Light From Uncommon Stars(90)

“Well, for a while, I thought if I won enough trophies, enough certificates, people would listen again. But no, there were just bigger performances, bigger cities, and bigger spotlights. A conductor would give me his hotel key; a sponsor would brush her hand where she shouldn’t. I tried to play louder to make them listen. I tried to play harder so they would understand. I tried to play and play and play, because as long as I played, everything would be okay.

“But then my hand started to hurt. And then the pain got worse. Much worse—to the point where I would touch the violin and my entire arm felt like it was on fire.”

She held up her hand, the same one Katrina had thought perfect and beautiful.

“It was not the best of times. I went from expert to expert. Some doctors said nerve damage. Others said soft tissue, or bone. A few even insisted the pain was in my mind.

“By then, I could no longer play. I thought my parents would be heartbroken for me … but instead they were furious. Soon, they divorced. Two years later, my father disappeared. My mother blamed me until the day she died.

“My childhood friends had long since drifted away. And my colleagues? They avoided me, perhaps afraid that whatever had happened to me might be contagious.”

“And then I met Tremon Philippe. At the time, I didn’t know what he was. I only knew that he was a highly respected teacher. And that he said he could bring my music back.

“Tremon said that, with his help, I could once again perform. That I would once again hear applause—more than I had ever heard before.

“In return, all he required was my soul.

“I didn’t need applause … but to once again play music? And all it would cost was my soul? No one seemed interested in that part of me, anyway. So I agreed.

“And so Tremon handed me this bow. I touched it, and the pain in my hand was gone.”



* * *



To Leave Your Soul Onstage

West Berlin in February is woefully cold and gray.

But you don’t notice. Not only because you’ve been taken care of so well by your hosts, but because inside you are on fire.

For this moment is finally here.

After years of injury, years of pain, you, Shizuka Satomi, are about to return to the stage.

Tonight, you are rested. Ready. The Berliner Philharmonie, itself reborn after the firebombings of World War II, still feels eager and young. You smell fresh rosin, harmonizing with the gathering scents of cigarettes and perfumes. Outside, you hear the rustle and chatter of your audience—it is a packed house, waiting for you, just as Tremon Philippe had promised. Practices have gone well. Just as Tremon Philippe has promised, there has not been the slightest twinge in your hand.

Ironic isn’t it? That you could only save your music by giving up your soul?

No matter. You are here.

For your return, you will open with a piece that you’ve performed only twice before. It is a difficult, complicated piece written by a dying man.

But despite its history, to you it feels vital, hopeful, even proud, as it reaches outward, somewhere past this little existence.

Yes, one might be expecting Mozart or Brahms—but this piece says so much of what you have been feeling. It is special to you.

And you will make it special for those who listen, as well.

Still, your heartbeat seems to flutter, flail, as if grasping for something to fear, to doubt.

Maybe you haven’t practiced enough? Maybe you should have chosen to open with Mozart—everyone loves Mozart. Or since we’re in Germany, maybe Schumann? Mendelssohn?

No.

Tremon says don’t worry. Your days of being misunderstood are over. Your days of being talked over, ignored, blamed are over.

For once onstage, Tremon says, the bow shall do its work. No matter what, the bow will ensure that you will never be forgotten again.

Trust yourself. Trust your violin. Trust Tremon.

And, most of all, trust what you hold, a Hell-cursed bow that even now seems to hunger for your soul.

Nothing is like walking onstage.

There is no one to shield you, no one to protect you—yet everyone is focused completely upon you. Your eyes, your body, your breath …

How could you ever have forgotten this?

Not in these few short years. Not ever. Not when teachers and doctors doubted you. Not when your parents called you a failure.

Not even when your hand could no longer grasp a bow.

As the stage lights blaze, you have never forgotten.

Never!

And here, once again, you begin.

But then—

From your first note, you notice. The violin is not responding. The notes seem dead, distant. The colors are wrong … The texture is flat.

Frantically, you peer into the audience. Surely they must sense a breakdown, a problem. But no one is muttering, no sound of shifting in chairs—everyone seems perfectly satisfied.

And Tremon? Even in the dark, you can sense his smile—and as impossible as it seems, the demon’s joy is deep and genuine.

For this is not Hell’s deception. Not even Hell can save you.

For your music, the music you would die for—even give your soul for—is a music that not even Hell can hear.

Your music. Oh, how you’ve believed in this music!

But others will see only what they wish to see.

Even when you play faster, cleaner, or with greater expression— People will see a delicate China doll, exotic, enticing.