No sooner is the thought in my head than I make my first blunder. And from there, things go downhill so quickly that I stop a few seconds later.
I open my eyes and look helplessly at Tamika. The horrified look on her face hits me hard. The musicians of the orchestra whisper restlessly.
With pursed lips, I shake my head. And suddenly I feel it again. That feeling of wanting to run away. To flee somewhere where not even I measure myself against my success. To a place where I can just be and that alone is enough.
Instinctively, my legs push into the ground, I spring up and leave the stage without another word. Of course, Tamika runs after me, catching up with me before I can lock myself backstage in the dressing room.
"What the hell was that?" she wants to know, slamming the door behind her. Pointing her index finger at me, she approaches.
I sink into the shaky plastic chair, where I should have been made up for the stage tomorrow. "You know exactly what," I reply, tiredly propping my head in my hands and massaging my temples.
Despite the room barely having more space than a table, two chairs, and a mirror surrounded by lights,she paces in front of me. I see that the pointed heels of her high heels are leaving small holes in the adhesive parquet floor. "The medication is working, but not well enough. We'll double the dose."
"I've already done that," I say. I'm taking three times as much as prescribed. If I swallow more of that stuff, it will soon have eaten through my brain lining. Then the painkiller I'm also taking won't be able to do anything.
Suddenly, Tamika stops in her tracks. "Shit," she murmurs. "Shit, shit, shit." Her words are getting louder. "This is a damn nightmare."
Who is she telling? Surely not me? The only one here who can hardly sleep anymore. The one who eats his breakfast in reverse in the morning and would like to disappear into a big, dark hole right after.
I lift my gaze to look at her directly. "We have to cancel the concert." As hard as it is for me to say that, it's our only option.
Unimpressed, Tamika shakes her head. "And then? How are we going to proceed, hm? Do you think your problem will magically resolve itself by the concert in London?"
No. I feel everything falling off me. All the self-confidence I have maintained so far by sheer force of will. And the last tiny shred of courage and hope.
"I can't do this anymore." The only truth that still exists leaves my lips soundlessly. I swallow hard, over and over, but it doesn't help. "We should finally be honest with the press."
Is this the end?
The moment when I have to admit that I, Joshua Friedberg, am simply not good enough?
A shudder grips me. I look down and see Tamika'swell-groomed hands with the deep red-painted nails on my knees.
"We certainly won't do that," she says, shaking me as if that could achieve something. "Listen to me. You didn't fight your whole life for this dream to give up so close to the goal."
She's right about that. There is still that little boy inside me who wants nothing more than to lose himself in the music. That four-year-old dwarf in a child's tuxedo who knew one thing for sure. That playing the piano alone makes him the happiest person in the world. He's still there, unwilling to believe that his dream is bursting like a soap bubble in the wind.
"We're canceling tomorrow's concert. I'll tell the press that you have...," she ponders, placing her finger on her chin, "food poisoning."
Oh God. When my fans hear that, they'll imagine me hanging over the toilet all night, throwing up my guts. This is a nightmare.
"As soon as we get home, we'll talk to your doctor again," she says, her hands rubbing over my thighs as if trying to warm me. "It'll be fine." She probably wishes she sounded more convinced herself, but she doesn't succeed.
She no longer believes in me.
Only the little boy inside me doesn't want to stop believing. So I clench my teeth, straighten up, and square my shoulders. I owe that to myself.
***
The following morning I lack the strength to get out of bed. Lost in thought, I carry out the prescribedstretching exercises while lying down, massaging my neck as my therapist had shown me. I watch as sunbeams navigate their way through the gap between the heavy curtains, casting a thin, bright strip onto my bedcover.
Who was it that claimed it would always drizzle in Ireland? Since our arrival two days ago, it has only rained for a few hours. Today, I'd prefer if the Emerald Isle lived up to its reputation. Yet I am certain the sky is blue. Weary, I roll over to the other side and pull the blanket over my head. Surrounded by darkness, the world seems to match my mood more aptly.
Just as I close my eyes again, I hear the patter of bare feet on the parquet floor, growing closer until it halts beside the bed.
Someone is breathing heavily. "Daddy?"
The cautious whisper of my daughter makes my stomach clench. How I wish I could be there for her. Yet the truth is, I can't even be there for myself.
