Old World Symphony
Description: Vienna, 1780s. Roderich, rising musician in a world of art and chaos, hungers to show prowess in a composition contest—until he has the misfortune of meeting his opponents. A crossdressing duet, a revolutionary and a runaway, an ex-military flautist, lovebirds senza linguistics, and a Mass in B Minor that isn't what it seems all come together to make the era a little less classic.
No, I am not abandoning my other stories. I've just had so much of this one prewritten from so many months (almost a year now!) past and thought I may as well post it already. I keep getting into it, then getting back out. Therefore, updates on this will probs be slow and will not affect/be unaffected by other stuff. I just need an escape to write a horribly dramatic pseudo-romance (not kidding; it's horrible).
(Note: Abandon all hope for complete historical, geographical, musical and linguistic accuracy when ye enter here. I'm interested and desperately trying, though, so if you're a friendly 18th century Viennese musician and can help me out, that'd be great.)
The new concert hall loomed above Roderich Edelstein, an unwavering silhouette against the oncoming storm. Climbing the stone steps took more stamina from him than he dared let the coach driver see, but reaching the top instilled in him a dignified air of importance. He waved a dismissive white-gloved hand in the general direction of the carriage and then turned to face the towering doors, which were guarded by steep, neoclassical pillars. Here Roderich felt powerful. Here, Roderich felt like he belonged.
A watchman was at the door, and his eyes widened as Roderich entered with violin case in hand. A drop of rain fell, kissing the spot Roderich's polished leather shoe had been moments before. Here was a man of purpose, the servant thought. Would he prove dedicated enough to win?
All winning thoughts in Roderich's own head glided out the window as he beheld the inside of the new hall. It was not open to the public yet, and for good measure, for if the public saw this, the public would never want to spend another day without its glory always in their sight, and the hall's true purpose as a building to occupy the arts would be lost. Roderich felt smug that he was able to steal this glimpse before the grand opening. But of course, he would be involved in that, as well.
The man directed him to the practice alcoves, out of the way of the main auditorium. The room was still massive, pianos and cellos lining the walls, sconces hanging in orderly yet artistic fashion. Thunder rumbled as he sat and opened his violin case, feeling like a god.
After a few minutes of tuning and running through particularly difficult measures, Roderich had gained a small crowd. He did not know who the men were, in their cravats and coats, but he didn't ask. If scouts and spies wanted to hear the prosperous young musician from Vienna, let them come. Roderich wanted—needed—everyone in this room to hear him play. He was without a doubt that they would be impressed. The more ears, the better represented was his passion; the better showcased was his talent.
He had arrived an hour before the judges, but still needed to meet and practice with his piano accompanist. Seeing as the fellow had not arrived yet, Roderich passed the time by going over the piano part himself. A few excited whispers floated through the crowd.
With every distant rumble of thunder, Roderich grew increasingly impatient and apprehensive. The judges would arrive any minute now, and there was still no one to play the piano. He tuned his violin once more, and then tuned it again. With every passing footstep, Roderich looked up.
Finally, three men stepped into the alcove. "Roderich Edelstein?" asked one. "Your time has come."
"Yes," Roderich gratefully responded. "My judges, I presume? A pleasure to meet you. Which one of you is the accompanist? We need to have a few words before I begin."
The men shared glances. "Sorry, sir," said one. "None of us are he. Is your accompanist late? Have you practiced with him before?"
Roderich's jaw tightened. "I—I have, sir," he lied. "I just don't know where he's gone." Off to a wonderful start.
He only got a grunt in response as the judges took to their table. More whispers drifted up from the small audience.
"Would you like me to begin without him?" Roderich asked, tentatively. It was still all about impression. "I wouldn't want to make you wait."
"'S fine," one judge muttered. He glanced down at his papers, and then looked back up. "Say, you're the gentleman who played that duet in Munich last year, correct? You're just a solo act now?"
Roderich clenched the neck of his instrument a little tighter. "I am." And I'll have to be for this too, if my accompanist doesn't arrive soon…
A loud clap of thunder shook the ground, and another man stumbled into the room. Faces turned. The man was short, his wig-less head long and blond and soaked with rainwater. He carried a small briefcase, also soaked, about his person. His green eyes were wide and sharp. His slight accent was, as well. "I'm the accompanist for…Roderich Edelstein? I apologize for my tardiness."
Roderich resisted the urge to put his hands on his hips and scold the man. "Yes, that's me," he emphasized, making his glare evident. "You are late."
"I apologize," repeated the man. He extracted water-stained sheet music from his case and flashed it to Roderich. "This is the piece, correct?"
"Yes," Roderich growled.
"Fine. My name is Vash Zwingli. Nice...to meet you."
The judges looked quizzical as Roderich fumed, but everything would only get worse. His accompanist, without even offering a polite handshake, strode over and sat down. At the harpsichord.
Roderich almost had a heart attack. "What are you doing?" He hissed to Zwingli, clutching his bow like it was a weapon.
The man looked back at Roderich, assaulted. "My job?" He brushed water droplets from his hair and looked over the music.
Roderich kept his voice low but full of emotion for the sake of everyone in the room. "I wanted a pianist, not a—oh! No one plays the harpsichord anymore, you fool! Why are you doing this to me?"
"Is there a problem?" one judge asked.
Zwingli didn't look any sorry at all when he said, "I'm sorry. You're getting a harpsichordist."
Roderich scoffed. Laughed a little. This was not happening. This was not happening. "Can you even play?"
The man, with all the nerve he had, scoffed back. "Can you?"
"Are we ready to begin?" the judge beckoned.
Roderich wheeled back to face his audience. "Yes, my apologies." No! Not in any way at all! We haven't practiced, I need a pianist, this man is outrageous!
"Ready when you are," Zwingli asserted from his seat at the throne of stupidity, the wooden harpsichord bench. His fingers were poised over the keys.
Roderich huffed, bringing the violin to his chin. When this was over, he would kill the stupid accompanist for ruining his performance and his career. He would tear him to pieces.
Zwingli tried to begin counting off, but Roderich responded furiously with a beat of his own. "One, two, ready, and…"
Fingers flew over fingerboards, and too many strings were plucked for Roderich's liking. At least they stayed on tempo. With every note the harpsichordist plucked out, Roderich winced. This was a graceful melody, not a metallic ballad. He kept his violin dainty, as if it were made of porcelain, and then let his bow pull notes from strings like flowers from a garden. Zwingli's instrument boomed in the background like a printing press or a weaving loom, a clunky machine. Roderich was surprised he made it through the concerto excerpt without exploding in anger.
The judges would judge him on this. They would decide, based on these notes, these sounds, if Roderich was a musician talented enough to continue, to make history. If he was, Roderich would be allowed into the actual competition—another barrier to prove himself. He would compose a piece demonstrating not only his own greatness, but the greatness deserved by all musicians, of all music in general. And if Roderich's composition was greater than all the others, it would be performed for the public at the opening of this very concert hall. But that was the catch: anyone was allowed into the composition contest. Freedom, equality, blasphemy—the amateurs would be sifted out of the pile in this audition period. Amateurs; commoners who showed up like Vash Zwingli. If Roderich's superior music was heard by everyone at the opening, and liked, it could mean his future. It could mean the difference between a sad life alone scribbling down spare notes beside smoldering fires, squandering his money, and a life in the courts of kings and queens, never worrying again where the next meal was coming from. He could have everything he needed, and even have free time to pursue everything he wanted. Everything he enjoyed.
In the end, Roderich received plenty applause and many impressed nods from the concerto. The judges scribbled furiously on their papers; Roderich's stomach turned. He bowed, fixed his glasses, and packed his instrument away. Zwingli waited at his seat.
Finally, the middle judge looked up. "Thank you, Herr Edelstein. That was a very fine piece you played. Return tomorrow morning, and the list will be posted in the main hall."
"Of course," Roderich responded. He was having trouble keeping his voice calm. He did not deserve the compliment, and wished for everything he could show the crowd what he was really capable of sounding like. He could barely even admit it himself: the harpsichordist had flustered him. "Thank you very much."
He shot one last seething glare at Zwingli, reclining too leisurely and too dutifully on the stupid harpsichord seat for his liking. A terrible clap of thunder broke overhead. Roderich lifted his pink chin, straightened his white jabot, and marched out of the room.