Page 38 of Serenade Me

Chapter Twelve

Marius

Present Day

Jez moves his bow over the strings so fast I can barely keep up as we build to the chorus. I can hear the audience sing along “When Doves Cry!” as the familiar melody fills the concert hall. Sebastian’s bow is, as usual, torn to shreds, the strands glistening under the lights as we make eye contact for a moment, the same crazed look in all of our eyes. Brad glances over to me and I give him a nod. Yes, I agree, I can take the lead tonight.

He steps back into the shadows, his violin falling an octave below, positioning to harmonize and the cellos fade away into a quiet but deep bass line as I make my way to the middle of the stage and take the solo.

I close my eyes and clear my mind, letting my body deliver the music. I am just the messenger. My fingers ache and burn as they dance over the fingerboard and my bow arm screams for rest. But I don’t care. The notes cascade from my viola and I can feel my blood boiling with excitement, with anticipation, even though sometimes I don’t know what notes are coming.

The melody moves from the Doves Cry chorus to the driving, thrilling, exhilarating climb of the climax of the Valkyries. Da da da daaaaaaaa da, da da da daaaaaaaaa da, it builds into one high, giant, epic note that I hold longer than my breath. And then it tumbles, a waterfall of notes and the other instruments join me, as if supporting me and my viola off a ledge.

I open my eyes and grin at Jez who throws his head back and just laughs like a madman, the sounds lost in the glorious cacophony as we play the final note, holding it for a second before we cut the sound and the lights switch off.

The roar from the crowd shakes the entire stadium and when the lights turn back on, we’re all in a line at the front of the stage, to take our first bow of the night.

“You guys are so fucking brilliant and I want to have sex with you allllllllllllll,” Jez yells into his microphone and holds his arms out and stands in front of the crowd, taking it all in. Humans of every variation and gender scream in response and he bows to them, channelling the spirit of every dead rock god that can hear him. He and Sebastian are the true extroverts of our group. Brad and I stand back, punching each other on the arms, enjoying it all.

“Shall we play you another song? Another new one perhaps?” Jez rasps into the microphone, still trying to catch his breath.

The answer is a deafening cheer.

A crew member pushes Anca’s harp onto the stage and sets the stool down next to it. We all move back, so that the instrument is center stage.

“You’ve heard about her, you’ve been asking about her, so tonight, here she is, in the flesh and blood herself, my baby sister, Anca Petrescu!” Jez announces and a small spotlight appears at the side of the stage.

There’s a pause, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for my, and their, first glimpse of her. She finally steps out from behind the curtain. A vision in a pure white silk jumpsuit, elongating her legs, and hugging every curve of her body. Damn. I tuck my viola under my arm and join in the applause.

“Yeah, Anca!! You go girl!” I yell out, and she glances at me for a second, her face stretched tight as she passes me on her way to the harp stool, hands wringing.

My heart jumps at the sight of her. And I tell myself it’s just that I’m feeling nervous for her. She looks so little, so lost. I wish I’d had a chance to talk to her before the concert now, to reassure her, tell her that we’re all just here for a good time. That she can do it.

Jez puts down the microphone and returns to his chair and cello.

Sebastian looks over at Anca, and she lifts her hands, positioned over the harp strings. He looks over to Jez who nods and begins the song with a single repetitive note. Sebastian joins in, a soft, soaring, lyrical phrase laying over the top, as Brad fades in, weaving his notes between the two.

I count four beats, the cue for Anca to start.

One, two, three, four. I hold my breath, ready for the harp. But there’s nothing.

The guys continue, looping, missing a cue is nothing new, we do it several times every performance. Sometimes we’ve forgotten the cues, or we’re not ready, or we simply just aren’t feeling it yet. That’s the essence of live performance. It’s alive, no performance is the same.

Jez’s cello thumps the beat in the background. One, two, three, four. I count again. Again, nothing. I look over, expecting to see her fiddling with her harp or equipment, something to explain her silence. But she’s just sitting there, hands still poised over the harp, eyes open, like she’s waiting.

Jez throws a look at me, as he takes over her part, jumping in on her cue as I walk over to her, leaning over and whisper, “Are you okay?”

She says nothing. Does nothing.

“Anca, is everything ok?”

This time there’s a shake of her head, almost imperceptible, but it’s there.

“What’s wrong?”

“I… I… I don’t think I can do this,” I barely hear her faint voice over the music.

“What? Yes, yes you can.” I tell her.