Vienna Station Read Free Page B

okay?”
    I smile in spite of myself. “Are you?”
    “They told us it would be dark, but this is crazy! How much longer do you think it will be?”
    “Not long.” I take three deep breaths. It’s not just Kelly and me. The whole orchestra is nervous about this concert. We’ll start with the new piano concerto, the one our Mozart composed and will perform. He conducted our rehearsal in the strangest possible way. We practiced a few passages, but without the piano. Mozart kept his part secret. When the concertmaster asked him about it, he giggled and told us, “Spontaneity is central to great performances!” Hype? Hubris? Who knows? I know that he assigned me a solo part in the second movement and I’m scared silly.
    Our performance venue doesn’t help. I’m used to being surrounded by other players on a stage. Here there is isolation, no stage. Orchestra members sit on individual platforms at widely separated heights and intervals. Electro-magnetic fields support the platforms and move them during the performance, changing sonic intensity.
    Like dawn blooming over mountains, light rises in the concert hall. My platform rises. The hall is a huge, globe. The audience is seated above, below, all around the globe. Powerful people become dimly visible. They stir restlessly. Their pearls, diamonds, gold, silk, lace and satin shimmer with their movements like distant stars and galaxies.
    The oboist stands on his platform above and to my left. He gives the orchestra an A. We tune. The comfortable, customary dissonant notes of others tuning reassure me. Tuning sounds subside. The audience is still, expectant.
    Mozart enters the hall like a comet falling. His transparent platform is engulfed in a ball of golden light as it drops from the ceiling. He wears a royal blue brocaded jacket with streaming tails. His silver wig glows like angels’ hair.
    A silver piano on its own platform rises to meet him at the exact center of the hall. When the platforms meet, Mozart steps across and seats himself at the piano. He will conduct in the 18th Century style, from the keyboard. He raises his right hand. The fingers are long, delicate and give no hint of the strength they command. He gives the slightest lift of an upbeat and the concerto begins—violins, violas, and then oboes all play. The music comes to me. I apply pressure to my bow.
    I love music. The hours I’ve spent alone with my cello are the best of my life. I love rehearsing, matching my skill with others, blending, creating something much more beautiful than I could achieve alone. Yet this concerto has been drudgery to rehearse. I can’t cleanse myself of the defilement Mozart’s casual mistreatment of me left. I feel shame.
    I’ve seen him only twice since the scene at the Sacher Cafe. He was distant and polite. Still, his presence permeates Vienna Station. Anger and misery have been my twin companions. They are with me now in front of billions of people. Yes, the numberless moons of pearls and countless stars of diamonds gleaming from powdered breasts and slender necks around me are only the inner shell of our audience. This event is being broadcast live to the world.
    The music intensifies. I’m playing competently, but woodenly. I focus on finger positions, the tension of bow against string. I cannot reach out to the others. We pause for the cadenza. Mozart builds tower upon tower of notes. His fingers flash brilliantly. I’m dimly aware that I’m hearing the best solo piano passage ever played. His tornado of sound sweeps up the orchestra and we finish the movement with three crashing chords.
    I’m numb, not afraid, just numb. This should be the greatest musical moment of my life. I am to play a duet with Mozart before the largest audience ever assembled. The notes are not difficult. They are slow, lyrical, set in my cello’s loveliest range. All depends upon what Mozart plays, how he plays. Can we make music together? I have no hope that we can.
    Violins and