They are different.
He is quietly magnificent, and she sees that he exudes easy confidence. It is not procured, nor of disposition but born of talent. This is what she envies. The entirety of her charisma propelled her through ballrooms effortlessly. But he has been at this longer – he has the proper credentials.
She feels like dirt riding on his coattails.
Once, this appointment may have been the date – a relationship seeing the light of day. She would've been nervous but proud, happy in a perverse subservient way that required twirling taffeta and heels. This is the tagalong role she inhibits, the bumbling amateur. A fresh presence to humor and be humored.
She stops. Breathes, pulls on her flats. It wasn't Len she was angry with.
"…This industry hasn't seen such…celebrity. Then again, we need the avant-garde artistes to sweep in and induct us into this new century of" – Nor is she angry with Mr. Gardner, who stands before her and carries on a 3-minute guilt trip endeavor. This is slightly harder to remember. She does not whisper her insecurities to Michel Gardner at 3a.m. in the morning. Michel Gardner is not the man who kisses her fingers or indulges her whining. He is easy to demonize.
Two years, and she is nowhere near experienced in the industry. It is no joke that she is hated. She has been maneuvering this fine alone, but having Len around makes it worse. She doesn't want to know why, it rankles her nerves, and the entire world is against her and she is so nervous. She is again sixteen and shivering in a classroom, an imposter bowing out show tunes that never belonged to her.
"And your thoughts, hmm?"
She is listening but lost in her own thoughts, but she has learned to take things inwards. Her expression is not passive – never passive – it is composed and cool. She does not mourn her debutante self, overeager and open.
Mr. Gardner is not the enemy. "I like to let my work speak for itself," she says lightly. "But there is a lot more to learn."
It is a dull, dreary answer, so she will be known as the dull, dreary puppet. Her limp response does a fantastic job undermining what critics call her 'genuine music-making'. It isn't very true anymore. She just plays with musicality and virtuosity with sensationalized wonder story – if one teenaged girl can spring to life with an unknown talent, what else awaits the world? Otherwise she won't even be noticed. She is only a celebrity, and is a dull, marginally talented commercial front.
She wonders what it's like to be Len. To have the enigmatic first violinist of the Berlin Philharmonic stride up to her. What it was like to hear the critique, wonders how the sound of a mentor's laughter rang when personal and up close. What that is like.
x
They are different.
This is an understatement, because Kahoko stands composed and calm, and Len, instead, is unnerved. This situation may have been the opposite two or three years ago – yet this is what they are. She is rarely out of a ball gown these days; spring is always a mix of black tie events and dress fitting. It is conservative, and it is beautiful (but also flawed. What is new and jazzy and avant garde has little place here.
As the rule neither spoke much to each other. They brushing shoulders with a light nod. Len marvels at her nonchalance, the coolness of their interaction clear to any (and all) casual observers that they were but acquaintances.
This is where it is supposed to be, only he screwed it up a long time ago when he was younger and foolish and even more idealistic.
"How is she?" his mother had asked. The question was rhetorical, because he knew that Kahoko often conversed with his mother – she just liked to hear it from him. So he had said that Kahoko was fine. Two days ago they'd sent brief texts – convention on Sunday? Yes, driving in 7. same, see you there. K – they had never made very detailed plans. Spring wasn't a good time, too much business negotiations, and Kahoko was tying up the ends of her second year in Europe.
Although at the moment she's talking to Michel Gardner, and he is open and impressed and slightly challenging. He is a liberal conservative and tries to spruce up the classical music scene, but it is not something he is ready for, he thinks, so he watches. He stands next to Kahoko, angled away with wineglass in hand.
"And your thoughts, hmm?"
Morris is always gruff, even on the bassoon with its seductive darkness. It is a genuine existence. Kahoko is grey and angular. Lightly she speaks of letting her work speak for itself, her fingers mechanical like an undulating shoreline. He can't help but notice the tired rebuff and the tremble of her voice but there is Carson Lang, and his attention is redirected. So it is, and he is unassured and confused, and she is cold and collected, and nobody notices because these are youthful cloaks. This is the splendor and this is the demise, and it burns bright.
But she is fine? Mum, Kahoko's fine.