Work Text:
Chopin, Fantaisie Impromptu, Op. 66.
The piano responded to the young man’s manoeuvres with a mechanical precision. His fingers, deft and focused, waltzed as ten miniature dancers on the black and white tiles, diffusing in the room the tumultuous melody.
As soon as he recognised the footsteps echoing in the corridor, a shiver stabbed the pianist in the spine. The door slammed open and let a persistent aura seep into the room, which lost all of its warmth in a split second, turning the illusion of leisure into urgency.
His sight declined to the point of losing his anchorage in space. The semibreves, the minims, the crotchets and the quavers twisted and tangled behind the thick bar-like lines on the staff, which had become indecipherable. Despite everything, his eyes stayed locked on the keyboard, unleashing their emotions into the music.
This presence’s deafening silence muffled him and the sound of the piano, rendered almost mute to his own ears. Only the measure of his pulse pounded against his eardrums, complexifying the oppressive superimposition of rhythms even more. Used to mishaps, the ten dancers went on the waltz they almost knew by heart in a hesitant step under the disarmed gaze of their instructor till the end of the torment.
Rising from the last note, his hands jerked and gripped the fabric of his trousers tightly. A complete silence now ruled over the room. The young pianist’s head was heavy and sank onto his shoulders, eyes still riveted to the keys. Projecting onto them, the perfectly symmetrical maternal silhouette towered over him. His heart furiously beating, he strived to remain stoic to face his spectator. He turned around and met his mother’s stern gaze. Through her rectangular glasses, her dark eyes knew the way to pierce the young man’s soul.
“What’s the matter, Fukase, is something wrong? You haven’t improved since last time.”
“Don’t worry, Mum. I was just warming up. I’m going to practise.”
Reassured, the mother put her hand on her son’s shoulder, addressing him with a smile before leaving the room as serenely as she entered. The pianist, on the other hand, was within an inch of liquefying on the spot. His hands were clammy and his neck dripped with sweat.
A brief whistle drew his attention to his phone. A silly grin sketched in the corner of his mouth as he read the message he received. He shoved his cell into his pocket and went back to practising, still bitter, but lighter in the knowledge that he would be going out to clear his head from classical music to fill it with more disruptive pieces that evening.
Under the ignited early evening sky, amps shouted out their burning waves through the heat of the covered market’s venue’s narrow enclosure. Fukase cleared himself a way between leather jackets and high-top boots and managed to place himself right in front of the stage. The drummer beat time so hard he could tear a hole in the skin, the bassist let himself be carried away by the rhythm while nonchalantly plucking the fretboard, the second guitarist waddled about, wiggling his long-haired mane, and at the centre of this ace team, Flower, the lead guitarist, roared in a husky, hypnotic voice through the microphone as good she could scratch the strings of her axe. The band knew how to keep their audience on tenterhooks.
As the bridge neared, the crowd began to stir. As all regulars knew, the peak of each of the band's performances was its guitarist’s wild improvisations during the finale. Flower slipped out from behind her microphone and clapped her hands, pacing the stage with a heavy step, leaning towards the audience and calling on them to make some noise. Fukase was sure he saw her wink at him. Then, when her turn to play came, smiling from ear to ear, she threw back her short hair and her fingers began to fiercely strum the guitar’s neck with controlled spontaneity. One after the other, she drew her bandmates into a magnetic tension, inviting them in turn to a question-and-answer session with their respective instruments. Armed with her mastery and passion, she was the beast of the stage who had helped them gain the local notoriety they held.
As the last notes faded into the electrically-charged air, a final jolt of adrenaline ran through the crowd, leaving behind the indelible memory of a performance that ended in thunderous applause.
Flower waved goodbye at her bandmates before going through the door, slipping on her guitar case’s strap. Outside, behind the hangar, three girls waited for her to come out, on the opposite side from Fukase. When they saw Flower going towards him before shaking his hand vigorously, they pouted and withdrew. It intrigued him a little, but he found it funny that Flower had groupies. That went without saying, especially. He watched the girls walking away, and after a while, he realised he was still holding Flower’s hand.
“Y’know what, I forgot my water bottle again,” she said with a funny tone.
“Alright, knock it off. We'll go and get something to drink, if you want.”
She took advantage of their long handshake and pulled on his arm, bringing him to the bar, a mischievous grin on her face. Fukase faked a sigh before he walked along.
The sun had set for good, but lanterns and small yellow lights lit up the soft dimness of summer evenings. Flower and Fukase sat down on a handmade pallet bench and placed their lemonade on a battered low blue metal table.
“Say, you're not very talkative tonight.” Flower noticed. “I'm gonna run out of things to say…”
Fukase didn’t respond. He was fiddling with the miniature parasol he'd retrieved from his glass, his mind elsewhere. Slightly annoyed, Flower cleared her throat.
“Did you hear me?”
“Huh? Yes, you were amazing. I heard very well. Too well, even. You guys should adjust the volume sometime,” he mumbled.
“No, you idiot, not the concert. You’ve got your head in the clouds. C’mon, tell me. What’s on your mind?”
If there was one thing he couldn't bear, it was Flower's deep stare. Not giving in was physically impossible, and there was a risk being read like an open book. So, he gave himself up.
“Yeah, I forgot to tell you. I’ve got a competition next weekend. And I... I don't know, I'm not really feeling it.”
“Really? You feel a little sluggish?” she asked without an ounce of surprise in her voice. “You’re super good, though. Don’t get discouraged.”
“You say that just to be nice. But I can’t take it anymore.” Fukase sighed and rested his head on his hand. “I’m exhausted from practising so much.”
“Say, I've been thinking about it for a while... Every time you talk to me about your piano, you complain. I was wondering, why do you keep working so hard if it's such a pain in the ass for you?"
He looked at her with eyes as wide and round as a fish's and a mouth half-open like a grouper's. He never thought about it. Of course he loved music more than anything else in the world. Of course he loved the piano and its authentic, pleasant acoustics. It went without saying that he loved to play it. But at this point, was he playing to satisfy his own desires, or... His ears buzzed slightly, and the silhouette of his mother appeared in his mental vision. He coughed, disoriented.
“Honestly, I don’t know anymore. What's more, I don't think I've ever been so stressed in my life. I've always been nervous about performing in public, but this time…”
The pianist saw Flower’s face darken. She was always trying to hide it, but deep down he knew she could see through it all, and was silently worried.
“You know, my mum told me I could take meds if I got too stressed.”
Flower nearly choked on her lemonade and furrowed her brows.
“Beta-blockers, right? Propranolol, and all that stuff that ends in lol ? Give me a break…” she grumbled. You think that's a good idea?”
“Well, I don’t know… if it’s just once…”
“You bet! You'll realise that you perform better when you take them, so you'll start taking them again, and without realising it you'll keep taking it every time you have a competition or something, and you'll end up thinking that you don't deserve anything and that you're a shit musician because you'd never have reached that point without doping! No…”
She hid her mouth behind her hand and blew out a breath, then apologised.
Flower had grown up with a guitar in her hands, and had played it at the conservatory where she and Fukase had met. A few years earlier, she’d left without explaining anything to anyone. He'd thought she'd left because it wasn't her style or the pace of work didn't suit her anymore, but in the end he wondered if she'd had a bad experience there.
“Hey, just because the guys you play with drink like fish and smoke like chimneys doesn't mean that all musicians are addicts,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.
“I'm not worried about them! That's their problem.”
As she came to the end of her drink, Flo reached into one of the huge pockets in her trousers and pulled out a silver lighter and packet of cigarettes with a horrible picture of tobacco-rotted lungs on it, then lit herself one. She turned her head and a puff of smoke fled her lips, followed by an exhausted sigh.
“See, you've got something to relax too,” he teased her.
Taken aback, she gave him a cynical smile. The fragile ember at the end of her cigarette flickered as she sucked in another thin cloud. He knew very well that she was trying to quit, and yet the white and orange tube often hung from her lips. "I quit when I want to," she said once. It would soon ruin her vocal chords, but he knew very well that it was difficult to put an end to a routine practice that had become natural, programmed into your system, even though it hurt you.
“That's my problem. But well, I'm the one who chose it.”
Yes, he thought, choose. He leaned towards her and, at her request, Flo let him take a drag from her cigarette. It was bitter, disgusting, just like the previous attempts; it was even worse. An explosive coughing fit ripped out his throat as his friend looked on in bewilderment. Most of his blunders didn't usually leave her unbothered, she laughed at them instead. But at this moment, whether it was pity or concern in her eyes, he wasn't sure. His stomach knotted. He looked away, uncomfortable.
"Well, I can't go on like this. I think I might be able to have a word with my mum about the competition... eventually."
Flower grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him and drew him closer. “Yeah, good idea. And if you really were to attempt that contest, I'd find a way to sneak into the room to cheer you on.”
Fukase smiled at the idea of Flower, with her crazy two-tone hair and her ripped jeans, bursting into a room full of uptight classical music fans. It sounded comical, but oddly heartwarming.
“At least that’s something I’m looking forward to,” he admitted, resting his head on Flower’s shoulder.
A freezing touch compressed his shoulder.
He’d only overran a few notes, just a few ones, or hadn't he been paying attention? Had he let himself be carried away? Instead of meticulous dancers, his fingers had turned into young children, playing skipping rope, bouncing with their feet together or hopping unpredictably from key to key. The rope had suddenly whipped their weakened little legs into a frenzy when they sensed a stern parent watching them out of the corner of their eye.
His mother's short fingernails gently digging into his flesh petrified him, rendering him incapable of turning around.
“Fukase, what is that? I thought you were practising for the competition.”
“Ah, Mum, actually... You know, this competition's got me a bit nervous. So I thought I'd try something a bit different to relax.”
He wanted to look his mother in the eye, but all he could see was his pathetic expression in the reflection of her glasses.
“Yes, I completely understand that you're apprehensive, sweetheart, it's happened to me too. But to make sure you perform as well as possible on the day of the competition, you need to work hard.”
“Yes, Mum. But I think I’ve grown a little tired lately…”
His mother’s smile faded.
“Tired? I feel like you’re always saying that again and again,” she complained wistfully. “Oh well, you’re tired when you have to practise, but you’ve got enough energy to meet that friend of yours. Is it that girl who has that much influence over you? Do you want to give up on everything after all that effort, like she did? No, that is not a weakness you can afford. While you’re resting on your laurels, other pianists who are more assiduous than you are are getting ahead.”
His throat tightened. He blinked at the jerky rhythm of his heart, trying to stop the tears welling up in his eyes from rolling down his cheeks. The words stuck like a big knotted wool ball in his chest, torn between the desire to defend Flower and himself, and the risk of triggering a storm he wanted to avoid at all costs. He pursed his lips so hard that a taste of metallic blood spread through his mouth. He finally retreated, his head bowed in surrender.
“You know, sweetheart, all I want is you to succeed. I’d be really sad not to see my beloved son achieve his dream. Do you understand?”
My dream , he repeated to himself in the depths of his mind. No, your dream , maybe.
The day of the competition arrived a little too quickly. Despite Flower’s warning, he’d broken the white pill in half and needed two tries before managing to swallow it with a mouthful of water. He’d taken the pill to calm down, and indeed, his body felt calm, almost too calm. No tremors shook his limbs, his heart wasn’t pounding in his chest with its usual tremolo. Yet, his mind was empty, as if numbed by the drug.
To refocus, he began mentally replaying the piece he was about to perform, tapping his fingers on the table in a silent rhythm. His hand knew every nuance, every inflection of the score, but he wanted to make sure nothing escaped his notice when he’d be on stage. He got lost once or twice, distracted by the notes of the candidate playing at the moment, so he kept telling himself that everything would be fine. But despite his efforts to convince himself, a full anxiety persisted, like a shadow hanging over him.
When his turn came, he stepped onto the stage with uncertain steps and swept his gaze around the room. The most severe of the jury members, from whom only he would be judged, his mother, sat in the middle of the room. His eyes froze when, to his surprise, they met Flower’s, who entered the room discreetly, short of breath. He wasn't sure whether her presence reassured him or put even more pressure on him, but even if he felt a strange sensation, he wasn't as tetanised as he’d been at his last competition. He sat down in front of the keyboard and adjusted the stool. Although he felt no physical reaction, his mind was racing with apprehensions and catastrophic scenarios that could happen in the next few minutes. He tried to banish this eclectic jumble of words from his thoughts by taking a long breath, before placing his fingers on the keyboard.
The first notes rose from the piano, perfectly in tune with the piece he knew by heart. The keys responded to him with reassuring docility, as if they were a natural extension of his being. Yet no sooner had he begun his performance than the dull pain buzzing in the back of his head became more insistent. A dark stain spread across his memory, so that his hands began to hesitate on the keyboard and the notes on the score now resembled nothing more than random dots on a few lines. His body didn't react, but his mind was racing, on the verge of panic.
Which was worse? To stop there and admit defeat in the face of indisposition, or to carry on whatever the cost? The moment he played the last chord he could remember, his relationship with the music changed. It was up to him to tame it, not for it to turn him on his head. Thereby, the ten dancers pulled themselves together and initiated a brand new dance. The music came to life, metamorphosing into an improvised symphony, an explosion of raw, pure emotion. He let himself be carried away by the tumultuous flow of his own genius, forgetting the outside world with its annoying murmurs in a state of ecstatic trance.
And when he finally came to, emerging from his bubble, he realised the awful silence before him. Time stopped for a few seconds, and everyone held their breath. Fortunately, Flower broke the ellipsis by applauding so loudly that her hands must have been red afterwards. Supporting his mother's furious gaze, he surprisingly felt a weight lifting from his shoulders.
Flower was waiting for him, leaning against the wall. She looked at him dumbstruck, he rushed over and hugged her. On the verge of running out of air, she patted him on the back to let her catch her breath.
“You’re insane! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m really proud of you, but what went through your mind?”
“Uh, I don’t know. There was nothing in my mind. I was kinda inspired by you,” he unintentionally admitted.
Her smirk was short-lived, though, as she put on a worried expression.
“Your mother must be fuming. What are you gonna tell her?”
“Oh, I’ll come up with something. It would have ended badly anyway, so it might as well. I’ll go an play with you and the junkies at the covered market on Saturday nights, worst case scenario,” he chuckled, nudging her.
He was almost euphoric, and although he said it in a joking tone, he pictured himself dripping with sweat under the old footlights on the worm-eaten stage at the covered market, behind a small synthesiser, perhaps the old M-Audio Venom that Flower had pilfered from the throwaway boxes in the hangar last spring, pumping up the sound of the other instruments with black and white keys.
“I’d see you more as a melancholic jazzman, but you do as you wish.”
As I wish . What he wished was barely forming as a fuzzy, coarse cloud in his mind. But if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that his life had to be far from the hushed performance halls filled with people enslaved by their thirst for performances perfect to the millisecond, obscuring what made music an art; humanity. Music, the fruit of its creator, could only be as imperfect as it was. To bring music into the world, you had to become one with it, pour out all your joys and sorrows, feel it vibrate and resonate in your heart to release a personal emotion open to universal perception. Fukase wanted to blow out his eardrums at one of Flower and her guys’ hard rock concert, bouncing to the rhythm of the groupies, discover bands of enthusiasts with stickers plastered on lampposts in the town centre, hold back a tear at the angelic voice of an opera singer, drink a glass of whisky on the rocks in a jazz club, soothe himself with the harmonies of a gospel choir, and so much more...
Once again he found himself wandering in his thoughts. At least there he was free to imagine what he wanted, because his ticket to independence lay in the hope of seeing it one day. The latter was getting farther away as the lashing sound of heels on the ground came towards him at high speed.
His mother's tone may have been gentle at first, then increasingly irritated, but he couldn't understand a word of it.
They came out all distorted from her lips, pursed in annoyance, spouting the same nonsense she had always repeated to him to lead him down a path he had not chosen. She left, so he turned to Flower one last time, giving her a reassuring thumbs-up before following his mother.
She nodded in return. He was probably in for more than a rough time, but the biggest of the work was done. Now that he had opened his eyes, all he had to do was walk through the door.