Sorry for posting twice in a day. I figured I'd get Pianissimo out into the world, and work on fixing it up myself. In about a week, I'll post both parts of Mezzo Forte.
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Seven hours later
There was a knock on the door of Raymond’s apartment. The pianist was in his bedroom, laying in the bed, still dressed in his concert blacks. However, there were quite a few new additions to the room. For instance, a hole in the wall, about the size of a shoe. The glass lamp also lie in pieces on the floor. Scuffmarks on the walls and wooden furniture were abundant.
A second knock.
A voice:
“Ray, it’s me. It’s Marley.”
Raymond couldn’t get up. He sniffed and curled up in a ball, unwilling to answer to his friend’s call.
“Raymond.”
Lydia.
“I can help you. I can, if you let me in. Please.” Marley’s voice was getting louder, but also softer at the same time.
Mere seconds later, Raymond unlocked the apartment door and allowed his friend into the room. Marley took a glance around, and stood dead in his tracks. Marley had known Raymond long enough to know he was an extreme pacifist. He couldn’t stand arguments, conflicts, or anger of any sort. It was bizarre to come upon any room of Raymond’s like this. Cracked glass, photos ripped in half.
The room screamed to the eyes.
“Would you like some tea? I can make some fabulous herbal tea. It will make everything feel much, much better,” Marley asked Raymond, who sat on the couch. The pianist’s eyes were black and blank, like outer space. He was distant.
“Alright, then,” Marley muttered and made his way toward the kitchen. Raymond was a great lover of herbal tea, and Marley knew this. From the steam pot on the kitchen stove, Marley said, “I’m not going to say I know what you’re going through. Hell, I don’t know what I’d do if Constance left me.” Marley let the thought sink in for a moment, and while that occurred, Marley pondered on how he would react if his wife had left him for another man.
Unthinkable. Too painful. Much too painful.
“The note,” Raymond began to say, but choked over his own words.
“What was that?”
“The note she left,” he said, clearing his throat.
“What about it?”
“She wrote over and over ‘Don’t find me.’ What did she mean by that?”
Marley poured the water into two mugs with tea bags nestled inside of them. Once he did that, he brought them to the sofa, where Raymond was still sitting. He took a cup without a word. Marley took the sofa across from Raymond.
“I don’t know what she meant. Listen, Ray, if I were you, I wouldn’t dwell too long on the letter. It sounds like she was only half-coherent when she wrote it,” Marley explained. “Women… sometimes they like to play with men’s hearts. They make you fall in love with them and then they disappear.”
“Not Lydia,” Raymond whispered. “She would never do that to me.”
“Well. Look, you’re spilling on your tux.”
“I don’t care. I’ll never wear it again.” The words hung in the room, empty and cold. “I was fired. And my reputation is absolutely wasted.”
Marley didn’t respond but grimaced.
“I don’t have a job anymore.”
“It’s not the end of the world,” Marley stated. “It’s really not. Look, I know some people. And those some people can get you a job in no time flat. Look, what I’m more worried about right now is you. You’re my main concern. Raymond, you going to go through hell these next few weeks. A breakup like this is terrible. But I’m here for you. Every step of the way.”
“I ripped up my song.”
“Pardon me?”
“Lydia. It’s all gone. Every last note.”
“Oh. Well,” Marley struggled for something to say. He sipped his tea instead.
Raymond reached into his pocket and took out the note. He unfolded it and read it one more time.
“Four.”
“Excuse me?”
“Four times. She says ‘don’t find me’ four times. Does that mean anything?”
Marley thought for a moment. “I’m pretty sure it means she doesn’t want you to go looking for her.”
“Well, that’s rather obvious, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure I don’t know where you’re going with this.”
Suddenly, Raymond seemed more alive than before. “But she hasn’t left me anywhere to even begin looking for her. Don’t you see? Marley, she’s trying to tell me something!”
“Hmph,” was his only reply.
“I don’t know why she should say not to look for her when she hasn’t given me a place to look for her. What could that mean? Marley, please help me! You have to help me! She wants me to find her. It even says here: ‘If anything, I want to be found.’ Marley… what is going on?”
“I have absolutely no idea. You’re trying to read too far into all of this, Ray. Stop. You’re getting worked up over nothing. Nothing at all.” Marley stood up, his tea spilling over the edge a little.
“I strongly suggest a small glass of whiskey and a nice rest. I need to get back to Constance. Look, I’m sorry for what’s gone on today. I really am. But I won’t allow myself to get caught up in something so foolish. There is nothing else that she wanted to say besides ‘good-bye’. Believe me. Goodbye, and goodnight.”
Marley turned around and headed to the door, leaving his tea on the coffee table. As he put his hand on the doorknob, Raymond spoke.
“I’m not going to give up hope, Marley. I hope you understand that. I can’t give up hope. She’s… she’s all I’ve ever had. Imagine if your Constance left you.”
Funny how things come back around, Marley thought.
“I don’t know what I would do if she left me, and not to be rude or anything, but I’d rather not think about it at the moment. Goodnight.”
Marley opened the door and walked out, leaving Raymond with a small amount of hope, even if it was only a glimmer.
Sleep came at the speed of a turtle. It was nearly impossible to hear anything over the sound of his thoughts.
She needed him still.
Maybe. Perhaps. He didn’t know. Maybe it was like what Marley said. Was he looking too deeply into the letter? He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to know if there was a way of getting her back. And who the hell was Peter? He had never heard of him. She hadn’t included a surname at all. Peter. Peter who? And when had they met? Suddenly, Raymond seemed incredibly flustered. She had trusted him with her problems. Why in the world couldn’t she trust him—her fiancé—with her problems? What made Peter so easy to talk to?
He sat up in bed.
He needed to find out who this Peter man was. Whoever he was, Raymond decided he would go against his better judgment and harm Peter as much as he possibly could. He had taken his fiancée away…
Raymond closed his eyes for a moment and fell asleep.
Earlier that day
Raymond sat at the grand piano in the practice hall, queasier than he had been in the earlier hours. What was he going to tell the audience? He surely couldn’t perform Lydia, Sweet Child of Mine now. His piano instructor, who had also been his mother, had told him he should never play a love song on a broken heart. He knew her words were all too true. It would be literally impossible to play something he had written for her now.
Raymond had decided to not read the note until just now. He couldn’t wait any longer. All throughout the day since it had been in his possession, he wanted to read it. He couldn’t wait to slide his finger under the envelope, break the seal and read its hidden contents. Not now, he reminded himself. When at last he couldn’t resist the temptation anymore, he ripped open the letter and read the contents to himself.
Dear Raymond,
There are no words I could write that could honestly express how I feel. And how I don’t feel. I’ve been feeling as if we’ve been slipping away. I’m almost positive you feel the same way. Don’t be ashamed, Raymond. I wanted to marry you, I did. Things like this, especially for me, never seem to work out. I get scared. I run. And I found someone I could trust with my problems.
Peter listens to me. He listens to everything I’ve ever wanted to say. To you. To him. It’s all the same now. I love him, Raymond. I love him with all my heart. I never would have thought those words would come out of my mouth, but they have. I don’t want you to think I’ve been having an affair with him behind your back. I would never do this. I fell in love with him and decided it would be best to end things where they stood.
I’m an idiot. I know that. If anything, I want to be found.
Don’t find me.
It’s too late.
As I’m writing this letter to you, I’m sitting on my bed. It has pink flowers embroidered in the fabric, and they remind me so much of you. Peter told me to burn the quilt. But… I can’t seem to do it. Raymond, I love him, it’s true, but as much as I’d like to, I can’t get rid of you. Not yet, anyway.
Don’t find me.
Peter doesn’t know I wrote this to you, and he would probably be very upset if he knew. So please, don’t find me.
Don’t.
Lydia
A minute or two later, a knock was heard, and Raymond spun around to see his best friend, Marley Hugo at the door. He was wearing his unusually large green bowtie and his tux. Raymond knew Marley was announcing this performance.
“How you doing, buddy?” Marley asked, the light in his eyes full and wild.
Raymond turned back around to the letter and set it on the grand piano. He didn’t respond. Instead, he set his fingers on the piano keys and played for a moment, but everything was wrong.
The notes weren’t rolling. They were crashing into each other, like tidal waves. Uncertain and unpredictable. It wasn’t right at all. He tried again and again, but he couldn’t manage to play Lydia like he had played it for her not even two nights ago.
“Raymond? What’s going on?”
“She’s left me, Marley. Lydia’s gone.”
He rushed to his side and put his arm around his shoulder. “Gone? What do you mean?”
Raymond pushed the note toward Marley, and he picked it up slowly and read it.
“Oh, no,” he whispered. “No, no, no. Not now. Not today!”
“I can’t perform this, Marley. I really can’t. I know the music—I do. But I can’t feel it. Especially now. Please… understand me.”
“The audience… what about the audience?” Marley asked, breathless.
“I don’t know. I’ll be able to pay Piano Concerto No. 1, but I can’t play Lydia. Don’t ask me to play it.”
“Raymond, you can’t disappoint everyone out there. Think of all the publicity you’re going to get from this performance. If you don’t play what they have come here to hear, they will never come back. Your career will be shot. There will be no coming back from this. Either fake it or you lose everything. Not just Lydia.”
“Don’t ask me to play it.”
“Ray—”
“Don’t ask me to play it!”
There was a strangling silence in the room. Marley’s face turned sour, and then he coughed in a handkerchief.
“Fine,” he said. “I won’t tell the audience anything. If you want to ruin your career, fine. Go ahead. I won’t stop you. But Raymond, listen to yourself. You’ve broken up with your girlfriend—”
“Fiancée…”
“Fiancée, whatever. You’ve broken up with your fiancée. You cannot let your personal life dictate your career, especially on this night. Especially on this night, Raymond. Listen to yourself. That’s all I ask. Stop being so damn dramatic and just play the piece! It’s beautiful. You know it is.”
“I can’t play it. You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand all right. I understand that you’re going to ruin your life because you chose to not play your composition. Let me tell you, Raymond. There will be no more ‘compositions’ after this one. If you let this go, you’ll be done for. Forever. You’re on in three minutes. I’m going to go introduce you to the audience. I suggest you wipe your eyes. I don’t want to see you crying on the stage.”
Raymond looked at the ground while all of this was being spoken. He nodded and wiped his eyes and followed Marley out of the practice room and backstage. He could see the orchestra sitting at the back, and the grand piano filled the middle of the stage. It was a beautiful piano—over a million dollars, for sure. Raymond played on the best of the best. If what Marley said came true, would ever play on a million dollar piano again?
Marley said a few words—it all went right past Raymond’s ears. He dried his eyes as much as he possibly could, but stealing a quick glance in a mirror backstage offered him no condolences. He looked like a wreck. How was he going to manage this?
The audience began to clap loudly, and Raymond came on stage. He tried to dodge Marley’s eyes. He made his way to the piano and stood there for a moment. He gave a quick nod to the audience—their signal to quiet down. Then he turned to Paul Bennett, the conductor, and nodded. Paul nodded back. Something in his look let Raymond knew Paul knew something was going on. Raymond sat at the piano and put his hands into position. The orchestra started before him, and Tchaikovsky’s beautiful Piano Concerto No. 1 began. This was only the warm up piece before Lydia, which was what the audience was sitting on the edge of their seats for.
Nerves inside him squirmed, and he could barely keep his eyes from watering during the performance. He did amazingly well for someone who had lost all his emotion in the last hour or two. He tried to block out any mental image of Lydia, but her face began to snake its way into his mind. The song ended much too quickly. He had hoped it would have drawn out, but the knew he must soon face the terrifying decision that could very well end his career.
After the applause, Raymond stood up and sighed. He was undecided for a moment as to whether he was going to perform it or not. Something in his heart told him it would be impossible. His brain, on the other hand, suggested something quite different. If he did not perform this, he might as well die tonight. There would be no hope for him whatsoever. He might be lucky to get a job as a janitor somewhere. To dishonor his name—his family—everything he was could turn out disastrously.
He changed his mind in the course of an instant.
“The next piece I’m going to be performing is titled Lydia, Sweet Child of Mine. I started it at the beginning of this year and finished penning it about mid-October. It is, as they say, my baby.” He paused for a moment, and dried his tears on his suit coat. “This song is a description of the night I asked my Lydia to marry me.” And right then, he knew it would be impossible. He could barely finish the sentence. If he couldn’t speak, how could he play with the emotion Lydia deserved? To a pianist, a song is just a song unless played with feeling. With emotion. Lydia’s physical notes were at odd intervals and sounded very distraught when not played with a certain rubato-ness. Augmented fourths were common in the song.
His eyes fell to the floor, and he unwillingly took the score in his hands. It was thick—forty-nine pages total, including the optional ending. His entire life was put into those forty-nine pages. Everything he was…
How could he not play it?
“I know you’re all expecting me to play it. And I know you’re expecting something amazing, but in all seriousness, I cannot play this tonight. I am sorry.”
The words fell out of his mouth like a bomb. It exploded in the room and tears formed again. So many tears…
“I am so sorry. I’ve failed myself. I cannot play this song ever again. I am sorry,” he stated. Not knowing where to go, he took off in the same direction he came onto the stage. His life, his reputation, his love. They were completely ruined.
As he walked backstage, he could hear yelling and shouting. This isn’t what they wanted. How could he disappoint his fans?
He hated himself.
But, he thought, it wasn’t my fault all of this happened. Lydia should have been seated front row center for the world wide debut of Lydia. If she had been there, he would have been able to play it. But no doubt she was off with Peter whoever.
In that instant, as he walked off the stage under the glowing bright lights, he knew his story wasn’t over. He was going to search for Lydia, even though she advised against it. There was something in her letter that completely convinced him she needed him more than ever. If it had to be a blind goose chase, so be it. Raymond would not stop searching until he found his heart again.
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Sorry for the length, but I hope you enjoyed it.
-Jared
