A hushed chatter filled the theatre, nervous, comfortable, bored, excited, relaxed, anticipatory. There were people of all shapes and color in the audience, all of them waiting for the performance to begin. Louder than the chatter, however, he could feel the loud hush in the air. No matter which stage Arima Kousei stood at, the people below him were the same. They were connoisseurs of the music he played, of Chopin, Bach, Liszt, Rachmaninoff and any number of similar such works.
"A wonderful festival of music, of talent, of classical history that all of us have come to love. This is what you have come to hear, this is what we present to you today." The announcer declared loudly. "And today! We have a special guest, one for whom I am sure many of you have come exclusively to see and listen to. Kousei Arima, twenty-six years of age, a musical genius and a pianist of rare talent, he was born in Japan, taught by his mother starting at the age of four. He has since won a number of local and national Japanese competitions. At the age of five..."
Kousei let his attention wander from the voice of the German announcer. He didn't understand many of the words spoken, but when it came time for him to step out onto the wooden platform of the stage, to step out from behind the red curtains, he would know. The signal was always the same.
Eventually, the final sound of his name being broadcast loudly came, followed by a gentle sea of polite applause. Kousei fixed his glasses with a prod of his hand, and took a slow breath as he cleared his mind of his usual trepidation. He ignored the announcer's expectant glance as the clapping slowed. It would be another performance, so far from home and yet so similar to the one on which he'd first regained his hearing. He could do it.
"Kousei Arima! Here he comes!" The announcer shouted once more, this time in English. Kousei smiled briefly at the man's clear attempt to coax him out from behind the curtains and stepped forward.
The sound of the audience's applause resumed, loud and clear, continuing even after he'd reached the piano, only stopping when he finally sat. Kousei paused to let the silent sit with him. He adjusted his simple black suit, gave his dress shirt a brief touch to make sure that it was in place, and then, slowly, he rested his fingers on the keys.
That was when he saw her. A girl with golden blonde hair, her back turned to him and a violin resting on her shoulders, standing at the fore of the stage.
It had been twelve years since the death of Miyazono Kaori. Twelve years since the death of a girl who had, in the last ten months of her short life, pulled him from the depths of a dark, soundless sea. The girl turned her neck slightly, giving him her usual smile of encouragement.
Kousei wasn't sure whether he was just schizophrenic or if the ghost of this girl was really following him. The lights, the curtains, the crowd, the stage, and the piano always inevitably brought her here to this familiar setting.
Would his music reach her?
He began to play, hitting the first measures of his opening piece. Every note sounded clear and unhampered. Three measures into Liszt's etude, a violin accompaniment began to ring in his ears. He knew he was hearing things. The violinist accompanying him on stage was only visible to him. There was no violinist, and yet, there she was: a violinist of immense talent playing a variant of something that had the flavor of Paganini.
Kousei remembered carrying her down from the hospital rooftop. He remembered her tears and her laughter as she'd lived every day as if it would be her last. He remembered the many times he'd visited her, standing in both comfortable and uncomfortable silence before her hospital bed. He'd known that she'd been dying all along, but he'd denied it with every fiber of his being. Paradoxically, even though she was the one who was going to leave him, she was the one who'd begged him to stay with her forever. Kaori had taken the words right out of his mouth. He was the one who should've been begging her to stay.
As he played, Kousei glanced briefly downstage to where he knew his wife was sitting. He couldn't quite see her, not through the stark contrast of light and dark between him and the audience. Kousei closed his eyes in full and turned back to the piano. Hopefully they didn't notice his glance. It was an awkward and unofficial crime for a pianist to turn away from the piano toward his audience in the midst of playing, especially in such a program as the one he was presenting. If this were a comedy-routine, however...
The violin began playing a segment from one of Chopin's scherzo, matching it to the bars he was playing. To be able to match Chopin with Liszt in such a dynamic fashion, she was truly a terrifying violinist. He knew it was coming before they reached it. A segment of relentless staccato rhythm was looming, and, on his periphery, he could see her turn slightly toward him, gently raising her bow with a sadistic grin as he reached the end of the movement he was playing. His heart began beating with excitement. The silence of the transition was almost suffocating as he readied to hit the keys at a double forte. If there were any members of the audience sleeping at this time - as there sometimes inevitably were - they wouldn't be sleeping long.
Would his music reach them? He hoped it would.
Twenty minutes into the performance, the accompaniment of the violinist wound down into a mellow tempo. It was a slow descent, mingled with intermittent spurts of heart-rending notes. Her playing couldn't have been more perfectly at odds with the official score - yet it was so fitting, so full of life. Kousei smiled as he hit a particularly difficult and well-practiced segment. There was a lull of stunned whispers emitting from the crowd as he played. It didn't matter to him whether or not their playing wasn't perfectly aligned with the official score. It didn't matter that he would never be hailed for perfect interpretive genius like some of his fellow pianists. As long as her music, their music, reached the people here, it would be worth it.
Over two hours later, Kousei reached the final segment of his eleventh piece and, in the same way it'd appeared, the figure of Miyazono Kaori and her violin faded. Moments after, Kousei hit the final notes of his performance. There was the brief customary silence as the sound of the piano's last notes echoed and trailed off.
It was over. She was gone, and for a brief second, Kousei felt a pressure in his chest as he quietly wished that the organizers would have allowed him to put more pieces on his performance schedule. Two hours was too short. Much too short.
The audience's applause and cheer roared into his ears, drowning away his slight feeling of melancholy. The darkness which had been hanging over his listeners cleared, and suddenly, Kousei could see his wife standing above the crowd on her front row seat and cheering loudly alongside the other more enthusiastic listeners. Kousei gave another bow, hiding his laughter at the sight of a number of people trying to get his wife and childhood friend down from her view-obstructing position.
Oh well. There was always the next performance. He would see her there, and their music would reach the crowd again. He was sure of it.
For now, he would have to see about using whatever privileges he had as a performer to make sure Tsubaki didn't get kicked out of the theatre again. Hopefully the organizers would give them some leeway.
Author's Note (4/24): I finished the last episode of this anime day before yesterday. It hurt watching Kaori fade away. I knew it was happening since the start, when she was telling them that her sudden hospital internment was 'just a checkup' (back in the very early episodes). I knew it would happen, but I couldn't help but want to hope. I hoped, and my hopes were torn. I didn't cry, but there's a gaping hole in my heart that I don't foresee going away for a while. Halp.. :'o