The orchestra hall – well, the place where they played instruments, whatever they called it – was impressive. It was big, pristine, dark. The windows were so tinted they were black; the walls were a deep mahogany. But despite its solemn exterior, which seemed to forbid sound or interruption, the hall was filled with noise.
People bustled around and ran into him like he wasn't there. They didn't apologize or send him apologetic looks – but Nick was used to that. They all wore fancy clothes; suits, dresses, whatever, all in various states of dishevelment. One man with an aristocratic nose and a Londonderry accent was barking out upbraidings to a young man with a cello. Grimacing, Nick made his way past them and into the area behind stage.
It was dark. Instruments sat alone in the dark amongst torrents of loose sheet music. The floor was scuffed and dirty, in utter contrast to the rest of the hall. There were people back here too, smoking and muttering to each other amongst the dangling ropes and old un-repaired spotlights. Nick's stomach pinched in toward his spine; he hadn't eaten all day, and the nervousness was making him ravenous. His fingers were sweating, itching to play. He'd have to take the bandaids off, most likely. He wondered if the people here would care.
"Nick?"
He turned around, eyes sharp.
"Hey, buddy." A man with a thick American accent bumped into him, putting a hand on Nick's shoulder, pushing him back. "You the one I told to get a sandwich?"
"Eh?" said Nick. Someone to his left, tall and thin and dark, blew out a cloud of smoke. It choked off his breath and vision.
"My sandwich, mate," the American said. He thumped his hand down near Nick's neck, acting big and forceful. The man was about as small and scrawny as Nick himself. "I asked for a sandwich."
"Nick!"
Twisting his neck, Nick ignored the other man and looked behind him, eyes darting around the stage. It was too crowded, too dark. He couldn't see her – and fuck it all, if she could see him, why the hell couldn't she come over here and save him from the brute?!
"Look," he said to the American, his own accent thickening, "mate, ahm no' a busboy, OK? Ye kin go an' get your ain sandwich."
The American put his hands up, turning away with the wide-eyed expression of someone who knows they're in the right but who gives up the battle anyway. Nick didn't spare him another glance. He shoved through a cluster of men before him and made his way to the piano, where he clambered onto the ripped old vinyl seat. Above the heads of everyone else – and just above the clouds of smoke – he gazed out into the poorly-lit room.
And lost his balance.
And fell on the keys.
The room went silent – Nick's elbows came down hard and struck loud, discordant notes. His feet pistoned out, heels dug into the vinyl, and the seat he was standing on went with them. His elbows slipped; his legs stretched out before him, no longer providing balance; first his back, then his head hit the keyboard. Finally, losing traction of the vinyl and struggling to get off the old piano, he fell beneath it to the floor.
Stars.
He just saw stars. Then—
"Are you OK?"
Laughter. Spinning vision.
"Someone help him up—"
Hands on him, tugging at him, pulling his arms away just when he put his weight on them—
"Nick?"
Nick blinked the stars away.
"Nick the waiter?"
He blinked again. Before him was a familiar face. Blonde hair, beautiful eyes, a concerned tilt to her eyebrows and a small smile at her lips. He shook his head, vision clearing. He gawked at her.
"It's me, Gloria," said Gloria, the smile faltering a little. "You can't have forgotten my face already!"
Unable to speak, Nick just shook his head again. He fumbled for words, suddenly convinced he should say something, suddenly panicked. The best he could come up with was ramblings about functions and domains. Hell, he sees a pretty woman and all he can think of is lines!
"Right!" he managed eventually, and then his mind went blank again. Gloria grinned.
"All right?" she asked.
"Right! Yes! All right!" He nodded, grinning too as she helped up. "Yes, fine. Thank you."
"You took an awful spill."
"I was looking for you."
She didn't answer; Nick resisted the urge to smack himself in the face. What a thing to blurt out!
Well, it's better than saying you got up there to look tall, Mr. Kilpatrick reasoned.
Good point.
She led him to the conductor then. She chattered a little as they walked – "You'll love Mr. Cotter, Nick, he's brilliant, he oversees all the new additions" – but Nick didn't say a word. When they reached the illustrious man, he only looked Nick up and down. Then, looking bored, he glanced at Gloria.
"This is Nick," she said brightly, clutching his arm.
Mr. Cotter looked at Nick again. Queasily, Nick smiled back.
"Mr. Cotter writes the music that we play," Gloria explained. "He's a composer and his pieces are absolutely gorgeous. Have you heard his Quartet for the Apocalypse?"
"Of course," said Nick.
Liar, said Mr. Kilpatrick.
"Can you play it?" asked Mr. Cotter, his first – and rather rude-sounding – words. Nick hesitated.
"Er ..."
Gloria looked at him expectantly.
"Well, no," Nick admitted.
"I should think not," said Mr. Cotter. "It's all in string."
Now who feels stupid? Mr. Kilpatrick asked.
I do, Nick replied. Shut up.
He shifted, very aware of Gloria's hand on his arm. Mr. Cotter was simply sitting with his arms crossed, as if thinking deeply. Finally, he looked back up at them. He had a lined, severe face – the kind that promised hardship.
"Get on the piano," he said to Nick. To Gloria: "Fetch him the music for Dewatha. See how well he plays."
Nick hurried to the piano. Gloria went off in another direction – when he'd sat and pulled the stool closer to the piano, she scuttled over and arranged papers on the little ledge. Nick squinted at it, then looked down at the piano. He pressed some keys.
Out of tune.
With a newly pensive expression, he looked back up at Cotter, who was staring at him with the same severe blankness Nick had come to expect. He looked at the music, took a deep breath.
With his eyes firmly on the sheet before him, he started to play.
