Virtuoso

• Michelle Pham, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2015

Crotchet. Quaver. Crotchet. Quaver.

They are both aspects of music that play a significant role in the accompaniment of an art of work. The black and white keys of a piano resembled a pedestrian crossing, a checkerboard, a die, and even an egg placed on a black table. Her life was encapsulated within those two colours.

Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Her favourite song and her life revolved around perfecting Beethoven’s collection of works and analysing the way he composed them.

* * * *

“Mia, hurry up! We’re going to be late!” hollered her mum.

Striding to her car, she felt her stomach twist and turn, feeling as though an acid and bitter taste was going to force its way through the passageway to the mouth.

On her iPod, the song was on repeat, in hopes that the melody would be imprinted in her brain and stained on her fingers. Her trance was suddenly disturbed by a loud silence, awakening her to what was called reality.

“How many times have I told you to keep your music down? You need to take care of your hearing sweetie, I can hear your music over the radio,” warned her mum, holding her earphones in her hands.

After many performances, she witnessed the fourth performer barf to the side of the piano and all she could feel was on edge about his next strokes. Her heart was beating prestissimo, as she watched him make an eventual fool out of himself and sheepishly walk off the never-ending stage.

Her turn came and she took small and moderate steps towards the cushioned black stool that sat in front of the multi-octave grand piano. All she was concerned about was keeping her knees from buckling under the weight of her trembling body. She gently placed her delicate fingers on the keys of the piano, feeling a sensation of warmth and familiarity.

The sound of vibrating octaves flooded the auditorium and the foreign tune captivated the audience. Her hands glided up and down the piano freely like a dove drifting through thin air. Accompanying the melody was her body swaying back and forth, emphasising the climax of the song.

* * * *

There is no longer a pedestrian crossing, a checkerboard, a die, and the egg has fallen off the black table.

She liked to think that she was somewhat like Beethoven, having the capability of producing her own unique music. But now, at this point in time, she became aware of the fact that they were both black and white.

Now she was in a deathless silence. There was no such thing as music anymore. Unlike Beethoven, she gave up, and it wasn’t like da capo al fine where she was expected to go back to a point in time and repeat the process right till the very end. The end was thrust upon her.

Just like a crotchet rest. Quaver rest. Crotchet rest. Quaver rest. Fine.