Evening fell in a soft cascade of yellows, oranges and pinks as Erik showered off the dust and scuffle of the theater. After applying a layer of protective cream over his fragile face, he shuffled off and relaxed into his couch. Managing a busy theater was a draining job, even when done mostly through others to avoid the stares and side glances of the morbidly curious, and left little time for what he really enjoyed. Even if he could, he wouldn't want the grinding job of day to day collaborative piano work. Not in a theater, anyway.

He poured a drink and carefully replaced his mask. If pressed, he would admit that he missed the moments when just a few people gathered at the piano and made music together. The intimate play of skill, interpretation, and talent that took what was on the page to a different level. The moment when the written score no longer ruled and the music, the music, led the way.

When his music led, people tended to notice his face less.

With a sigh, Erik walked across his living room towards the balcony doors, side stepping the piano that lived where anyone else would have… whatever it was that they had in their homes. Desks, coffee tables, cabinets; the pedestrian and mundane. He had a small couch, a tiny end table, and a piano. It was enough. He hardly sat in the couch anyway.

With a gentle press, his French doors swung open silently and let in a cool breeze. The courtyard below was dark, and the gardens many floors below were lit with tiny fairy lights strung from the tree branches. They hung low here and there, illuminating the bushes and flower beds. All around, balconies staggered drunkenly up the sides of the apartment buildings. Dim outlines jutting from otherwise smooth concrete façades.

It was funny how apartments boasted about their balconies, yet hardly anyone stepped onto them. Occasional glows followed by a puff of lazy, curling haze betrayed the smokers. A handful of others took in the evening autumn air that spiraled through the courtyard walkways and down from the sky above. Most of the jutting platforms were vacant.

As the evening settled violet shadows to the world's edges, Erik turned back to his rooms. Nature had exhaled and let the remaining shreds of day pass by. Darkness was gentler, kinder. Blurring the details. Everyone was the same in the dark. He flexed his hands and stretched his fingers.

He settled on Haydn, for the cool air felt like a lullaby. The notes danced in the courtyard, echoing playfully into the garden and up to the deepening purple sky. Variations evolved the music into a fugue that fused itself to a thoughtful motif he'd heard once, and finally Haydn once more. Erik ended his concert gently, for himself and, perhaps more practically, to avoid noise complaints. Then he toasted the accommodating night, finished his drink, and gathered the fortitude to finish his work. If he was quite fortunate, he'd manage a few hours of sleep before doing it all again.

…

The next morning passed in a blur of budget shifts and retroactive justification. It was followed by hasty medical attention for and filing the medical claims on behalf of his prima donna who, after her leading man bungled a set piece, ended up with a chipped tooth and bloody lip. Then more budgeting to replace the set piece after being bested by the prima donna's face.

Erik pulled his keys from his pocket and gave serious consideration to arson. When he reached his door, he unlocked it with a sigh and reminded himself that he loved the arts and his theater, loved music, and this was just the business side. Music took talent and training, and neither were free. He pushed the door open and looked down.

Damn. He had a note.

A scrap of cheap notebook paper had been shoved under the door with enough force to send it a foot beyond the threshold.

With a grunt, Erik bent and picked it up. If the little fart took issue with his playing they should have complained the day after he'd smashed out some Rachmaninoff and transitioned to Metallica, not after an evening of lullabies. He'd show them what a noise complaint should sound like.

He unfolded the note.

A humble request to the Maestro: Liebestraum No. 3 in A flat.

Erik immediately took back the little fart comment. It was the nicest scribble, really. Loopy enough to be artful, but with enough spike for efficiency. He hurried through his shower, threw on some clothes, and sloshed too much red wine into a glass.

Liszt. Who didn't love Liszt? Erik even had a hard copy of it somewhere, but immediacy demanded he queue it up on his laptop. A glance at the first bar and his mind filled in the rest; a conversation with an old friend. Then he flung the French doors open, only just stopping one from smacking against the wall to his bedroom.

The night again was violet-cool and breezy. The drunken balconies shared no secrets, and the smokers and shadows kept each other company. Somewhere though, somewhere in this was his audience, and they must not be kept waiting.

With a few deep breaths, a healthy swallow of wine, and a splendid neck crack, he was ready.

Erik gave the keys a light stroke as he placed his hands for the piece, then eased into the music, letting it flow through him and out into the courtyard; relief after a day of pounding power chords and paperwork. Such a deeply satisfying refrain, elaborated by flourishes that made the core seem simple, then repeated to emphasize their breathtaking beauty, the pearl in the oyster. Six little bars; love at the center of the dream.

He did not look at the music, all one needed was the six bars and after that it was frills and ribbons. Magnificent and transcendent to be sure, but decorations for what lay at the center.

Erik closed his eyes, letting Liszt spill into the cool evening air without really playing it, for in moments like these he became the music. There was no more theater, no paperwork, no mask and no Erik. He spread himself out in the song, a thin veil across the darkening evening.

Across a courtyard.

He let the last notes linger, hanging in the air, as long as he could before he reluctantly released the sustain. As they silenced, Erik opened his eyes and raised his mask to gently wipe the collected moisture underneath, caught in the misshapen twists and ridges of his… face.

Applause. One person. There was applause for his playing.

His audience.

Erik rose from the bench, replacing his mask as he walked to his balcony. The clapping grew louder as he stepped out, but he could not tell where it came from. The concrete walls of the courtyard bounced the sound in every direction. He was uncomfortable being watched, but the clapping did not stop when he stepped to the edge of his balcony, and came faster when he bowed.

It slowed, and finally stopped when he retreated. Erik was tempted to play an encore, considered seeing if his listener would offer another round of appreciation, but decided they had already pressed their luck with the other residents.

Besides, if he left his audience with an appetite, there may be another request.

His smile raised the mask over his cheekbones for a moment, and he closed his balcony doors gently, bidding a fond goodnight to the night and his charming fan.

…

Though he tried not to, Erik couldn't help feeling a little disappointed when there was no note under his door the next day. He played jazz classics and sipped a gin and tonic. There was no note the next day, either, and he soothed his soul with a melancholy air and tea before retiring early.

After a dull day coordinating maintenance work and city inspectors, Erik trudged to his door with a substantial chip on his shoulder. It was irritating work, lacking even an intersection of art and business. It required calendars, carefully scheduling work away from stage time, and the quick diplomacy necessary to juggle multiple contractors on limited resources. It was dull without the good manners to be mindless.

Thus primed, his hands itching to play and his nerves begging for a stiff drink, Erik slid his key into the door. Perhaps a good pounding of Holst or some Mahler tonight. Either way, he'd have a shot before his shower, just to burn the day away.

The door swung open and Erik glanced down.

Oh. He had a note.

His bag smacked on the tile floor as Erik dove down for the folded paper.

…

Dear Maestro, Thank you for Liszt and the lovely jazz. Would you consider Shubert's Ave?

…

Well, wasn't that just jarring. Smashing out the loudest hot mess he could to… this. One does not easily trade a tirade for prayer. His fingers flexed impatiently.

Would he consider it? He was already debating which arrangement, the musician's equivalent of 'how high?'. While the request would be honored, he couldn't be blamed for taking liberty with it. Besides, he was an artist.

Showered and comfortable, Erik patted his face gently with cream and opened his bar cabinet. The first shot of tequila was far from smooth, but it burned so good and cleared the sticky, clinging day from his mind. The second shot burned, too, and he set on the third on the table near the piano, then he eased the mask into place and headed to the french doors.

The evening was warmer. A thick blanket of cloud overhead had trapped the daytime warmth. Storm season approached, or maybe it was the energy of expectation that crackled in the air. It was eerily silent in the courtyard, as if the smokers and crickets had all taken a vow of silence for the night. He could even hear the wind as it whistled through the hallways and down stairwells.

Erik imagined he could feel the eyes on him as he stepped into the soft darkness, making sure it was obvious that he, the Maestro, was about to play.

How little it took to capture his imagination these days.

He sat at the bench and removed the mask again. The Virgin Mother was about to be invoked and he wanted her to know who was calling.

The first notes came easy, reverently, but just before reaching the first 'benedictus', he added power, bass where it had not been, and Erik pounded into a crescendo and let it die back and sweeten for the refrain.

As he let the notes hush and prepared to really let go for the second half, a sound caught his ear. A sound he did not make.

A voice. From outside. Soprano.

Erik's hands froze for only a moment, his ears tingling, trying in vain to find the direction, but he knew that was pointless. Even if he wasn't inside, sitting in front of a piano, the concrete square outside would ricochet.

So he played on, softer, to hear the voice. He changed the arrangement to accompany the singer, not plow over her, and then repeated to give her a go at the entire song. As she grew more confident, her singing grew bolder, and she adapted and threw in trills and improvised around him. She was skilled. She was strong.

She was bewitching.

Too soon the song ended again, and Erik hopped from the bench and ran to the balcony. His applause joined that of his singer, their noisy clapping ringing around the courtyard.

"Brava!" he shouted, and heard a light laugh.

Oh, she was a diva.

It wasn't until he raised the third shot to his lips that he realized he wasn't wearing his mask.

…

The next day, there were two notes under his door.

My dear Maestro: Brava indeed! Perhaps just a lullabye tonight? -Your singer

The other was a noise complaint. Erik grinned and eased into some Brahms.

…

Erik stayed home the next day. After another day of repairs, he had no doubt the errors would make themselves apparent quickly. He assured his production and stage assistants of his full confidence in them and, knowing the hellscape they were in for, ordered pizza to be delivered for lunch. Then he ordered sandwiches to be delivered for dinner. His confidence in them went only so far.

He was absolutely not staying at home because the diva had seen him without the mask. But his sensitive hearing had not detected a gasp of horror and she'd kept clapping.

Conclusion? She was blind.

Error. She'd clapped louder as he stepped onto the balcony, and tapered off as he retreated.

Mad, then? Whatever she was, she was a delight. If he was lucky, she was in the market for an accompaniment.

Erik dragged his sofa and turned it to give a view of his door. He wasn't going to let her get away this time.

…

It was approaching the late afternoon as Erik replied to a reasonably coherent email from a stagehand. The current project needed more sophisticated rigging than they usually ran, but Erik was never without a plan, and had personally designed the modern fly system. It was worth a call.

"There's more capacity up there. Check the store room and you'll see crates labeled 'expansion'. If you run into trouble before I'm back, call the number on the plans and ask for Khan."

As he hung up,he caught the sound of movement in the hallway. Rustling.

By the time he heard paper tearing, Erik had his hand on the doorknob. When he whipped the door open, a young woman with soft brown curls piled atop her head jumped and dropped her notebook and pen. Erik bent down and picked up the notebook.

Same handwriting.

The woman stood up and straightened her glasses. She peered up at him as she plucked a curl from under a lens. She took a breath as if to speak but Erik held up a hand to stop her.

"Are you warmed up?"

She blinked. "I, ah… no. Not yet."

He pushed the door wide and stepped back to give her a view of… his couch. Erik swore under his breath and pulled the thing out of the way to give the woman a view of the small grand piano. "Never neglect a proper warm up. Come."

She hesitated. "I don't know…"

"Of course. I'm a stranger. A stranger wearing a mask no less. Look, I'll make this quick because I'm rather impatient to begin," He stuck out his hand. "Hello, I'm Erik, and I'm a very ugly musician. I'm very pleased to meet you miss…?"

She giggled and turned pink when her hand disappeared into his. "I'm Christine, and I'm a… a failed soprano."

He released her hand and stepped back. "Who told you that?"

Oh heavens, now she was blushing. "Fifteen years of vocal study, thirty failed auditions, three coaches, and an ex husband." Christine tilted her head. "Who said you were ugly?"

"God decreed it and my mother, good Catholic that she was, did not argue. Your problem is probably stage presence, not your voice. Your coaches were imbeciles, and I assume your ex is an ex for a reason."

Christ, his rapid fire was making his own head spin. He held the door a bit wider. "Are you going to sing or not?"

Christine hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and watched him carefully. "Okay. Maybe we can avoid a noise complaint if we're not serenading the entire complex."

Erik felt his uneven grin nudge the mask. "Philistines," he sniffed.