The Sound Between Us

Martin Weiss had the same face I remembered, now framed by gray hair at the temples. I watched him approach down the airplane aisle, checking his seat number—next to mine. My fingers, which hours earlier had danced across ivory keys for an audience of a thousand, now twitched nervously on the armrest.

I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. I wasn't prepared for this encounter. Not today, when each applause still sounded like an accusation in my ears.

The tour had been a success in everyone's eyes but mine. Six countries, eighteen concerts, enthusiastic reviews that used words like "brilliant" and "transcendent." And each night, the growing feeling that I was deceiving everyone.

"Excuse me."

I opened my eyes, feigning awakening. Martin smiled politely, storing his leather briefcase in the overhead compartment. I recognized that briefcase—it appeared in all the profile photos that illustrated his respected reviews.

"Sorry to wake you."

"No problem," I replied, my voice controlled as if I were in an interview. "I just closed my eyes."

He sat down, and the space between us seemed simultaneously vast and insufficient. Fifteen years ago, in a small auditorium in Vienna, this man had changed my life with words he probably forgot minutes later. Words I had kept like rare notes inside me.

The plane taxied down the runway. I picked up a book, hiding behind its pages as I used to hide behind the piano.

"Long journey ahead," he commented, adjusting his seatbelt. "Heading home?"

"Yes," I answered without elaborating. I didn't mention the applause in Berlin, Paris, Amsterdam. I didn't tell him about the sleepless nights questioning every note I played, every interpretation I offered.

"Business or pleasure?"

"Business." I hesitated, my fingers marking a page I wasn't reading. "And you?"

"Gave some lectures in Europe. I'm a music critic."

My fingers tightened on the edge of the book. "Interesting."

"Not as glamorous as it sounds," he laughed, with that same low laugh I had heard years ago in Vienna. "But it allows me to hear extraordinary music occasionally."

The plane took off, and with it, my determination to remain anonymous. There was something liberating about being just a stranger to him—not Dorothy Stein, the pianist he had praised in respected publications, but someone without the weight of that identity, without the responsibility of being the rare soul he had discovered.

"What kind of music do you critique?" I asked, closing the book.

"Mainly classical. Piano, in particular."

"It must be difficult to judge something so subjective."

He considered for a moment, his eyes reflecting the sky beyond the window. "Technique is objective. The soul behind it is where true art resides."

_The soul_. The word he had used that night in Vienna, when he first heard me. _"There's a rare soul in that young pianist. Something that cannot be taught."_ Words that sustained me when my own teachers suggested more technique, more precision, less feeling.

"Do you play?" he asked.

"A little," I lied, feeling the absurdity of the situation. My hands, which had played for thousands, now hidden under the book like evidence of a crime.

"Amateur or professional?"

"Amateur," I replied, and the word brought a strange relief. Amateur—from the Latin _amare_, to love. Someone who does it for love, not profession. "And you?"

"Terribly badly," he smiled. "That's why I became a critic. It's easier to judge than to do."

The conversation flowed with surprising ease. We talked about European cities, literature, the strange limbo of long air travel. Gradually, as if following an invisible score, the conversation returned to music.

"Is there any pianist today that you particularly admire?" I asked, my heart accelerating as it does moments before stepping on stage.

"Several," he replied. "But there's one I've followed since the beginning of her career. Dorothy Stein."

My name on his lips sounded like a dissonant note in a familiar melody. I kept my expression neutral, while internally something trembled like an overly tightened string.

"What makes her special?" The words escaped before I could contain them.

Martin looked out the window, contemplative. "I saw her first important performance in Vienna, many years ago. She was young, maybe twenty. There was something in her interpretation of Chopin—a controlled vulnerability, as if each note was simultaneously precise and on the verge of shattering."

I remembered that night: the borrowed black dress, too large in the shoulders; the panic before going on stage; the certainty that I had completely failed. The cold sweat on my palms that I discreetly wiped on the fabric before playing the first note.

"Since then," he continued, "I've watched her evolution. Many technically perfect pianists never find their true voice. She found hers."

"Maybe she doesn't feel that way," I murmured, looking at my own hands, traitors.

He looked at me curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe she doubts. Maybe she wonders if she deserves the praise."

Martin smiled. "Impostor syndrome. Common among genuine artists. True impostors rarely doubt themselves."

The plane passed through a zone of turbulence. I gripped the armrest, not from physical instability, but emotional.

"Last week," he said, "I heard her in Amsterdam, interpreting Rachmaninoff. There were people crying in the audience. Not because of her technical virtuosity, but because she managed to translate something profoundly human through those notes."

I remembered the tears in the audience, which I interpreted as pity for my perceived mistakes. Could it be possible they had seen something I couldn't see?

"How do you know," I asked, "when someone is authentic?"

"When the technique disappears," he answered without hesitation. "When we're no longer conscious of fingers on keys, but only of the emotion being transmitted. Dorothy Stein does that. That's why her music matters."

Something shifted inside me—a tension sustained for so long it had become part of my structure, like a pedal note that finally finds resolution.

The pilot announced our approach to our destination. Time was running out.

"Martin," I said, my voice almost a whisper. "I was at that concert in Vienna."

He frowned, confused. "You were in the audience?"

"On stage." I extended my hand. "I'm Dorothy Stein."

His eyes widened, recognition and surprise mixing. "My God. I didn't recognize you."

"Your words that night—you probably don't remember, but I overheard you talking after the concert. About a rare soul that cannot be taught."

"I remember that night," he said softly. "You played Nocturne in E-flat Major."

"Your words sustained me in moments of doubt. Including today."

The plane began its descent, that familiar sensation of being suspended between sky and earth. For the first time in months, I didn't fear the fall.

"Thank you," I said simply.

"For what?"

"For hearing me."

That night, in my apartment, I opened the piano that had remained closed for months. I played for no one but myself—not as Dorothy Stein, the acclaimed pianist, but as the girl who once loved music before fearing she wasn't worthy of it.