Chapter 44
Josh
I stare at my own reflection, captivated. The pale neon light makes my skin look ghostly, my eyes appear frantic. Wrinkles crease my forehead, blending perfectly with the dirty gray concrete wall behind me.
In the distance, I can hear the orchestra musicians during their soundcheck. Soon, I'll have to step onto the stage for the final rehearsal. In front of the magnificent backdrop of the Colosseum in Rome, I will perform one last time before tomorrow, the day that will determine everything.
I try to swallow down the nerves, not wanting to feel the weight on my shoulders. But it's worse than ever before. Just the thought of what could happen on that stage makes my neck muscles tense up. My hand trembles so much that the movement extends through my entire arm.
My father will be in the audience at the awards ceremony. If there has ever been a moment when I must deliver, it's tomorrow. And today, I must lay the foundation for it.
I know deep within me that I won't be able to do it without vodka. The way my hand shakes, I'll need more than just a few sips.
My God, maybe I am addicted after all?
I need the alcohol. Not the warmth in my stomach or the dull feeling in my head. I could do without those. But I depend on the way it relaxes my muscles.
Desperately, I run my hands through my hair. Then I gather my strength and stand briskly. I quickly walk to the dresser next to the metal entrance door, rummage through my bag, and retrieve the bottle of vodka. I unscrew the cap.
I shouldn't do this. It's wrong.
For a moment, I gaze at the bottle. It wobbles along with my hand. The vodka sloshes over the edge. I can't perform like this. I can't even play a final rehearsal like this. I stare at the bottle of vodka in despair.
"I hate you," I say harshly to it. Then I put it to my lips and take a big gulp. Bitingly sharp, the liquid runs down my throat.
I have to wait a few minutes for the effects to kick in. It's different every time. Occasionally, it takes more, sometimes less, to steady my fingers, and I always drink only what is necessary.
The clock on the wall above the leather loveseat ticks too loudly. I watch as the minute hand continues to move. Then I form a fist.
The trembling is still there.
Resigned, I take another drink. Barely have I forced down the vodka when there's a knock on the door.
"Just a moment, please!" I quickly call out and stash the bottle away. I wipe the corners of my mouth and pop a piece of gum into my mouth. Even though you can't smell vodka, it's better to be safe. I force a smile onto my face in front of the mirror. My eyes stare at me reproachfully.
There's another knock, more urgent this time. I tear myself away and rush to the door to open it .
I didn't expect this visit. It's not just my parents standing in the hallway, but also a cameraman. What is he doing here?
Tamika must have hired him to document my glorious success.
Just what I needed.
"Hello." I should invite them in, but time is running out. To ensure everything goes smoothly for my performance, I have to stick to a defined schedule.
My mother embraces me with joy. I can only hope her keen nose doesn't notice anything about my drinking. "Hello, my dear." She sounds as she always does. That's good.
"Joshua." My father nods at me distantly.
I squint at the camera, its light blinding me. "Um... what are you doing here?" Perhaps the question isn't necessarily polite, but it's just too important that they leave right away.
My mother laughs as if I made a joke. "We just wanted to wish you good luck for the final rehearsal."
"How kind of you. Thank you." I clear my throat, my gaze darting to the clock. Three minutes since I took the last sip. "Please don't be offended, but I need to prepare now," I say quickly, apologetically shrugging my shoulders.
"Of course." With raised hands, my mother takes a step back. "We'll leave you to it." She hooks her arm through my father's and pulls him toward the door. The cameraman follows them.
Suddenly, my father turns around. Immediately, the cameraman has him in focus. "Don't disgrace me, son," he grumbles skeptically.
Doesn't he realize that it only adds more pressure? Or is it even his intention to do so? Muttering to himself, he disappears into the darkness of the stage catacombs, while the camera pans to me.
I pretend he made a joke and force a feigned laugh, as I have little choice. Then I hastily close the door. Without even looking, I feel my hand vibrating. I don't even have to make a fist for that.
This can't be true. Since when can't I keep my fingers still when they're not even under any strain?
It's 4:13 p.m. In forty-seven minutes, I have to be on stage. In a state of sheer panic, I rush to the bottle. It's so pathetic that I could slap myself, but I don't know any other way to help myself, so I take another sip. Once again, I wait before checking my hand, only to realize that the alcohol level is still not high enough.
The cycle of drinking, waiting, and checking repeats itself another ten times. And even then, the desired effect doesn't kick in.
What the hell is happening all of a sudden?
I try to stay calm, but the panic relentlessly creeps up within me.
Only twelve minutes left.
Another sip. And another one right after.
Finally, the trembling in my fingers subsides. As long as I don't tense my muscles, they remain perfectly still. Only when I tightly clench my fist with all my strength does the trembling return.
Finally.
Relieved, I take one last drink and then make my way. The neon light in the corridor flickers, and the makeshift carpet waves.
I stumble, even though I saw it coming. My hand searches for support on the drywall and fortunately finds it. An accident is the last thing I need right now. For a moment, I lean against the wall to calm myself down.
"Nothing can go wrong," I tell myself because that's the truth. Strangers are not allowed to attend the final rehearsal, including my parents. Even if something goes wrong, my father won't find out.
But I will know. And it will only add more pressure on my shoulders.
I shake my head forcefully and clench my fists. My hands remain steady. Very good.
"Pull yourself together, Joshua," I admonish myself because now it's about so much more than just proving something to my father. My entire happiness with Maya depends on my performance tomorrow.
When you play, I forget the world , Maya told me a few weeks ago when we sat together at the piano. Back then, the music could reach her inside and make her feel how I feel about her. If I play for her at the finals of the International Music Awards, it will send a message that Maya cannot ignore.
It has to work, for it is the only chance I have left.
With all the strength I have remaining, I straighten myself up and bravely step onto the stage. The colorful spotlight blinds me so much that I can hardly make out the grand piano. Everything here seems a bit blurry. The dark boards of the stage, the conductor in the orchestra pit, and the podium on which my instrument stands. Somewhat uncoordinated, I walk toward the piano, relieved to arrive there unharmed. I take a seat on the stool and direct my attention inward, as I usually do. But as soon as I close my eyelids, I feel as if I am not on the stage, but on a ship .
The sea is rough and wild.
Quickly, I open my eyes. A wave of nausea rushes through my body. And with it, the realization that this time, I've had too much vodka.
I am utterly drunk.
How on earth am I supposed to concentrate on playing the piano like this?
The conductor taps her baton on the music stand. "Ladies and gentlemen, let us begin."
The musicians pick up their instruments, and the conductor looks at me questioningly.
I nod to her. What else can I do?
A smile flickers across her face. Then she raises the baton, followed by a moment of silence.
The cello begins to play, followed by the violins.
I feel the music, becoming a part of the magic that already fills the stage.
My God, how I love this melody.
My cue is coming up.
There.
I start playing, pouring everything I have into the piece. My passion for music. And my love for Maya. With her beautiful smile in mind, I feel better. It's as if I'm no longer here. I float, full of lightness and joy. In my imagination, she listens to me. Tears of joy glisten on her cheeks. My fingers glide over the keys, the orchestra increases the tempo, and I follow.
It's wonderful.
Suddenly, it's just me playing.
A frantic clattering is heard. I look around and spot the conductor, pounding the baton on the music stand in frustration. Her gaze is directly on me.
I don't know what's going on here. But despite the fog in my mind, it's clear to me that I must have done something wrong.
"When you change the key, you need to provide a new score," she says angrily, pointing at the sheet music.
But I didn't. This piece was already perfect when I first played it. The key has always been the same. Suddenly, it dawns on me what might have happened. Hectically, I lower my gaze to my hands.
Indeed.
They're not where they're supposed to be. Not even close.
I've been playing the wrong way the entire time. And I didn't even notice!
Words escape me. And all thoughts vanish. Only my father's mocking laughter remains within me.
Grow up, Joshua. Nobody out there is waiting for another pianist who believes his tinkling can change the world , I hear him say in that contemptuous tone he always prefers to use with me.
And at that moment, it becomes clear to me that it's no longer true. I don't want to change the world anymore. Only Maya's world matters now.
I rest my head in my hands. The taste of vomit lingers in my mouth.
"Mr. Friedberg?" The conductor grows impatient. I need to get back on track. But right now, everything is too much for me.
I can't do it anymore.
"Please excuse me," I force out with difficulty. Then I storm off the stage.