5. Ofelia #2
She nods. “Dittorio is bastard,” she says, shrugging philosophically, “but also genius, you know? So what must we do?” She walks away, clearly not expecting an answer to what we both know is a rhetorical question.
Taking a deep breath, I walk onstage to quite literally face the music.
“You sit,” commands Director Klaus Dittorio, the principal conductor of the Orchestre, as I enter. He doesn’t so much as glance at me. “I no ready for you yet.” I sit obediently, waiting as he bellows at one cowering musician after another.
Members of the orchestra joke darkly that Dittorio was born with his German mother’s fierce discipline and lack of humor and his Italian father’s explosive temper. At almost seventy, he is still one of the most famous conductors in the world.
He’s definitely the most feared.
He insists on using English rather than French, due to the international talent in the orchestra, but his accent is so appallingly thick we all wish he’d stick to either of his native languages and let us do the translating.
But since he is, as the First Violin says, an undisputed genius, everyone tolerates his torrent of abuse, in the hope that they will find stardom under his masterful leadership.
At least, I think resignedly as he turns flashing eyes and a rather spiteful glare in my direction, that’s what we tell ourselves.
“Madam Russia,” he greets me sarcastically. “Now ve discover if you hit keys on piano vith same passion as keys on your phone. And—”
He raises his baton, and I brace myself for the last round of torture before the real thing begins tonight.
By the time I’m waiting in the wings for my actual performance, I’m mentally thanking Dittorio for every one of his brutal criticisms, hoping only that he was harsh enough.
I stare out at the packed auditorium, my stomach leaping into my throat.
Why the fuck did I ever want to be a concert pianist?
For someone who has spent her life hiding from the spotlight, choosing a career that puts me right at the center of it is odd at best and downright masochistic at worst.
It doesn’t even help to see my family seated patiently in the front row, although I do get a laugh when I see Papa stifle a yawn.
Unlike Deda Sergei, Darya’s father, and Darya herself, who both possess an encyclopedic knowledge of classical music, my father is entirely tone-deaf.
He also nurtures a healthy disdain for what might be termed cultured circles.
Despite having been born to those same circles, he was forced onto the streets at a young age, raising himself amid blood and violence rather than in any kind of luxury.
He spent more time washing up after the people who attend these kind of gatherings than mixing with them, a fact that only makes his faithful attendance at every one of my performances even more touching.
Deda Sergei glances toward the wings, clearly searching for me, and smiles briefly when I catch his eye and give a little wave.
He covers his heart with his closed fist and gently hits it, his way of sending me strength.
Darya, seeing this, nudges Papa. They both wave enthusiastically, along with Lourdes, Benny, Abby, and Dimitry, who nudges a rather bored-looking Masha to do the same.
Mickey and Lars, who are supposedly flying in from Scandinavia tonight after finalizing some cyber deal, aren’t in their seats yet.
I smile to myself. Papa will have Mickey’s head if he and Lars are out drinking somewhere tonight.
But I know my brother will be here. Mickey might be enjoying the freedom of his early twenties, but he’s also solid as a rock.
Years of raising each other has made Mickey, Masha, and me closer than most siblings will ever be.
Although I absolutely adore my new pack of infant brothers, they will never understand the life the three of us led before they came along.
I take a final look at the seats as the lights dim, then turn my attention to the stage.
The musicians begin filing onstage to rising applause, taking their seats and tuning up.
My stomach flutterings get wilder, my teeth gritted so tight my jaw hurts.
I’m wearing a simple sleeveless floor-length black dress, cut in an empire line to fall directly from beneath my breasts, since I can’t bear anything constricting my breathing when I play.
Many pianists wear glamorous fitted gowns, but I’m nowhere near confident enough to pull off the thigh-high slits and bold colors they do.
This dress is a floaty dream of chiffon over silk that weighs barely anything.
Tonight I’m all about comfort—and a thousand prayers that I don’t fuck up.
It seems an agonizingly long time before the orchestra settles. Finally the oboe plays the A that signifies the final tuning check, and a moment later, the First Violin nods at me.
I take a deep breath and step out onto the stage.
The swell of applause almost makes me lose my footing.
Even though I was expecting it, and despite having been an attendee at concerts here many times before now, it’s still a head trip to be the focus of an audience on this scale.
I stare at the polished black surface of the grand piano, staying focused on it as I walk to the center to acknowledge the applause, my heart thundering.
Blinded by the lights, I smile into the terrifyingly black void beyond them, then walk to my seat at the side of the orchestra, where I will wait until it is time for me to play.
I rise almost immediately with the rest of the orchestra as Director Dittorio comes onstage. The audience come to their feet as well, greeting him with respect, as well as a few dry, knowing smiles.
Respected, our acerbic director definitely is. Beloved, he most definitely is not.
Not that he cares. Dittorio isn’t here to be loved. He stalks onstage looking neither right nor left, glares at his orchestra, then raises his baton. He brings it down, and the performance begins.
I sit through the overture, eyes fixed on Dittorio to maintain my focus. Once on stage, I never allow myself to look into the audience.
I made that mistake once.
That fateful night in London when I slipped my security detail was the one and only time I ever looked into the audience after I took the stage—only to find Alexei staring straight back at me.