Beyond the Music

He wasn't my father, yet I respected him much more than my own. Partly because he and his wife Gianni took me in and raised me as their son. There was no way I could replace the twins they lost years before we met, just as they couldn't replace my mother. I didn't care about my father, who in my opinion was a coward. We each did the best we could to be a real family beyond our orchestra family. This took more effort some days than others, such as the day my life changed, again.

On the chilly evening of the Tribute to Mozart, Horace-I didn't call him Dad, wanted me to help unload the van we used to transport instruments. I didn't mind, but he was rude about it and unaware of the battle going on within me. That is why I frowned at him-Wrong choice. It would have been better to maintain a neutral expression. Then, he wouldn't have broken beneath the stress of pre-concert concerns allowing him to insult me with reminder of all that had been done for me. I would never forget, even though it pissed me off for him to speak so carelessly in the presence of other musicians. I wanted to shove the youngest bass player into the gathering of stands he was arranging when I heard him snicker, but doing it would have been childish of me. I refrained. 

Truth was truth no matter how it hurt. Horace had been effective in teaching me no matter what happens in a person's life, the show must go on. He lived this way, not allowing the hand he lost in war to slow him. I respected this most.

Violins, violas, cellos, and more were brought inside of the Ozark Arena and placed in the auditorium. I generated quite a sweat in process making me concerned about my smell. Gianni had planned ahead, knowing I had overactive musk glands, and packed a hygiene bag that was still in the van. I left the others to setup and returned to the cold. 

An unshaven man approached me on my way back inside.

"Excuse me, is this where Classic Sensations is playing tonight?"

He had to be blind, I thought, having passed the tour bus and van, both, proudly wearing our logo. Never mind that, I answered, "Yes." He thanked me. I half heard him, having returned to my original mission. I was going to the restroom to wash my armpits and apply more deodorant. The red carpeted hallway was crowded with people, some waiting for the concert while others browsed about observing contemporary art displayed on the walls. 

The bathroom creeped me out though I appreciated the unique presentation. The entire space-ceiling, floor, and walls were painted dark blues, purples, and blacks depicting countless stars among other cosmic life. The commodes were shaped like miniature white space ships that flushed automatically. The sinks, like small robots, dispensed water and soap. This was an intense optical illusion. Upon leaving the restroom, my body struggled to determine if it was in space or on solid ground. My eyes cringed at bright light and the plethora of people. I hurried back to the safety of the auditorium. 

The world was dark behind curtains waiting to part.

Horace introduced us. Then he proceeded to share what he believed were fun facts about Mozart.

"He wrote his first opera at the tender age of eleven. Idomeneo. Isn't that impressive?"

I was familiar with all he was going to share with the audience. Horace was obsessed with classical legends, especially Mozart. His typical conversation imparted information about the archived lives of dead musicians. One fact he shared caught my attention.

"Recently, I read in a biographical article written on the birthday boy that his father blamed him for his mother's death. The article stated she died from illness and her departure affected him to the point of altering his creative expression. Researchers are closely examining his Piano Sonata No. 8 in A minor. They believe it may contain emotional markers denoting a period of mourning."

This piece in Mozart's life Horace insisted on comparing to my life, even though I hadn't seen or heard from my father since I was seven years old. My body began to perspire. I could do nothing about it but try to feel for what cold air was available in the dark. 

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen for being here in celebration of the one and only Mozart. Now, we will deliver to you, Piano Concerto No.23 in A major, 1st movement." 

Curtains separated, revealing us. Crackling made from a multitude of hands slapping together in support of Classic Sensations preceded blinding light that erupted in each corner of the auditorium. I rubbed my eyes, adjusted my glasses, and positioned my hands above the fortepiano Hoarce had crafted by a Viennese piano maker. I felt privileged to be the first to play it in concert. 

The room quieted. Lights dimmed until only the stage was highlighted in a sea of awakened darkness. I swam within it searching for her knowing she wasn't there.

Soft whimsical sound began flowing through woodwinds that invited strings and horns to partake in fun movement. Running and teasing, they invited my eager fingers to dance a melody that, without warning, triggered nostalgic emotions. 

I played for her, even though she was absent. My heart reminisced as my fingers carried on.

I remembered. 

It was bitterly cold outside, and the old SUV was full of it because the heater had stopped working the day before our adventure. It seemed to have protested support of our attempt to seize opportunity no matter the cost. I wanted to attend the audition for pianist of Classic Sensations, but Mother wanted it more. She wanted to prove to the world, to her co-workers and church members I was a star, just as she bragged. She hoped one day my light would be bright enough to enlighten mankind, and for this reason she did all she could to oversee my success in becoming a member of a well known group of musicians known for their memorable world tours while sharing a fusion of creativity with musical history. Her expectation was great for someone who perceived himself as being scrawny and socially inept.

It was Mother who discovered the advertisement online and believed I was good enough despite me being eleven. 

I was told one week in advance of the audition, I needed to be able to play Piano Concerto No. 23 in A major along with a recording she had already, somehow, obtained. It would take at least six hours to drive to Houston, Texas where the audition was scheduled. I was, both equally, excited and doubtful. 

Up until this point in my life, I had lived with few dramatic changes, and this was amazing considering it took time for us to move forward after my father left my mother to raise me alone. I loved him before this selfish act.

He taught me how to play nursery rhymes on his keyboard. I had learned a new song and had waited to share it with him. Immediately, after returning home late one evening, he and Mother began to argue. Shortly afterwards, he packed a suitcase, and then disappeared. 

Mother adjusted to the change by taking on a second job. She decided it would be easiest to homeschool me, and watch me at her absence through one of the thouand cameras around the house using her cellphone. This setup worked, in spite of my loneliness. And even though Mother was always busy, she managed to find time to assist with my lessons until I no longer needed her help. 

Results from standardized tests considered me 'gifted and talented', having a score of 159. I was highly gifted, not exceptionally or profoundly, as was most common for students enrolled in the Homeschool Portal for Gifted and Talented students. Here we were prompted to interact, socially, while engaging in activities aimed to stimulate our imaginations. 

I, personally, was happily surprised to know there were children all around the world being homeschooled. We had each other to relate to, even though we couldn't visit in person. I gravitated to fine music lovers, like myself. Sometimes we video chatted and pretended we were famous musicians recording for our DVDs and mp4 uploads to accommodate all of our fans. 

There was this guy from China, who invited me to join an advanced level virtual band his father put together, called, Digital Keys. This membership challenged me to polish my passion for playing the keyboard my father left behind. Mother loved this. I loved Mother, so I worked hard. I desired to be a professional. 

Classic Sensations was introduced to me during research for an assignment I was given in my Music Lecture class pertaining to preservation of classical music. The original orchestration took place on January 27, 1956 in honor of the legendary child prodigy pianist and composer born on the exact day in 1756, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. 

Digging deeper into archives, I found a few videos of live performances that stole my heart. The orchestra sounded crisp, and they looked elegant as they played in harmonic splendor, each wearing black tuxedos with white shirts. They expressed an air of prestige I wanted to be a part of, even though the musicians in the old videos had long since passed away. My dream felt far fetched. I hardly ever left home, and besides, I thought I would need years of practice to qualify.

Feeling my legs shiver beneath thin pants, I wondered if we were reaching further than we were supposed to. Maybe we should have given up after the front passenger tire went flat, but Mother refused to turn back. All I needed was a chance to express myself beyond the home and the internet, she believed, for confidence to take root. Confident people ran this world. Fearful people worked for them. 

Maybe she was right. 

I pulled doubled blankets around me, tighter, appreciating the neighbor who had given them as a wish of luck. Relax, I tried to convince myself. Everything would be fine. I really wanted to believe that. 

Mother had insisted we go, even though she had to max out her fuel card. She cooked and packed chicken sandwiches, along with made two gallons of freshly squeezed lemonade to bring along. I promised, if I failed the audition, I would become a lemonade salesman-selling her special blend. She said nothing in response. 

It started raining when we were two hours away from Houston. Old wipers smeared water across the windshield. I wanted Mother to pull over, but she wouldn't. We had little time left. 

Anxiety tried to take a stance within me. I attempted meditation as learned through an online martial arts class, focusing attention upon my breath. In through my nose, fully, I pulled in air until my stomach expanded, and then through my mouth I pushed out air until my lungs emptied. I listened to the environment. 

The sounds of water, and moving tires amidst motors, and thunder turned into a song. Tires rolling-different sizes, different brands, different styles, yet all moving towards a destination. I thought about this as I listened to the natural song playing. Water was falling upon cars, including ours battling odds. It fell upon rooftops of buildings, and upon the ground. Steady watery staccato invited my imagination to provide a melody, light and playful, to dance within it. Sounds of trailing trailers and thunder rumbled, perfectly. For a moment, my eyes closed and I relaxed. 

I didn't know I was sleep when Mother awakened me. We were parked in front of a group of glass buildings of which one was labeled, Classic Connection Concert Hall. I remembered the name from the map we received in an email. 

My heart banged against my chest. I wanted to free it.

"Relax," I was reminded by Mother. "You were born for this."

I carried the taste of Mother's lemonade with me upon the highlighted stage in the center of a mostly empty room to audition as a child in desire of a position among distinguished adults. The sweetness on my taste buds grounded me to home, to the woman I loved more than life itself. I played an actual piano for the first time as though she was my only audience. (She was, except for two judges.) Her hearty applause was appreciated at the end of my performance, along with Horace and Gianni's.

"We did it, Mother," I exclaimed. 

"No, Son. You did it. I thank the stars I am able to be a witness."

An official acceptance ceremony was scheduled for the next day, so we were going to stay at the closest rest area. We were both in high spirit feeling relief from our mission being complete. 

"Let's celebrate with ice cream," I suggested. 

Mother agreed, not knowing en route we would be side-swiped by a careless driver, causing her to lose control of the vehicle. We hit a stop sign. The car started smoking. Mother was unconscious. Strangers stopped to help pull her out to the ground before blazing fire claimed it all.

I didn't want to, but I felt it to my core. Mother's death was all my fault. I was glad my father didn't care enough to point out the obvious. I wanted to reverse time and throw away his keyboard, but couldn't. One week later, I was hospitalized in Texas because my suicide attempt failed. Horace and Gianni adopted me upon release.

At the appropriate time, I played Piano Sonata No. 8. 

Mother was seated on the bench within me. We talked using our fingers; the piano gave us voice. I was moved to tears before the end of the piece. Together, we stood and bowed in appreciation of the audience clapping and whistling.

The spotlight faded away from me to capture Horace. 

"Thank you for the love you have shown to Classic Sensations, and to my son, Xavier, the pianist. He has been quite the addition."

He turned to face me, and the spotlight followed. I braced myself for what he was about to say.

"I appreciate you."

That's all he said with a nod. Before I could speak, the light shifted with his attention. 

"This has been wonderful. We invite you to join us in West Palm Beach, Florida for our spring concert. Details can be found at the website. The address is on the back of the program. Thank you all, again. Goodnight."

Horace returned to his rise with his wand raised. He nodded at me before striking it forward igniting brassy vibrant announcement. We closed with Magic Flute Overture, leaving the audience satisfied. 

I thanked the stars when the curtains finally closed. Everyone let go of stiff presentation and started shifting about. I needed to return to the restroom. 

"Great show, Xavie."

Othello was a percussionist. He and my adopted parents attended each other's dinner parties. Since the beginning, he encouraged me. 

"Thanks, O. We rocked it."

I exited through a door behind the stage that released me into the red carpeted hallway across from a paper machete dragon escaping through the wall.

"Excuse me, Xavier," I heard coming from someone behind me. I turned and there he was again, the unshaven man from earlier. This time he wore eyeglasses. I recognized him.

"Father."

"Yes, Son. I have much to say to you. Forgive me for springing up on you like this. Would you like to have dinner, tonight? I mean with me. It'll be my treat. I really want to talk to you."

I couldn't make my mouth act right when I tried to ask him who he thought he was, waltzing out of my life and then, randomly, back in. He had come to blame me. This was a nightmare. 

"I didn't kill her," I blurted out.

He chuckled at me like he had when I was a boy, as though I amused him. This angered me.

"Who didn't you kill, Son?"

I decided to play along with his game.

"Mother. I didn't kill her. I know you think I did."

He laughed harder. I wanted to strike him. He needed to feel pain the way I did, then maybe he wouldn't have laughed so freely. This was a bad thought. I didn't want to think it, but I did.

"Xavier," I heard Gianni say in approach. "Your father is looking for you. Is everything okay?"

She stood in a trine with us. First, she looked at the man she had never seen before, then at me.

He reached a hand towards her.

"Hello, Ma'am. I was talking with junior, here. I would like to take him to dinner, but he seems to believe I blame him for his mother's fate."

His eyes held mine.

"I don't."

Before I heard those two words coming from my biological father, I didn't realize how much I needed them or him.

Gianni pulled my face into her hands, blocking the strange person from me.

"I've told you countless times, Sweetheart, what happened to your mother was beyond your control."

She kissed my forehead. 

"I know, Gia. I guess I needed Father to say it, too."

Her eyes widened. 

"Honey are you sure?"

"Yes. I would like to have dinner with him, tonight, before we leave town."

"What will your father say about this?"

"I say it's a splendid idea."

For some reason this made me smile. Then, I laughed. Gianni was least thrilled. 

Horace and Father got along well. The four of us dined at Angelo's, seated at a table in the back, where we talked about past, present, and future.