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Her eyes met his in a room full of people. And not just any ordinary room; the rows of seats surrounding a platform on the floor indicated the presence of an orchestra. Although only a small rehearsal space, it was big enough that this eye-lock was not just coincidence. Usually a soloist would not be interested at all in their accompaniment, except, of course, whether they’re in time or not, or playing their way or not. However, this time the young man felt a heavy gaze on the back of his head that he couldn’t ignore.
Roderich Edelstein was no different from every arrogant, conceited pianist. He knew he was good, and he knew that others knew of his talent. After all, no other person in this room had been brought in especially (and with great difficulty) to play a virtuosic and stunningly beautiful concerto. No, these people were professional musicians but they weren’t professional soloists: there was a difference, he remarked. Roderich believed, in his heart, that he would be able to out-play any of the sixty odd people there, regardless of age, musical education or instrument. And, truth be told, he probably could, if his aloofness didn’t restrict his playing. He couldn’t play like the greats until he let go of the competition and just felt the music, like she did.
She. She, who thought she was just giving an appreciative gaze from the back of the orchestra to the front, where one of the best pianists she had ever seen in person stood. She thought she was merely being friendly, she thought ‘well, of course, everyone else is watching too’, she thought ‘he’s not going to acknowledge any of us except the conductor, and only because he has to’. But when some darkened eyes sweep through the violins, horns, and then settles on the woodwind, she realised he was looking for someone. When he finally locked onto her, the mousy unrecognised principal clarinettist, she seemed genuinely shocked. This was wrong. An unrivalled pianist unable to keep his eyes off an easily replaceable clarinettist (surely the second player had practised the first part extensively just in case, out of condescension), there must be something offensively wrong with the girl for him to keep glaring for over the comfortable length of time.
A swell of A’s, as well as a scattering of other tuning notes, filled the air. He continued watching. He, himself, was confused at why she was so magnetic to him; even as she turned her light eyes away, cheeks ablaze, and began fiddling with the ligature on her mouthpiece, he was transfixed. After a minute or two, the sound died away. Roderich only tore his eyes away when his name was said, loudly, by the conductor.
“...Roderich Edelstein, he will be playing the Schumann Piano Concerto for us. He is a very busy man and therefore can only be with us in the morning for about an hour and a half of our rehearsal, and as you know we only have this rehearsal before the first performance. Not only that, but we have already sold out two of our six performances. Let’s just make this easy for him and me, and run the whole thing. Do not disappoint me.” This conductor was stern, all right. But that was what made her a good conductor: she knew what she wanted, and she would get what she wanted. The greying woman would never criticise the likes of Mr Edelstein, however, that would mean an instant end to her career and she knew it.
Shaking his head, the brown haired prodigy pushed the piano stool back and sat gracefully, the tails of his overcoat sweeping behind him. He always wanted to look smart and presentable. Laying hands on the beautiful instrument, the Steinway, felt like home. It always felt like home, no matter what state the piano was in. It always reminded him of the vistas of Austria where he would sit for hours on end his own Klavier, practising and practising and practising until his hands, arms, shoulders, his entire body would cramp. The only remedy for over playing, to him, was lying in the long grass in the balmy spring air where his tension would just seep out of him and into the earth.
Maybe it was because he had lived such a long time (he was technically immortal unless anything happened to his country that, in turn, happened to him) but Roderich finally felt something different than he had ever felt before, not that he fully knew it at the time. All he knew, in the moment, was that his hands had started moving and a soft sweet melody rose above the chordal accompaniment the orchestra gave. He knew this piece like the back of his hand; he possibly even knew it better than Gilbert and Ludwig, who had created and cultivated the composer.
However, the great pianist Edelstein did not usually notice one thing about this concerto: the ongoing clarinet counter-melody and solo that intertwined with the pianist’s, enhancing the deep Germanic romantic sense tenfold.
And it was her.
It didn’t click until then but obviously, it was HER in the principal position therefore HER sound travelling from the back of the orchestra and to his ears at the front.
It was beautiful. And he almost faltered from it.
He hadn’t done that in decades.
Another of Schumann’s works came to mind: his Frauenliebe und Leben. Although the poems were about a woman’s love and life, he felt the text in his head resonate with him more than any other words at this moment.
“Seit ich sie gesehen, glaub ich blind zu sein.”
Since he first saw her, he believed he was blinded.
“Wo ich hin nur blicke, seh ich sie allein.”
Wherever he looked, he could only see her.
This was the first of the Lieder and yet it encapsulated him perfectly; he pondered on whether he would begin to feel any of the other emotions covered in the song cycle as time passed. She certainly seemed as if she coukd make him feel that way.
Wow, had he got distracted.
They were already through to the final movement when he emerged from his pool of thoughts. And now, although the piano faced side-on to the orchestra, Roderich built up the courage to sneak glances at her while she played.
And she looked back.
She didn’t look away, no matter how red her face got.
In those moments, it really felt like a duet: where the entire orchestra stopped to listen to two different timbres interacting with each other. But it worked. Bravo, Schumann.
The repeated tonic chords and loudness of the instruments behind him gave indication of the end, and the pianist poured his soul into the keys beneath his fingers.
Silence.
Roderich’s hair was tousled, his glasses slightly askew from the passion in which he played. He wouldn’t ever give it any less, however.
Then applause.
The musicians erupted with rowdy cheers before the conductor quietened them and began to speak,
“Bravi, Bravi! Mr Edelstein, that was absolutely magnificent!” (She certainly wasn’t expecting the first playthrough to sound performance ready, and was excited at the fact of an extended break.)
The soloist rose from his stool and bowed deeply, pushing his glasses up as he did.
“It was an honour to play with such a sensitive orchestra.”
He debated whether or not to say the following, but in his high his mouth took over,
“I would especially like to applaud the principal clarinettist for her beautiful sound.”
Well, he said it. And he even kept his cool somewhat, but the rose dusting his cheeks would have given him away if someone stood closer, and if you really knew Roderich you would realise his Austrian accent got heavier when he said it.
Another round of applause.
After that, all the clarinettist and pianist could think of were each other. They didn’t mean to ignore the conductor’s instructions, or daze through the rest of the rehearsal, but they did.
And at the end, when there was finally the well-awaited break, when the violinists placed their expensive bows and strings back into their cases and brass left their instruments vicariously on stools without a second glance, the two could finally meet.
They knew that they would.
Mr Edelstein spent as much time as he could folding the concert order into a tiny square before placing it in his pocket, then covering his precious fingers with the finest satin gloves before turning around to face her.
She was still up on the platform, glowing. She shared a laugh with the bassoonist beside her before placing her cleaning swab down and making her way to the dressing room for break. But she knew she wouldn’t get that far.
“Entschuldigung, Fräulein, aber darf ich Ihren Namen wissen?”
That was possibly the most embarrassing thing he could have done: in his flustered state he had begun to speak in his native language. He was polite, however, and only asked for her name.
Roderich was about to correct himself before the glorious chimes of her laughter filled the air,
“Aber natürlich, Herr Edelstein, ich bin ich!”
He felt her charm radiate off her. It wasn’t everyday that he felt this way, and it was towards someone who could speak his language in both ways - music is, of course, a language. He also felt the dark tinges of mystery and wondered why, when asked for her name, she replied 'I am me'.
He heard the undertones of a sweet English accent in her voice, and replied to the call,
“Wenn du du bist, wie lange bis du mir gehörst?”
He wasn’t usually this smooth, but he felt he felt the concert high still pumping through his veins: ‘if you are you, then how long until you are mine?”.
Then he kissed her hand and turned to the door.
The starstruck, wonderstruck girl watched him go with lightheaded interest.
The famous pianist Roderich Edelstein left, but remembered the words of another poem in his wake:
Ich kann’s nicht fassen, nicht glauben,
Es hat ein Traum mich berückt;
Wie hätt er doch unter allen
Mich Arme erhöht und beglückt?
Mir war’s, er habe gesprochen:
„Ich bin auf ewig dein“—
Mir war’s—ich träume noch immer,
Es kann ja nimmer so sein.
O lass im Traume mich sterben,
Gewieget an seiner Brust,
Den seligen Tod mich schlürfen
In Tränen unendlicher Lust.
I cannot fathom it, cannot believe it,
I must be dreaming.
How could he have elevated and favoured me
above all the other women?
I thought I heard him say:
“I am yours forever.”
I thought I was still dreaming –
surely it can't be true.
O let me die, still dreaming,
cradled against his chest.
Let me savour blissful death
in tears of endless joy.