Incomplete Symphony

The clock on the wall pointed to 56 minutes past 21 hours. The room was a large, spacious one. It was evident that its owner was a person of considerable wealth. The wall on one side had been replaced by glass, and one could see the entire city from here. The furniture in the room was scarce, but a large number of books adorned the bookshelves. In the middle of the room was a table, and on opposite sides of it, sat two men. “Mr Francis, I still think Ivan is too young to be involved in something like this.” Francis shifted his gaze from the city to the man in front of him. Wearing a simple black suit with a rather shabby looking tie, beads of perspiration had appeared on the forehead of this forty something man. “Rest assured Mark, I know he will be able to, with you being his teacher.” Francis loosened his tie a bit. He was wearing a deep brown suit with a grey tie. “It is true that the boy has been playing the cello for quite some time now, but to expect something so big...” Mark seemed to be talking to himself rather than Francis. “Don’t worry about that, we have taken all necessary precautions.” said Francis, and immediately regretted it. He wasn’t supposed to have used the plural “we”. Suddenly Mark looked up at him. “We? What do you mean by we? You surely don’t intend to ...” Mark got up. He was shaking with excitement. “You intend it to be his one and only performance, don’t you?” “I am telling you, there is no cause for concern, it seems you are determined to start an uproar”. The two men looked at each other, and their eyes met. Unbeknownst to him, Francis’ face turned into a smile. Mark couldn’t take it any longer. Grabbing his cloak, he stormed out of the room. The door stood hanging open after him.

                                                 Two hours earlier Ivan was making his way to the Opera House. It was the biggest opportunity of his life, and he wouldn’t miss it for the world. A man named Francis had arranged for him to give a performance. As he walked along the street, feeling light despite the heavy cello on his back, he was reminded of his former days. Even if he was a strapping boy of 17 now, Ivan knew he could have died years ago had a certain man not come to his rescue. Ivan had been ejected from his orphanage as a prank he and his “group” tried to pull off went too far. He had been wandering the streets for many days, barely living off scraps. That was when he met Mark. The man not only taught him to play the cello, which he considered to be his only love in life, but had always been a fatherly figure to him. Ivan jerked out of his reverie. It was necessary to focus on the task at hand, not to be lost in useless sentimentality. As he reached the Opera House, he saw that stage preparation had just been completed, and the hall was abuzz with the low talk of the audience. Ivan went backstage as he had been instructed. Suddenly the happy bubble inside him seemed to give way to nervousness. He felt a his legs shaking a bit when the anchor went onstage and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have with us today the youngest cellist in the history of this Opera House. Please welcome Ivan Truman.” The house rang with the applause of the crowd, when Ivan felt his excitement almost bursting inside him. Nevertheless, he composed himself, and went onstage. The orchestra had already assembled, and a seat had been left vacant for him in the middle of the stage. He took his seat, placed his cello properly in front and paused for a few moments with the caprice in his hand. Then he struck the first note of that evening. The tune seemed to be an urgent, but a rather melancholy one, maybe it reflected his own state of mind. The hypnotic character of the tune seemed to sweep the audience with it. It was “Winter” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. The whole of Earth seemed to be celebrating the tune.

                                              Francis was walking around his room, when his secretary Eva walked in. She was a beautiful tall woman, with bright red hair and an unusually fair complexion. “Sir, Martin has been received your message and will report back soon.” She said. Francis said nothing. He seemed to be deeply contemplating something. Eva, no stranger to the eccentricities of her boss, was walking out, when she said. “If I may ask sir, what tune are you playing?” referring to the music that seemed to fill the room. Francis looked up and with a vague expression on his face. He said, “It’s Autumn from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.”

                                           The bright yet melancholy tune of Summer filled the whole hall. The amazing rhythm and Ivan’s impeccable control was enough to put people in a trance. But the listeners now were visibly agitated. The security guards were speaking into their walkie-talkies, and many among the audience had left their seats. Ivan played on, oblivious to the world, until the last notes of Summer had exhausted. When he finished and looked up, the hall was almost empty. He was surprised, then saddened and then shocked to see a group of policemen with heavy suits and shields barge in through the main entrance. One of them came close to the stage and said, “Ivan Truman, we have information to believe that you are planning to bomb this Opera House. Put your hands where we can see them. Try any tricks and your head will be ripped off before you know it.” Ivan did as he was told. He couldn’t understand a thing, he had just come for his performance that day, the performance that he had dreamed of for so long. Suddenly he heard his name being shouted. Amongst the bodies of the policeman one man burst through and before anyone could react had reached onto the stage and grabbed Ivan in an embrace. “Ivan I cannot let you be taken. I don’t care what they say or what they think, but I cannot let the boy whom I loved as a son be taken from me. I will drag you back from Hell if I have to.” Ivan felt his shoulders getting wet. He understood that Mark was crying. Ivan had never thought it would have come to this. It was supposed to be a smooth performance. After many moments, he slowly said, “I won’t be separated from you, don’t worry father.” Mark stopped crying, and looked at Ivan. As their eyes met, Ivan knew what needed to be done. A bright light illuminated both their faces. The next moment, the scene blacked out.

                                            Francis was lying slouched on the sofa. “The leader of an organization is its supreme commander, but he is also its greatest slave. To protect his subordinates and for the future of the organization itself, the leader must be prepared to put himself through any manner of filth. Remember that Francis.” In the dimly lit room, as if from another world these words of Ivan came to him. Francis looked at the clock, 9 in the morning. He reached for the newspaper, whose headlines read, “Twin Bombings at Police Headquarters and Redwood Opera House. Government suspects Symphony involvement.” Symphony. The word seemed to be from another world. They had named their organization as The Symphony. The group was involved in a number of significant incidents since the last few months, but the military police had somehow sniffed out Ivan. And that led to yesterday’s events. Ivan had wanted his lifelong dream to be his death wish. Francis had vehemently tried to prevent things from happening this way. But in the end, it was an utter failure. “Sir, may I come in?”Francis saw Eva walk in. “Martin has taken care of the insurgencies sir. He said they are ready to accept you.” “Alright” said Francis. As she was walking out, Eva said, “Are you listening to the piano today sir? I think it was the cello last night.”Francis was looking out of the glass wall. He said slowly, “Yes, the cello it was.” Eva decided to make another bold move. “And what piece is it this time sir?” Francis turned towards her, “It’s the piece that speaks of a certain man’s greatest desire. The only thing he sought in life, which is also now forever out of his reach.” Eva’s face showed bewilderment, but before her boss could notice, she quickly left. Francis got up. That’s what he thought of him, a man, not a boy. He tidied himself up a bit and left, closing the door after him. The music player had stopped a while back. The screen still displayed the last song played: Spring from Antonio Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.