Doesn't he realize that it only adds more pressure?Or is it even his intention to do so? Muttering to himself, he disappears into the darkness of the stage catacombs, while the camera pans to me.
I pretend he made a joke and force a feigned laugh, as I have little choice. Then I hastily close the door. Without even looking, I feel my hand vibrating. I don't even have to make a fist for that.
This can't be true. Since when can't I keep my fingers still when they're not even under any strain?
It's 4:13 p.m. In forty-seven minutes, I have to be on stage. In a state of sheer panic, I rush to the bottle. It's so pathetic that I could slap myself, but I don't know any other way to help myself, so I take another sip. Once again, I wait before checking my hand, only to realize that the alcohol level is still not high enough.
The cycle of drinking, waiting, and checking repeats itself another ten times. And even then, the desired effect doesn't kick in.
What the hell is happening all of a sudden?
I try to stay calm, but the panic relentlessly creeps up within me.
Only twelve minutes left.
Another sip. And another one right after.
Finally, the trembling in my fingers subsides. As long as I don't tense my muscles, they remain perfectly still. Only when I tightly clench my fist with all my strength does the trembling return.
Finally.
Relieved, I take one last drink and then make my way. The neon light in the corridor flickers, and the makeshift carpet waves.
I stumble, even though I saw it coming. My hand searches for support on the drywall and fortunatelyfinds it. An accident is the last thing I need right now. For a moment, I lean against the wall to calm myself down.
"Nothing can go wrong," I tell myself because that's the truth. Strangers are not allowed to attend the final rehearsal, including my parents. Even if something goes wrong, my father won't find out.
But I will know. And it will only add more pressure on my shoulders.
I shake my head forcefully and clench my fists. My hands remain steady. Very good.
"Pull yourself together, Joshua," I admonish myself because now it's about so much more than just proving something to my father. My entire happiness with Maya depends on my performance tomorrow.
When you play, I forget the world, Maya told me a few weeks ago when we sat together at the piano. Back then, the music could reach her inside and make her feel how I feel about her. If I play for her at the finals of the International Music Awards, it will send a message that Maya cannot ignore.
It has to work, for it is the only chance I have left.
With all the strength I have remaining, I straighten myself up and bravely step onto the stage. The colorful spotlight blinds me so much that I can hardly make out the grand piano. Everything here seems a bit blurry. The dark boards of the stage, the conductor in the orchestra pit, and the podium on which my instrument stands. Somewhat uncoordinated, I walk toward the piano, relieved to arrive there unharmed. I take a seat on the stool and direct my attention inward, as I usually do. But as soon as I close my eyelids, I feel as if I am not on the stage, but on a ship.
The sea is rough and wild.
Quickly, I open my eyes. A wave of nausea rushes through my body. And with it, the realization that this time, I've had too much vodka.
I am utterly drunk.
How on earth am I supposed to concentrate on playing the piano like this?
The conductor taps her baton on the music stand. "Ladies and gentlemen, let us begin."
The musicians pick up their instruments, and the conductor looks at me questioningly.
I nod to her. What else can I do?
A smile flickers across her face. Then she raises the baton, followed by a moment of silence.
The cello begins to play, followed by the violins.
I feel the music, becoming a part of the magic that already fills the stage.
