Chapter Two
JOSH
Warm air builds up under my jacket, and the headlights blind me. I turn my head so that I can still see the host of the television show. Maybe it would have been better not to because looking at her is anything but calming.
Her forced smile and the hair tightly tied up in a bun make her appear like a wax figure. Only one thing seems alive, and that's her eyes. They are alert like those of a tiger, and my gut feeling tells me that this predator in the little black dress will soon bare her teeth.
"We are live in three, two, one..." a voice calls out from the darkness behind the four cameras, all focused on the two of us. The lively murmur of the audience in the hall fades away.
This is the moment to check my posture once again. I run my hands through my short-cropped hair and straighten my shirt collar while the host greets the viewers at home and in the studio with her melodic voice.
"Tonight, I have the pleasure of introducing a special guest to you.
" She pauses, presumably to build suspense.
"As a composer and pianist, this thirty-year-old fills even the largest concert halls, and many female fans have already tried to win his heart.
" Another insincere smile, but this time, I see her teeth.
"Good evening and welcome Joshua Friedberg. "
The camera pans to me, and the audience applauds.
"Thank you for the invitation. I'm delighted to be here." I smile back. Not for her, but for the people who have come to see me.
She nods politely, then turns her attention to the cards in her hand. "Joshua, your rise in the past years could certainly be described as meteoric. What makes your success?"
Answering this question is routine, yet it always takes my breath away to utter these words.
Because they are as important to me as nothing else in the world.
"Playing the piano is my great passion. I owe being able to live it solely to my fans.
Without the fantastic people who allow themselves to be touched by my music, I wouldn't be sitting here today. "
The host's eyes suddenly glisten with tears.
She quickly clears her throat. "Critics say your music cannot be categorized.
It is neither classical nor modern. They call it nothing more than the naive background melody of an intermediate world that shouldn't exist. What do you say to these accusations? "
I hold her intense gaze. "My compositions are new and unlike anything that has come before.
They don't require extravagant stage shows, nor do they belong in dusty opera houses.
They belong solely to my listeners, whom I want to carry away from their everyday lives for a few minutes. If I can achieve that, I'm happy."
Unimpressed, she scrutinizes me. "As a child from an affluent background, it was easy for you to establish yourself with your new concept, wasn't it?"
Of course. Because talent and hard work can be easily bought. Actually, my wealthy dad just invested a few million, and that's how I became a successful pianist. Even if my father had ever believed in me, his money alone wouldn't have been able to do anything.
I suppress the rising memories of the dark sides of my childhood and smile at the host as composedly as possible. "My parents have always supported me, and I'm very grateful to them for that."
Although I have delivered an answer, the camera remains focused on me.
I feel the pressure to keep speaking, but I stand my ground.
These seconds of silence are a popular way to get the interview guest to reveal more than they want to.
The woman sitting across from me also searches for a vulnerable spot.
She needs an opening through which she can intrude and delve deep into my soul, in pursuit of scandal or sensational news.
Anything that boosts ratings is welcome.
I endure the silence because I am just as professional as she is.
Now she wrinkles her nose. It's clear to her that she won't get as close to me as she would like. Internally, I relax. Interviews are always challenging. Words get twisted too quickly, opinions are formed, and wrong conclusions are drawn.
Her mouth curves into a triumphant grin. "Rumor has it that your first piano teacher was certain that you lacked talent," she says, raising her eyebrows and fixing her gaze on me, causing a murmur to ripple through the audience.
Dammit, where did she get this information?
I didn't see this blow coming. I have to respond. And appropriately. "I had my first piano teacher when I was four years old. You'll understand that I can't remember everything he said."
That was meager. We both know it. Now it's entirely up to her. Will she pounce on me once and for all? Or can she hold back? Beads of sweat form on my forehead. It's difficult for me to maintain a casual smile.
She straightens up in her cream-colored leather chair and leans slightly toward me. "Are you implying that false information has been fed to us?"
Actually, I mean to convey that there's nothing I desire more than to end this conversation immediately. She must not poke around in this wound, as it has yet to heal.
Feeling somewhat helpless, I raise my shoulders, my gaze flickering to the wristwatch. The interview will be over soon; I just have to preserve a bit more composure. "Do you have every detail of what you did or experienced as a child at the forefront of your mind?"
A crease forms between her eyebrows. "One never forgets impactful experiences," she says with a dangerous undertone.
I must refrain from nervously tapping my fingers on my thighs. In any case, I cannot show any reaction. I regulate my breathing, endure the silence once again, and focus.
Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three.
Disappointed, she leans back in her chair, and the audience begins to buzz with excitement.
Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six.
"Your divorce last year must have been an equally impactful experience for you," she continues mercilessly. "How did it come to this?"
Not that I enjoy discussing it, but at least my manager prepared me for this topic. "We grew apart, and I'm glad we were able to separate amicably, remaining the best of friends."
"For Sophia?"
"For everyone involved." I smile again, although I've had more than enough of it by now. When will this charade finally be over?
"Of course, our female viewers are particularly interested in your love life. An attractive, successful man like you..." Her gaze sweeps over my body as if I were every woman's dream even though I'm just an ordinary human.
The press has tried so many times in the past months to uncover something about my love life. But the truth is, it doesn't exist.
"My love belongs to music, and it will always stay that way," I respond.
A resigned sigh escapes her lips. "If that's the case, of course we want to hear you play now.
" She gestures toward the concert grand piano located on the side stage next to us.
Its half-open lid glistens under the spotlight, the stool covered in blue velvet, and the keys magnetically drawing my fingers.
This is what I've been waiting for. Interviews are not my favorite pastime, but everything else becomes unimportant when I sit at the piano.
Relieved, I rise and approach the piano. I let my fingers rest on the pleasantly cool keys for a moment, close my eyes, and release all the tension from the interview through my breath.
Let's begin.
I cautiously play the first notes. My fingers dance across the keys, finding their place and creating a melody that carries me away.
Every movement is perfect—no mistakes and not even the slightest hesitation. The sequence of tones becomes more and more intense, and everything within me begins to resonate.
I smile, no, I radiate, as I pour all my passion and emotions into this one piece. As I approach the grand finale, even my heart beats faster. The music permeates me, and I become one with it, forgetting the world around me. This is happiness in its purest form.
Another triplet.
The crescendo.
Then the final chord.
With my eyes still closed, I wait until the last notes have faded away in the room. This moment belongs to me and my listeners. We are all connected, experiencing the power of music and letting it affect us.
Only when absolute silence sets in does the audience begin to applaud.
I hear enthusiastic cheers and open my eyelids.
The lights in the hall turn on, allowing me to see the people in the audience.
There's a little girl with thick glasses clapping devotedly.
And an old lady, sticking her fingers in her mouth like a teenager and whistling so loudly that I can hear it from here.
I know I'm beaming. My eyes are moist, and my cheeks are glowing. Because at this moment, above all else, I am grateful.
After so many years of rigorous practice, of striving to be seen and never giving up despite countless setbacks, I am finally able to live my dream of playing the piano.
Grab your copy…
hedreams