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“Your fingers are too thick for the delicacy required,” the judge sneers, his voice a dry rasp that tastes of old parchment and disappointment.
Giuseppe stands frozen. He is eighteen, with a chest that heaves under a tight linen waistcoat, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The air in the Milan Conservatory is thick, smelling of floor wax and the oppressive scent of dying lilies. He can feel the heat radiating off his own skin, a feverish intensity that makes the mahogany piano beneath his palms feel slick. He had played with a raw, visceral hunger, his muscles straining, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. But to the board, his passion is merely sloppiness.
“You are too old,” another voice drones, cutting through the silence. “The limit for beginners is fourteen. You are a man grown, yet you possess the posture of a peasant and a counterpoint that is fundamentally illiterate.”
The rejection hits him like a physical blow to the solar plexus, knocking the wind from his lungs. His vision blurs, the room spinning as he feels the sudden, cold void of failure opening beneath his feet. Yet, as he stands, a white-hot spark of defiance ignites in the pit of his stomach. He leans in, his voice trembling but loud.
“I shall be one of the greatest opera composers of all time,” he declares, the words tearing from his throat. “This rejection is merely a stepping stone.”
He storms out, the June heat hitting him like a wall of steam. Leaning against a limestone pillar, Giuseppe fumbles with a cigarette, his hands shaking so violently he nearly drops the match. He feels the exhaustion in his marrow, the cellular respiration of his body failing to keep pace with the adrenaline crashing through his veins.
“They are insufferable, aren’t they?”
Giuseppe looks up. A young man with a heavy brow and a gaze like a storm cloud leans against the opposite wall. Richard Wagner, also eighteen, wears a smirk that suggests he finds the entire institution a joke.
“They rejected me, too,” Richard adds with a sudden, booming laugh that vibrates in his chest. “Though, truth be told, I didn't even come to audition. I was merely living here temporarily, but the fools found me with my French horn and demanded I play. I decided to play as rudely as possible just to see their faces turn purple.”
Giuseppe feels the tension break, a sudden, sharp laugh bursting from his lungs. He reaches into his pocket and offers a smoke. “Then let us toast to our failure.”