gig in the near future.
Abraham agreed to my choice, being a huge Chopin fan himself.
“The patrons should be arriving in about an hour or so,” Abraham said. “Do you need to warm up? Our grand piano is a modest Borgato, probably not one as spectacular as the Steinways you’re used to playing at the University.”
“Are you kidding me?” I was surprised. To call a Borgato modest was like saying a Mercedes was as nice as a bus pass. “The Borgato’s a stunning piano. You have excellent taste,” I said.
“As much as I’d like to take credit for making the selection, I can’t,” Abraham replied. “It was donated by a benefactor, the same person that requested for you to perform for us this evening.”
I was shocked and ecstatic to hear that someone with musical influence had heard of me, or even listened to me play, let alone recommend me for such an amazing gig.
“I don’t need a warm up,” I said. “I’m always ready to play.”
“How about we feed you then?” Abraham asked. “How does Peking roast duck sound?”
I had starved enough over the past few years to appreciate a free hot meal. “You sure know how to sweet talk a girl,” I replied.
#
I had performed countless times before in front of other music students and classical music aficionados. The people here tonight were different. They weren’t classical music gurus or music critics. They were just a bunch of rich people here to taste the incredibly delicious duck while listening to a few songs.
Would they appreciate Chopin and the beautiful complexity of his music?
I felt the smooth ivory keys underneath my fingertips. There was only one way to find out.
I hit the first note, creating an instant bond between my mind and my art. I closed my eyes and allowed the spirit of the music to possess me, my hands no longer my own but an extension of the piano itself. I was its vessel—its mistress—and the intimacy we shared was one filled with beautiful and majestic music.
I began to play and was marveled by the brilliant acoustics of the room. The sounds of the piano filled every nook and cranny of the restaurant with its vibrant melody, and the building responded with a lively echo that flooded the space between the walls with the genius imagination of Chopin.
When I finished the piece, I quickly transitioned to another piece, and then another. Eventually I lost track of time, finishing song after song, pausing only to allow the final resonating note of each piece to fade into the air and seep into the hearts of my audience.
When I had finally finished my entire set and glanced up from the keys, I noticed that most of the tables were now empty.
I was disappointed. Did my music scare everyone off?
I looked up at the clock and realized it was almost midnight and the restaurant was just about to close. I had played for five solid hours without taking a single break.
Music had a tendency of speeding up time, making me lose track of the world around me. I lifted my hands off the keys and stretched them out, catching a glimpse of Abraham chatting with someone.
The woman sitting at the table was a real classic beauty. Raven-colored hair flowed down to her waist like water; counterpoint to her smooth milk-white skin and red lips the color of apples. She wore a ravishing designer ink black dress that made my Vera Wang gown look ‘casual’ and the diamonds around her neck and fingers reflected the lights from the chandeliers above, transforming her into a glittering dark star.
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and smiled, and me being the goofball I was, waved to her like a kid on a school bus waving to her parents. I might as well have added a “Hidey Ho!” to officially coronate myself as the Queen of the Dorks.
While I mentally chewed myself out, Abraham strolled up to me and gave me a great big smile.
“Brilliant,” he said to me.
“You think so? I was so far gone into the music that I didn’t get a chance to see other people or gauge their reactions. I was okay then?”
Abraham pointed to the fishbowl wineglass resting on top of the piano. It was jammed with money, most consisting of one hundred dollar bills.
“There’s a direct correlation between audience appreciation and the tips you receive. I’d say you impressed my patrons tonight. The tips are all yours. I will also cut you a modest check for your wonderful work. But first, there is someone that I’d like you to meet.”
He took me gently by the hand and led me to the table where the black-haired woman sat. A glass of dark red wine rested in front of her.
“Aria, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Calisto Tremaine, of the esteemed Tremaine family,” Abraham announced. “She was the one who recommended your talents to us.”
There was a familiarity to Calisto’s face but I couldn’t recall ever meeting her before. Would she be offended if I didn’t have a clue who she was? I couldn’t possibly pretend to know her. My abilities to tell a lie were as proficient as a hole-punched condom.
“I’m honoured,” I said, extending my hand out. I figured a good old-fashioned handshake was a safe way to start things off.
Calisto grinned, rose from her seat and returned the handshake. She had a firm grip.
“I’m a big fan of your music,” Calisto said, gesturing for me to sit in the empty seat at her table.
I sat down.
Seeing that we were both settled in, Abraham gave us a polite nod. “Well if there’s nothing else needed of me, I’ll help the others with the cleanup.”
“You do realize that’s what hired help is for,” Calisto said. “You should sit back and relax once in a while.”
Abraham smiled. “Believe it or not, I find doing dishes quite soothing.”
“You’re the poorest rich man I know,” Calisto said.
“Wealth is not measured by one’s assets, but rather one’s reverence,” Abraham said. “Do those words sound familiar?”
“How could they not?” Calisto smiled. “I’ve always been daddy’s little girl. You know that.”
Abraham bowed politely and then headed back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my mysterious fan.
“Some wine?” Calisto asked, gesturing to the half-filled bottle on the table. “It’s a vintage 82 Bordeaux. You’ll love it.”
“I can’t really say I’m a wine connoisseur,” I replied. “Something so expensive might go to waste on my primitive taste buds.”
“Nonsense,” Calisto said as she poured some of the rosy liquid into an empty wine glass on the table. “It’s a travesty for a single girl to drink alone. You’re obliged to have a drink with me.”
I grabbed the glass, shrugged, and took a healthy swig, downing it like I would a beer. It probably wasn’t the proper wine-drinking etiquette seeing as how my chugging display caused Calisto to start giggling.
“You’re supposed to appreciate the wine, not inhale it like tequila shots,” she said.
“Sorry,” I muttered. I felt her judging me, which was item number two on the list of things that vexed me.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Maybe all the wine snobs are fools and don’t even know it. Who has the right to determine how one enjoys alcoholic beverages anyways? To tell you the truth, I never had the palate for wines either. All vintages taste the same to me.” Calisto stared at her glass, shrugged her shoulders and said, “Fuck it, why not?” She downed the rest of her wine in a single gulp.
“Fuck traditions,” she laughed, slamming the glass down on the table when she finished. “Someone always ends up breaking it anyways.”
I liked her already.
“You probably have a lot of questions for me,” Calisto said, pouring another glass.
“I sure do,” I replied.
“You probably want to know how I heard of you and your brilliant piano skills.”
“Yes.”
“And why I suggested for you to play at the China White tonight.”
“Yup.”
“And maybe who I am, besides this lonely girl sitting at this table downing a whole bottle of wine by herself.”
“Of course.”
“Well too bad,” Calisto laughed. “None of that matters. What does matter is if you want to make some more money.”
“Like another gig here?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” Calisto said. She glanced around the room, making sure no one else was listening in on our conversation. “What if I told you that I’m looking for a pianist for just one night at a very exclusive party?”
“Sounds pretty intriguing,” I replied.
“When I say exclusive, I mean that no one else can know about it. I’m talking cloak and dagger secrecy here,” Calisto said. “Can I trust you not to say a word of this to anyone else?”
“Say a word of what?” I played along. “We’re just sitting here enjoying a nice glass of wine from what I can tell.”
Calisto smiled. “I’m part of a very secretive club whose members are very influential and powerful people. Don’t ask me to name any names or go into further details, but I can tell you this: if they like you, they can seriously make your career. You can have your pick headlining Vienna, the Metropolitan Opera, or Carnegie Hall. I’m sure you get the picture.”
She definitely knew how to throw a good sales pitch.
“Go on,” I said. “The wine has made me very impressionable to your sweet talk.”
“In three days, my organization is having a…” Calisto seemingly paused, trying to find the right words for it. “…celebration. It’s possibly one of the biggest events our secret little organization has had in the past decade. I’ve been tasked to take care of all the little details, including entertainment. Aria Valencia, I’d love for you to play at this very important and very hush, hush event.
It sounded almost too good to be true. There had to be a catch. There always was a catch to these things.
“I don’t want to sound like an ungrateful skeptic, but why me?” I asked. “I’m just a nobody who knows how to hammer out a few good pieces on the piano.”
Calisto laughed. “You’re modest to a fault. A few months back I heard you practicing in the university concert hall. You were playing Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody number two, a piece that has great sentimental value to me. You played it with such a passionate fire and beautiful grace that the music resonated from the auditorium and straight into my heart, holding me like a mother holding her newborn.
“My father was a huge Liszt fan and listening to you play the rhapsody took me back in time, when I was still a little girl. I remembered sitting in my father’s lap one night and listening to that beautiful piece, just before his unfortunate death. It was the last moment we shared together as father and daughter. Your music unearthed that precious memory for me, a gift that’s absolutely priceless. I’ve been a huge fan of yours ever since.”
I was taken aback by her story. “You actually liked my version of the Hungarian Rhapsody?” I asked. “I thought I was playing it like shit. Hell, I still don’t have it all figured out. My fingering is still a bit stiff on some parts of the song.”
“It was beautiful Aria; absolutely beautiful,” Calisto replied. “I know this will sound a bit stalker-ish but sometimes I listened to you practicing from outside the hall. I’ve also attended a couple of your recitals that you had for your classmates. Creepy isn’t it?”
I was flabbergasted. I actually had a fan, and she was a woman of impeccable taste.
“It’s not creepy at all,” I replied. “I’m thrilled that someone appreciates all my hard work. Sometimes as an artist it’s hard gauging your own performance. It’s great to have a little validation once in a while.”
“So here’s the deal,” Calisto said. “I want you to play for us at this celebration. I’m willing to pay you ten thousand dollars for a single night’s worth of music.”
I choked on my wine.
“Aria, are you alright?” she asked.
When my airways were finally cleared of fluid, I responded. “Did you just say you’d give me ten thousand dollars for a single night?”
“Yes,” she confirmed, “Ten thousand dollars. It’s a very good offer. Try finding that kind of money without having to take your clothes off in some sort of fashion.”
I had to be dreaming. I should have been ecstatic, jumping on the tables while doing fist pumps, but once again the skeptic in me strangled my excitement.
“If this party is as important as you say it is, why don’t you get someone famous, like Marc-Andre Hamelin or Krystian Zimmerman?” I asked. “I’m seriously a peasant who can barely afford a Kit-Kat for lunch.”
“Because I don’t want either of those two,” Calisto replied. “I want you.”
“And these guests of yours won’t be disappointed that an undiscovered nobody musician will be playing at this grand event?”
Her smile was sly and full of mischief. “Here’s the beautiful thing,” Calisto said. “I’ve already made you a star in this inner circle of ours.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I created a story about you, one that may be on the fictitious side,” Calisto said. “Right now you’re known as the Golden Virgin, a mysterious pianist who lives a life of chastity so that your music is as pure as your heart.”
“But I’m not a virgin,” I said.
“Just pretend.”
“I dunno,” I replied. “I’ve never been a good liar.”
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
It was a rather blunt question to ask. I was fairly private when it came to my personal life and felt uncomfortable discussing it with someone whom I met ten minutes ago. I was also embarrassed to admit that my sex life was as dry as a sand dune over the past two years.
Having no money didn’t exactly give me the freedom to go out and meet people worthy of dating.
“I guess it was an intrusive question to ask,” Calisto said, after a brief moment of awkward silence. “I’m fairly open about my indecent escapades. The last time I had sex was yesterday with a Chilean carpenter who was installing hardwood floors in one of my condos. He looked like Johnny Depp with muscles. I came twice that night.”
“Uh…”
“I thought I’d share that with you, just so you understand that my question to you had no cruel intentions behind it.”
Oh, what the hell. What harm was it in telling Calisto about my dismal and chaste personal life.
“Two years,” I said.
“Two years?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect. You’re practically chaste anyways. I’m sure you’ll play the part of the Golden Virgin well.”
“So this story telling of yours, does that make you a habitual liar?” I asked. I was always cautious around storytellers. I hated being the fool.
“No,” Calisto replied. “It makes me a habitual marketer.”
“I see.”
She must have noticed the look of disapproval on my face. She immediately took my hands and gave me a pleasant, and strangely hypnotic, smile.
“So Aria, it all comes down to this,” Calisto said. “For ten thousand dollars, will you play at our exclusive party?”
I didn’t have to think long nor hard about it.
“Yes,” I replied. I needed to take every opportunity I could get. Also ten thousand dollars would cover my rent for the year along with supplying me with some much-needed groceries.
“Excellent,” Calisto said clasping her hands together. “Now remember, you mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone else.”
“I swear, not another soul will hear about this,” I raised my hand in the air, as if I were pledging my allegiance.
“Good,” Calisto said. “The punishment for violating the sanctity of our little secret is death—to you and the person you divulge to.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the amusing cliché.
“Sadly, I wish I was joking,” Calisto replied. Her words sent an instant shiver up my spine and for a moment, I couldn’t help but wonder what I was getting myself into.