Amy Cross - The Music Man

The explosion sends me crashing across the room, slamming into a window that’s already in the process of getting blown apart. I fall out of the room and come crashing down onto the grass, and I let out a gasp of pain as I feel hundreds and thousands of glass shards cutting my hands and face.

Behind me, there’s another loud boom. Not all of the devices went off at once, and I can hear a couple more being detonated now. I haul myself up and turn to look, but suddenly another huge blast sends me bumping across the lawn until I hit the slope at the edge, at which point I begin to roll down. I try to steady myself, but I’m already falling faster and a moment later the ground gives way beneath me.

I hit my head on a rock and – as I lose consciousness – the last thing I feel is the sensation of plummeting through the air.

Several years earlier…

Pulling the curtain aside, I peer out at the audience.

“Bums on seats, my friend,” Giancarlo says proudly, as he continues to examine the strings of his violin. “Bums on seats. I bet it’s been a while since you had such a large audience, eh?”

“At least my audiences came to hear me,” I mutter. “They came for the music. Yours seem more interested in dinner and gossip.”

“Is that jealousy I detect in your tones, Derek? I’d have thought that such base emotions were beneath you.”

“Then you don’t know me at all,” I reply, watching the crowd for a moment longer before letting the curtain fall slack as I turn and limp back over toward the table in the center of the room. Anyway, I had bigger crowds back in the day, when I was invited to perform on the telly all the time. Not that there were many bums on seats, though. Everyone was too busy dancing.”

“And there,” Giancarlo says archly, “in a nutshell, is the difference between you and I. You sold out and became a minor pop star, whereas I remained faithful to proper, high-minded music. Which seems to have worked out well, seeing as how I’m now headlining one of the most prestigious music events of the year. And you’re…”

He pauses for a moment, while conspicuously eyeing me up and down.

“What are you doing these days, Derek?” he continues. “Last time I saw you, about ten years ago, you were talking about trying to cobble together an album of guitar music. Something to do with popular American songs, I believe?”

“I’m still working on that,” I reply, while wishing desperately that I had some grander news to deliver. “A few old friends might make guest appearances. I’ve already contacted Mick and Ringo and Elton.”

“And have they replied?”

“They will,” I tell him. “They’re very busy.”

“You’re such a name-dropper,” he says with a smile. “You barely knew any of those people, even back in the day.”

“And how would you know who I knew?” I ask. “Actually, I’ve been playing live quite a lot lately. I’ve been picking up gigs.”

“Are you on tour?”

“I prefer not to travel too far from home,” I tell him.

“So, what, are you playing in pubs?” He chuckles, and then he starts to smile. “ Are you, Derek? That’s hilarious! Tell me, do they actually pay you, or do they just give you a bottle of wine and a free meal?”

“I get by,” I say darkly. “Besides, I never liked this kind of hoity-toity place.” Turning, I pull the curtain aside again. “Look out there. They’re here to chatter and eat. Your music, as great as it might be, is something for the background. They’ll barely be paying attention.” Now it’s my turn to smile. “I’m so glad that I was able to come and see you this evening, though. I’ve been thoroughly disabused of any notion that I might be jealous. At least people in pubs actually listen to what I’m playing.”

“Pure jealousy,” Giancarlo replies, as he carries his violin over to the door at the far end of the room. “You’ll be staying to hear me play, I hope?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I tell him. “And of course we must share a bottle of red when you’re done. Or two.”

He turns to leave, but then he hesitates.

“Why do you always wear those ridiculous sunglasses?” he asks. “Are you under the mistaken impression that they suit you?”

“Of course not,” I reply, even though I happen to know for a fact that the Ray Bans make me look cool. “I happen to like them, that’s all.”

“And do you still wear them everywhere you go? Even at night?”

“It’s a free world.”

“How do you not walk into things?”

“I do take them off sometimes ,” I tell him firmly.

He disappears into the next room, and I turn back to look out across the stage. A man is at the microphone now, attempting to introduce Giancarlo’s performance, but he’s struggling to make himself heard. Glancing toward the crowd, I see people merrily chatting away, and I’m starting to realize that I was absolutely right just now: these people are here for the social side of the evening, and because they want to curry favor with the great billionaire philanthropist Sir Joshua Glass. They don’t care about the music at all.

Finally, the man manages to introduce Giancarlo, who strides out onto the stage and waves at the crowd. His reward is a smattering of disinterested applause, and I know him well enough to be sure that he’s disappointed. Still, he shows no flicker of emotion as he takes a seat, and then he begins to get ready for his performance.

“Good luck, old chap,” I mutter. “Break a leg.”

As I say those words, I must admit to a flicker of jealousy. After all, I could most certainly have had a career like this. A better career, even. It’s just that I never warmed to the world of classical music, and I could never bring myself to start sucking up to the likes of Joshua Glass. Even now, as Giancarlo asks the audience to be quiet and then sets the bow against his violin, I find that I don’t envy him at all. I’d rather be playing in The Pig and Buckle or The Globe’s Head than here at some dusty old music hall.

Listen. People are still talking and eating as Giancarlo begins to play. One of the world’s greatest violinists is on the stage, and they’re paying – at best – partial attention.

Rolling my eyes, I turn to head over to the table, but at that moment the music suddenly fades away. I stop and turn, and as I pull the curtain aside I see that Giancarlo is adjusting his bow. I don’t know what happened just now, and it’s certainly very rare for Giancarlo to make a mistake. I watch as he starts to play again, yet as the bow moves I hear only the very faintest flicker of music.

Is he okay?

Tilting my head, I wait for Giancarlo to pull himself together. Most of the chattering in the room has ended, and people are watching the stage as Giancarlo attempts to recover.

He draws the bow across the strings again, yet still there is no music. And as he tries again and again, the only sound is the increasingly nervous chatter of the audience.

“What is this?” Giancarlo snaps as he tries again and again to play the violin in the rest room. “Why is it not working?”

“Let me try,” I reply, reaching out for the violin, but he ignores me and keeps trying.

“I don’t understand,” he continues. “I’m playing it like normal, but there’s no music coming!”

He tries several more times, and each time he seems more despondent as the bow scrapes helplessly against the strings.

“I have not suddenly forgotten how to play the violin!” he says firmly, clearly on the verge of tears. “I am sixty-seven years old and I have been playing since I was a child! I have not forgotten more than fifty years of work!”