Chapter 16
Josh
I clench my hands into fists and release them again. I then massage each finger, stretching it out and gently bending it in all directions. As I perform my warm-up exercises, I breathe in the moist air and let my gaze wander.
This is where I'm supposed to perform tomorrow. Right in front of Dublin Castle, a venerable stone building whose tower pierces the sky veiled in gray clouds. Despite the facade, with its columns and protruding walls impeccably maintained, the former fortress gives an impression as though at any moment a damsel could open one of the high Gothic windows.
A sorceress might be better, one who can banish the tormenting images in my mind. Even though the trembling has lessened, it's still there. As is the numbness. It could still force me to make mistakes at the wrong moment. Not for the first time do I see myself failing at the concert. I see the distressed faces of my fans, hear their boos, and watch as they leave the square in front of Dublin Castle. But that's not all. There are also the headlines, which dance before my inner eye like glaring neon signs.
"Joshua Friedberg - Shock Over Sudden End of Career."
Such headlines and others like it rush unrelentingly through my thoughts. Whenever I would be in public, microphones would be shoved in my face. The press would profit from my downfall. They constantly need fodder, and my failing hand would be exactly what they're after.
My father would remind me with a satisfied grin that he had been right all along.
"We can start." Tamika has quietly come up beside me.
I don't look at her. I'm just staring at the seemingly endless stage in front of me. The area is cordoned off, only the sound and light technicians are here. As are the members of the string orchestra that will accompany some of my pieces.
If I make a mistake during the final rehearsal, about fifty people will hear it. Then they will know. They will know that Joshua Friedberg is a failure.
Inevitably, I have to think of Maya. And what she accused me of yesterday. She believes that I'm focusing too much on my career.
Because she has no idea. She knows absolutely nothing about me. Yet she constantly presumes to tell me what I should or shouldn't do. And then she looks at me with her sunshine smile as if she's never seen shadows in her life.
If I were to tell her what's really going on with me, she would definitely understand. She might even comfort me. And perhaps then we could...
"Come on. Everyone's waiting for you." My manager prods me.
Her pressure is the last thing I need right now. "It smells like rain," I reply. I have no idea why I say that, but it's true. There's a damp heaviness in the air .
She shrugs. "So what? The stage is covered. Neither you nor the equipment will get wet." Now she hooks her arm into mine and pulls me along. "You better focus on the final rehearsal."
As if I were a toddler, she drags me to the piano. Once there, she demands me with an unyielding look to sit down. I do. "We'll start with ‘ Freedom,’ ," she informs the entire crew and claps her hands to get attention.
My fingers lie idle on my thighs. I can feel their heat through the fabric of my jeans, noticing the moist humidity forming under my palms. I quickly wipe away the sweat and straighten my back. Even though my muscles feel heavy and stiff, I nod to the orchestra conductor. He lifts his baton, and a few seconds later, the warm sound of the cellos fills the air.
If I can't make it today, I might as well forget about tomorrow's concert. I must be strong, that's all that matters. With closed eyes, I wait for my cue. The spotlight creates a colorful flicker behind my lids.
Now. My hands remain where they are. The orchestra continues to play alone.
"Let's start again!" I hear Tamika shout. The music of the strings stops abruptly. Silence reigns for a moment before the cello motif resonates in my ears once again.
This time I will succeed.
I move my fingers one by one on my thighs. Each one of them works flawlessly. It takes every ounce of courage I have, but I manage to lift my hands and position them on the piano.
I need a little more time, but I don't get it. Inevitably, the orchestra is heading toward the spot where I have to start .
Three.
Two.
One.
Cautiously, I press the first keys. I try to relax, but I can't. Not only does my right hand feel stiff but the fingers of my left hand also tremble even though there's no reason for them to.
I can't play like this.
No sooner is the thought in my head than I make my first blunder. And from there, things go downhill so quickly that I stop a few seconds later.
I open my eyes and look helplessly at Tamika. The horrified look on her face hits me hard. The musicians of the orchestra whisper restlessly.
With pursed lips, I shake my head. And suddenly I feel it again. That feeling of wanting to run away. To flee somewhere where not even I measure myself against my success. To a place where I can just be and that alone is enough.
Instinctively, my legs push into the ground, I spring up and leave the stage without another word. Of course, Tamika runs after me, catching up with me before I can lock myself backstage in the dressing room.
"What the hell was that?" she wants to know, slamming the door behind her. Pointing her index finger at me, she approaches.
I sink into the shaky plastic chair, where I should have been made up for the stage tomorrow. "You know exactly what," I reply, tiredly propping my head in my hands and massaging my temples.
Despite the room barely having more space than a table, two chairs, and a mirror surrounded by lights, she paces in front of me. I see that the pointed heels of her high heels are leaving small holes in the adhesive parquet floor. "The medication is working, but not well enough. We'll double the dose."
"I've already done that," I say. I'm taking three times as much as prescribed. If I swallow more of that stuff, it will soon have eaten through my brain lining. Then the painkiller I'm also taking won't be able to do anything.
Suddenly, Tamika stops in her tracks. "Shit," she murmurs. "Shit, shit, shit." Her words are getting louder. "This is a damn nightmare."
Who is she telling? Surely not me? The only one here who can hardly sleep anymore. The one who eats his breakfast in reverse in the morning and would like to disappear into a big, dark hole right after.
I lift my gaze to look at her directly. "We have to cancel the concert." As hard as it is for me to say that, it's our only option.
Unimpressed, Tamika shakes her head. "And then? How are we going to proceed, hm? Do you think your problem will magically resolve itself by the concert in London?"
No. I feel everything falling off me. All the self-confidence I have maintained so far by sheer force of will. And the last tiny shred of courage and hope.
"I can't do this anymore." The only truth that still exists leaves my lips soundlessly. I swallow hard, over and over, but it doesn't help. "We should finally be honest with the press."
Is this the end?
The moment when I have to admit that I, Joshua Friedberg, am simply not good enough?
A shudder grips me. I look down and see Tamika's well-groomed hands with the deep red-painted nails on my knees.
"We certainly won't do that," she says, shaking me as if that could achieve something. "Listen to me. You didn't fight your whole life for this dream to give up so close to the goal."
She's right about that. There is still that little boy inside me who wants nothing more than to lose himself in the music. That four-year-old dwarf in a child's tuxedo who knew one thing for sure. That playing the piano alone makes him the happiest person in the world. He's still there, unwilling to believe that his dream is bursting like a soap bubble in the wind.
"We're canceling tomorrow's concert. I'll tell the press that you have...," she ponders, placing her finger on her chin, "food poisoning."
Oh God. When my fans hear that, they'll imagine me hanging over the toilet all night, throwing up my guts. This is a nightmare.
"As soon as we get home, we'll talk to your doctor again," she says, her hands rubbing over my thighs as if trying to warm me. "It'll be fine." She probably wishes she sounded more convinced herself, but she doesn't succeed.
She no longer believes in me.
Only the little boy inside me doesn't want to stop believing. So I clench my teeth, straighten up, and square my shoulders. I owe that to myself.
***
The following morning I lack the strength to get out of bed. Lost in thought, I carry out the prescribed stretching exercises while lying down, massaging my neck as my therapist had shown me. I watch as sunbeams navigate their way through the gap between the heavy curtains, casting a thin, bright strip onto my bedcover.
Who was it that claimed it would always drizzle in Ireland? Since our arrival two days ago, it has only rained for a few hours. Today, I'd prefer if the Emerald Isle lived up to its reputation. Yet I am certain the sky is blue. Weary, I roll over to the other side and pull the blanket over my head. Surrounded by darkness, the world seems to match my mood more aptly.
Just as I close my eyes again, I hear the patter of bare feet on the parquet floor, growing closer until it halts beside the bed.
Someone is breathing heavily. "Daddy?"
The cautious whisper of my daughter makes my stomach clench. How I wish I could be there for her. Yet the truth is, I can't even be there for myself.
"Daddy! Wake up!"
Should I pretend to be asleep until she leaves?
"Maya says if you don't want to wake up, I can tickle you." How assertive she sounds all of a sudden, almost like an adult standing her ground.
Before she can enact her plan, I let out a yawning stretch. "Good morning."
Her gentle chuckle coaxes a smile onto my face despite the heavy worries. And then it dawns on me what Maya has achieved for my daughter in such a short time.
Sophia is happy.
"Jasmin ordered breakfast. We've got waffles and Fruit Loops." Suddenly, the mattress dips behind me. " Want to know what else Maya ordered?," she asks mysteriously.
Maya. Every second sentence from my daughter carries her name. She's probably eavesdropping at the door, ready to step in if needed.
Is she wearing that pastel green dress today, the one that makes her look as sweet as cotton candy?
"Sausages. And bacon. And beans in tomato sauce." I can practically hear the disgust in my daughter's words.
Quickly, I throw back the covers and turn to face her. "That's what people eat for breakfast here in Ireland," I say, lacking a more humorous response.
"But I like to eat Fruit Loops more." She folds her arms across her chest and drops her chin.
Well, she can. Why is she making such a fuss about it? "Then do so."
For a moment, she regards me with a disappointed expression, then she springs from the bed and dashes toward the door. "Hurry up before there's nothing left."
Not that it would bother me. Hunger is the last need I have right now. Nevertheless, I peel myself from the sheets, slip into some pants, and glance at the mirror on the wall paneled with dark wood.
The sleepless night is etched onto my face. I tousle my hair into place with my fingertips before stepping out into the shared living room of the suite.
Maya sits on the oversized dark green sofa with a cup of coffee in hand. Behind her stands Jasmin. Both are staring at the TV, transfixed. Almost automatically, I follow their gaze, and my movements freeze instantly.
"Thousands of fans are deeply disappointed," says the heavily made-up blond reporter into the microphone. She stands in front of Dublin Castle, stagehands busy dismantling the grandstand behind her. "Joshua Friedberg's concert for tonight has been abruptly canceled."
The camera zooms out farther, bringing Tamika into view. She appears as unyielding as a rock, a professional smile gracing her face as she turns toward the camera.
The reporter fixes her gaze on the viewers in front of their screens. "What's wrong with the pianist? Why can't he perform?" A moment of intense questioning follows. Pure sensationalism. "Only here on RTE News Now will you hear all the exclusive details from his manager in a few moments."
The camera cuts away, launching into a commercial break. Jasmin withdraws with a troubled expression. And while on the television screen a woman is desperately trying to remove a stain from her shirt, Maya's head slowly turns in my direction.
I could still escape. All I need to do is turn around, and I'd disappear into my room instantly. But my legs refuse to move. As do Maya's lips. Only her eyebrows knit together in a silent question. But unlike Tamika's gaze yesterday, there's nothing accusatory about it. She lowers her bowl of cereal onto her wide-legged pants adorned with a psychedelic pattern.
I have no idea what she expects.
An explanation? That I break down in tears in front of her, pouring out my heart? Or just a casual good morning , as if everything were perfectly fine?
"First Vienna and Prague. Now Dublin," she says suddenly. Despite the softness of her voice, it stands out distinctly against the chatter of the television commercials. "What's going on here?"
God, what should I answer? I'm tired of the lies, yet I hesitate.
She tilts her head to the side, her gaze probing. But just as she opens her mouth, Sophia rushes into the room.
"Felix and Fridolin are fed," reports my daughter proudly, settling down next to Maya on the couch. Then she looks up at her, her eyes gleaming with conspiracy. "Daddy is having breakfast with us today."
Maya's features soften. "How lovely." She flashes me a grateful smile.
When she looks at me like that, I feel as though I've finally done something right. Warmth floods through my body. I can even feel it tingling down to my toes.
Suddenly, her smile morphs into an impishly cheeky grin. "Besides, your dad just told me that he's free for our outing today."
Naturally, Sophia's arms shoot up in the air. "Yeah!" she exclaims, full of excitement, jumping up from the couch to do a little victory dance.
A heaviness settles in my stomach as I watch my daughter beam as if Christmas has already arrived.
It means that much to her.
And it took me so long to give her this.
Sophia stumbles uncontrollably into Maya's arms. "Should we tell him where we're going?" she asks, busily pushing her curls out of her face.
Maya's gaze flits between my daughter and me. The captivating dimples on her cheeks deepen. "Better not," she says, and the way she winks at me leaves me unsure whether I should feel fear or anticipation.