Chapter 2
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.
** *
Shortly after, I leave the studio through the back exit, get into the car, and drive to the nearest shopping center. Once I arrive, I put on the dark baseball cap for safety and slip into the subtle gray sports jacket. That, along with my inconspicuous jeans, should be enough to stroll through the center unnoticed.
Walking along the wide corridor with glossy tiles, I focus on my mission today. My daughter, Sophia, will be spending the summer with me. I want to give her a warm welcome and provide her with everything she needs. That's why I make a stop at a toy store. My gaze searches the display. The horses and the horse stable might appeal to Sophia. Every little girl likes that sort of thing, right? Or does she prefer one of those wooden train sets?
Feeling more uncertain than I'd like, I enter the shop. The dusty smell of the carpet hits me, and a faint children's laughter can be heard amid soft background music.
"Please, Daddy, the pirate ship is so beautiful," says the little boy by the side shelf, unable to keep his legs still.
A man who is undoubtedly his father lovingly strokes his blond hair. Then he crouches down in front of his son. "We can build it together and go on an adventure. What do you think?"
"Oh, yes!" The little one's face lights up, and with a cry of joy, he throws himself into his father's arms. "You're the best dad in the whole world."
Hearing those words pierces my heart .
Because as much as I look forward to having Sophia with me soon, I mainly feel fear. Her mother always took care of everything, freeing me up to focus on my career. My daughter and I hardly know each other. Moreover, since the divorce, she has oscillated between two extreme emotional states: silent and quick-tempered.
Will she look at me the way the little boy looks at his father? Will she ever reach for my hand and hop alongside me like that little guy who now disappears with the man toward the cash register?
Longing and doubt simultaneously creep up within me. The fear of not being a good father threatens to overwhelm me.
To stop that, I hastily look around for a salesperson. The man at the cash register, who looks exactly like I imagined Santa Claus as a child, is busy. The lady with the knitted vest and oversized glasses is already assisting a customer.
In the back, I spot a young woman with long black hair, her top sparkling as conspicuously as the doll she holds in her hand. Indecisively, she looks back and forth between the doll and the shelf. The miniature Christmas tree ornaments on her extra-long earrings sway in rhythm. She appears nervous, almost desperate.
Helplessly, she looks around and places the doll on a shelf. It immediately falls out.
"No, no, no," I hear the woman murmuring in the distance, her voice growing increasingly panicked. She nervously brushes her hands against her expansive blue skirt.
She appears anything but competent. I doubt she can help me find the right welcome gift for Sophia. As I skeptically observe her, one of my pieces plays through the speakers. "Freedom."
The delicate notes begin to sound. Soon, the orchestra will join in. The music will swell, and the intensity will increase.
But it's not there yet. Only the piano can be heard, and although the melody is soft, the stressed woman's face suddenly relaxes. With the doll in her hand, she closes her eyes and sways to the rhythm.
A smile spreads across her lips. The clearer it becomes, the more the cute dimples flash on her cheeks.
Spellbound, I watch her. I see the peace that suddenly dominates her expression. And I realize how her chest rises before she exhales with a deep sigh.
Then she starts to dance. Right in the midst of the bustling shopping mall. Holding the doll tightly against her chest, she twirls around. She stumbles over her skirt, regains her balance, and laughs for a moment.
All of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Because I know it's my music giving this woman a carefree moment. It makes her radiate with such warmth that it reaches me despite our distance.
Her facial expression carries a special kind of bliss that I have never seen before. I feel connected to her.
Perhaps I shouldn't stare at her, but I can't look away. Not even as the last notes of the piece slowly fade away. And certainly not when she opens her eyelids and looks directly at me with a dreamy gaze.
Without any effort on my part, my mouth corners lift .
A fraction of a second later, her expression changes. It's as if she just woke up and realizes where she is. With a startled look on her face, she turns her back to me and tries once again to place the doll on the shelf. Her hands tremble, and her upper body shudders.
Strange.
Something like this has never happened to me before. Has she mistaken me for someone she fears?
Confused, I return my attention to the toy shelf where I still stand.
"How can I assist you?" a female voice asks from behind me.
It's the saleswoman with the cardigan, looking at me kindly.
"Um..." Why was I here again? Ah yes, Sophia. "I need a gift for a five-year-old girl."
"Well, let's see if we can find something." She claps her hands enthusiastically. "Mr. Friedberg, right?" she adds with a conspiratorial undertone. "I'm a big fan, you know."
The day has been long, and the interview drained my energy. But I'm happy to be there for the people who have contributed to my success. So I reveal my identity, give her an autograph card, and smile for a selfie in her phone camera.
Unfortunately, our interaction doesn't go unnoticed. Within a short time, more and more people surround me.
"When is your next album coming out?" an attractive woman with small dark curls asks, pressing her cheek close to mine for a photo.
Slightly dazed by her sweet perfume, I place a finger on my lips. "That's still a secret. But I can reveal that there will be news soon." My manager, Tamika, would expect me to convince the woman to subscribe to my newsletter or follow my social media accounts.
But that's not my style. Despite my success, it still feels like I'm imposing myself. So I discreetly pull out the pen again and turn to the other fans.
Only when everyone is satisfied do I bid farewell and quickly make my way to the car. Accompanied by the city lights, I traverse the evening streets of Vienna until I reach the driveway of the villa I've been living in since last autumn.
My house lies before me, deserted. The exterior lighting enhances the intricate decorative elements and the bright whiteness of the facade, giving it an exquisite look. I've always liked Art Nouveau, and today, I have the privilege of living in such a magnificent estate.
I open the dark green wooden door and step into the entrance area, tiled in a checkered pattern. The key lands with a clink in the tray on the antique cabinet. The bright sound reverberates through the vast space, in stark contrast to my footsteps, barely audible despite the silence.
Like a ghost, I wander through the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room in semi-darkness.
In just a few days, the house will be filled with life. I look forward to it. Yet I can't help but wonder how I will manage to establish a connection with Sophia. My God, I should have figured it out by now. After all, she's my daughter!
The worries drive me farther into the music room. Once a library, this room still houses books, sheet music, and scores, reaching up to the high ceiling of the old building. I've removed the furniture, leaving only the piano and a leather seating group in the style of the thirties within the grand expanse of the room.
I lift the lid of the grand piano, sit down, and begin to play.
But before I can fully immerse myself in the most beautiful of my worlds, the doorbell rings.
It must be Tamika. No one else would pay me a visit at this hour.
As expected, my manager stands at the front door. She wears a mysterious grin on her bright red lips.
"Do we have an appointment?" I ask, confused as she bustles past me in her midnight-blue jumpsuit, making her way into the house.
She brushes back her perfectly smoothed platinum blond hair. "No."
"Please, come in," I say, even though she's already in the hallway. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Champagne, please." She'll be turning forty next year, but she looks like a mischievous little girl right now. "Come on, don't just stand there. Where are the glasses?"
"Kitchen," I say as I watch her practically float through the foyer. I follow her, and when I arrive, I see her standing in front of the open refrigerator. The light from inside makes her diamond-studded necklace shimmer.
"Perfect," she says, taking out a magnum bottle of champagne. "You could at least help me."
Even though I don't know why, I walk over to the glass cabinet and take two champagne flutes. "Will you tell me what's going on?"
Skillfully, Tamika pops the cork and fills the glasses. She hands one to me, and I can see that she's practically bursting with excitement.
I raise my glass. "What are we toasting to?" I scrutinize her.
"To you," she returns. "And..."
Raising my eyebrows in question, I urge her, "Enough now. Spit it out."
"And to your nomination for the International Music Award!" With an elegant gesture, she pulls a piece of paper out of the pocket of her jumpsuit and waves it in front of my face. Her cheeks are glowing. "You did it!"
I stare at her in disbelief. Did she really just say that, or am I dreaming? "You mean..."
She nods, her head bobbing wildly up and down and back again. Deep laugh lines form around her eyes. It's real. The radiance, the joy, the triumphant clenched fist. Everything is real.
The nomination. It's real!
In a trance-like state, I lower my glass and take the letter. Indeed. In the upper right corner, the logo of the International Music Awards proudly shines. And in the subject line are the words I've been reading in my dreams every night.
"Congratulations! You are one of the ten nominees for this year’s Best Newcomer category."
I don't need to read further, and it's not necessary. I know the process and rules of the most important music industry awards by heart. I know a shortlist of three contenders will be selected by mid-July. And that ultimately, in early September, during a magnificent show, the audience will decide who receives the award .
This prize means the world to me.
One day, I will be the greatest pianist of them all. Count on it. I made that promise to my father, but he just laughed at me.
He was convinced I would never be good enough.
But I am. If I win. Even he won't be able to ignore that proof. It's my chance to make him understand that choosing the piano was the right decision. And ultimately, to prove it to myself.
I barely notice Tamika jumping into my arms with a shout of joy. My thoughts are scattered, and emotions are overflowing. But gradually, a clear image forms in my mind.
"We should plan a tour," I say. Besides the musical concept, the jury values sales figures the most. But the fans, who will ultimately decide, can only be convinced by my music. I have to be better than I've ever been. I have to surpass myself; only then do I have a chance at this prize.
"Don't worry, preparations are already underway. Ralf and I are developing a new show. We need fresh compositions from you, preferably with a romantic touch, nothing too extravagant." Tamika's eyes light up. "We're planning an open-air tour, performing in all the capital cities and musical centers of Europe. Additionally, we'll ensure plenty of positive press coverage."
"Yes, yes, and yes." I can already vividly imagine myself sitting at the piano on the stage in the Arena di Verona, pouring my soul out. I hear the accompanying orchestra, see the fireworks rising behind the ancient arches of the amphitheater, and feel the energy of the moment. "That sounds amazing. "
"The fans will love you. And they undoubtedly have to," Tamika grins mischievously.
I nod excitedly, but behind all my enthusiasm, a heavy thought suddenly emerges. "What about Sophia?"
Tamika shrugs. "She'll come with us, of course. She'll find this journey exciting, and in the fall, she can brag to her kindergarten friends about it."
Even though Tamika takes it lightly, my thoughts darken further. "But she's only five. Who will take care of her on tour?"
"We'll hire a nanny. I'll take care of that. Between rehearsals, performances, and press events, you can do something nice with Sophia," she says, casually uttering the words as if it's not a problem at all. As if there would be any time for anything during a tour.
I sink onto one of the kitchen stools, resting my head in my hands. How could I neglect Sophia like this when I finally have the chance to be a good father to her? This is wrong.
Suddenly, Tamika's forearm is heavy on my shoulders. "Don't even start thinking that way," she says, as if she knows exactly what's going on inside me.
I look up at her. Her expression is serious.
"You've worked too hard to let up now. If there ever was a right time to give it your all, it's the coming months." She looks into my eyes intensely, her hand tightening around my shoulder.
"That's true..."
"Besides, you have many more summers ahead with your daughter. Next year, you can even take a whole month off and spend exclusive time with her. But you can only win the award this year, and maybe never again." It's fascinating how Tamika sees the world so pragmatically. But she's my manager for a reason. She knows what's best for my career.
However, no matter how right she may be in this matter, I can't give in to her urging without a fight. "Isn't there another possibility? A smaller tour, more concert breaks? Or we could skip the press events?" I look at her hopefully, but I can already read the answers to the questions on her face.
She hands me my glass again, somberly. "Your competitors will fight with all means necessary. If you don't go along, negative headlines will rain down on you. Your fans will turn away, and then you can forget about the music award."
Right. I have to deliver. This nomination is an honor, and if I don't do everything to win the prize, my father will be proven right once and for all. I would be forced to admit that I'm actually not good enough. And that I never truly was.
That must not happen!
I have to find a way to reconcile my most important career goal with the desire to be a good father. There's no other way.
"Well, it's settled then," I say, my voice firm as if I'm trying to convince myself that I can achieve both. I nod emphatically, then I place the champagne glass on the kitchen counter without taking a single sip.