Chapter 16
Josh
I clench my hands into fists and release them again. I then massage each finger, stretching it out and gently bending it in all directions. As I perform my warm-up exercises, I breathe in the moist air and let my gaze wander.
This is where I'm supposed to perform tomorrow. Right in front of Dublin Castle, a venerable stone building whose tower pierces the sky veiled in gray clouds. Despite the facade, with its columns and protruding walls impeccably maintained, the former fortress gives an impression as though at any moment a damsel could open one of the high Gothic windows.
A sorceress might be better, one who can banish the tormenting images in my mind. Even though the trembling has lessened, it's still there. As is the numbness. It could still force me to make mistakes at the wrong moment. Not for the first time do I see myself failing at the concert. I see the distressed faces of my fans, hear their boos, and watch as they leave the square in front of Dublin Castle. But that's not all. There are also the headlines, which dance before my inner eye like glaring neon signs.
"Joshua Friedberg - Shock Over Sudden End of Career."
Such headlines and others like it rush unrelentinglythrough my thoughts. Whenever I would be in public, microphones would be shoved in my face. The press would profit from my downfall. They constantly need fodder, and my failing hand would be exactly what they're after.
My father would remind me with a satisfied grin that he had been right all along.
"We can start." Tamika has quietly come up beside me.
I don't look at her. I'm just staring at the seemingly endless stage in front of me. The area is cordoned off, only the sound and light technicians are here. As are the members of the string orchestra that will accompany some of my pieces.
If I make a mistake during the final rehearsal, about fifty people will hear it. Then they will know. They will know that Joshua Friedberg is a failure.
Inevitably, I have to think of Maya. And what she accused me of yesterday. She believes that I'm focusing too much on my career.
Because she has no idea. She knows absolutely nothing about me. Yet she constantly presumes to tell me what I should or shouldn't do. And then she looks at me with her sunshine smile as if she's never seen shadows in her life.
If I were to tell her what's really going on with me, she would definitely understand. She might even comfort me. And perhaps then we could...
"Come on. Everyone's waiting for you." My manager prods me.
Her pressure is the last thing I need right now. "It smells like rain," I reply. I have no idea why I say that, but it's true. There's a damp heaviness in the air.
She shrugs. "So what? The stage is covered. Neither you nor the equipment will get wet." Now she hooks her arm into mine and pulls me along. "You better focus on the final rehearsal."
As if I were a toddler, she drags me to the piano. Once there, she demands me with an unyielding look to sit down. I do. "We'll start with ‘Freedom,’," she informs the entire crew and claps her hands to get attention.
My fingers lie idle on my thighs. I can feel their heat through the fabric of my jeans, noticing the moist humidity forming under my palms. I quickly wipe away the sweat and straighten my back. Even though my muscles feel heavy and stiff, I nod to the orchestra conductor. He lifts his baton, and a few seconds later, the warm sound of the cellos fills the air.
If I can't make it today, I might as well forget about tomorrow's concert. I must be strong, that's all that matters. With closed eyes, I wait for my cue. The spotlight creates a colorful flicker behind my lids.
Now. My hands remain where they are. The orchestra continues to play alone.
"Let's start again!" I hear Tamika shout. The music of the strings stops abruptly. Silence reigns for a moment before the cello motif resonates in my ears once again.
This time I will succeed.
I move my fingers one by one on my thighs. Each one of them works flawlessly. It takes every ounce of courage I have, but I manage to lift my hands and position them on the piano.
I need a little more time, but I don't get it. Inevitably, the orchestra is heading toward the spot where I have to start.
Three.
Two.
One.
Cautiously, I press the first keys. I try to relax, but I can't. Not only does my right hand feel stiff but the fingers of my left hand also tremble even though there's no reason for them to.
I can't play like this.
