Chapter 2
Josh
Warm air builds up under my jacket, and the headlights blind me. I turn my head so that I can still see the host of the television show. Maybe it would have been better not to because looking at her is anything but calming.
Her forced smile and the hair tightly tied up in a bun make her appear like a wax figure. Only one thing seems alive, and that's her eyes. They are alert like those of a tiger, and my gut feeling tells me that this predator in the little black dress will soon bare her teeth.
"We are live in three, two, one..." a voice calls out from the darkness behind the four cameras, all focused on the two of us. The lively murmur of the audience in the hall fades away.
This is the moment to check my posture once again. I run my hands through my short-cropped hair and straighten my shirt collar while the host greets the viewers at home and in the studio with her melodic voice.
"Tonight, I have the pleasure of introducing a special guest to you." She pauses, presumably to build suspense. "As a composer and pianist, this thirty-year-old fills even the largest concert halls, and many female fans have already tried to win his heart."Another insincere smile, but this time, I see her teeth. "Good evening and welcome Joshua Friedberg."
The camera pans to me, and the audience applauds.
"Thank you for the invitation. I'm delighted to be here." I smile back. Not for her, but for the people who have come to see me.
She nods politely, then turns her attention to the cards in her hand. "Joshua, your rise in the past years could certainly be described as meteoric. What makes your success?"
Answering this question is routine, yet it always takes my breath away to utter these words. Because they are as important to me as nothing else in the world. "Playing the piano is my great passion. I owe being able to live it solely to my fans. Without the fantastic people who allow themselves to be touched by my music, I wouldn't be sitting here today."
The host's eyes suddenly glisten with tears. She quickly clears her throat. "Critics say your music cannot be categorized. It is neither classical nor modern. They call it nothing more than the naive background melody of an intermediate world that shouldn't exist. What do you say to these accusations?"
I hold her intense gaze. "My compositions are new and unlike anything that has come before. They don't require extravagant stage shows, nor do they belong in dusty opera houses. They belong solely to my listeners, whom I want to carry away from their everyday lives for a few minutes. If I can achieve that, I'm happy."
Unimpressed, she scrutinizes me. "As a child from an affluent background, it was easy for you to establish yourself with your new concept, wasn't it?"
Of course. Because talent and hard work can beeasily bought. Actually, my wealthy dad just invested a few million, and that's how I became a successful pianist. Even if my father had ever believed in me, his money alone wouldn't have been able to do anything.
I suppress the rising memories of the dark sides of my childhood and smile at the host as composedly as possible. "My parents have always supported me, and I'm very grateful to them for that."
Although I have delivered an answer, the camera remains focused on me. I feel the pressure to keep speaking, but I stand my ground. These seconds of silence are a popular way to get the interview guest to reveal more than they want to. The woman sitting across from me also searches for a vulnerable spot. She needs an opening through which she can intrude and delve deep into my soul, in pursuit of scandal or sensational news. Anything that boosts ratings is welcome.
I endure the silence because I am just as professional as she is.
Now she wrinkles her nose. It's clear to her that she won't get as close to me as she would like. Internally, I relax. Interviews are always challenging. Words get twisted too quickly, opinions are formed, and wrong conclusions are drawn.
Her mouth curves into a triumphant grin. "Rumor has it that your first piano teacher was certain that you lacked talent," she says, raising her eyebrows and fixing her gaze on me, causing a murmur to ripple through the audience.
Dammit, where did she get this information?
I didn't see this blow coming. I have to respond. And appropriately. "I had my first piano teacher whenI was four years old. You'll understand that I can't remember everything he said."
That was meager. We both know it. Now it's entirely up to her. Will she pounce on me once and for all? Or can she hold back? Beads of sweat form on my forehead. It's difficult for me to maintain a casual smile.
She straightens up in her cream-colored leather chair and leans slightly toward me. "Are you implying that false information has been fed to us?"
Actually, I mean to convey that there's nothing I desire more than to end this conversation immediately. She must not poke around in this wound, as it has yet to heal.
Feeling somewhat helpless, I raise my shoulders, my gaze flickering to the wristwatch. The interview will be over soon; I just have to preserve a bit more composure. "Do you have every detail of what you did or experienced as a child at the forefront of your mind?"
A crease forms between her eyebrows. "One never forgets impactful experiences," she says with a dangerous undertone.
I must refrain from nervously tapping my fingers on my thighs. In any case, I cannot show any reaction. I regulate my breathing, endure the silence once again, and focus.
Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three.
Disappointed, she leans back in her chair, and the audience begins to buzz with excitement.
