Daniel gave up on his dream before he even graduated. Over two hundred manuscripts are stuffed in unorthodox places in his studio. Their edges stick out of drawers, bookcases, kitchen shelves, the closet, under the couch. As if he has a poorly-controlled paper crane infestation.
Most of them are a couple notes and a title etched in graphite. Some of them are requiems for his dead dog, his dead mom, and his dad who he wishes was dead. If he was asked to locate any singular piece, he would shrug. Composition books pile the floor in wobbling towers, and his bachelorette leans against the wall. Firebird Suite plays on vinyl, Marina's favorite.
Daniel rips the envelope in his hands to shreds. The first word says, 'congratulations'. His heart rate stutters, he leans forward on his tip-toes. Then it says, 'on fifth place'. He crumples the letter and throws it at the dirty dishes in his sink. There were seven contestants.
He pinches a metal band t-shirt off the floor and sniffs. It reeks of cannabis and the print is faded and scratching off, but he pulls it over his head. He shoves his legs into jeans, notices a semen stain on the front, and trades them for another pair.
Violin case in his bad hand, he commutes to symphony hall on autopilot. Writes chords on his napkin from the cafe, while avoiding people on the sidewalk moments before crashing into them. He smudges ledger lines on the dirty bus window as it rattles over potholes. Writing music is the magic of contorting emotion via soundwaves. Although, by far the most important aspect, is that girls find it romantic.
"I lost another competition."
Daniel slides nine pages onto Marina's stand. Edges ripped, scotch-taped, espresso stained, dirty in her manicured hands. Hypnotic irises jump from note to note. She stands on the podium, in all black like the grim reaper, assessing his sins on his deathbed, to determine his fate.
Hands behind his back, he squeezes his wrist bone, and picks his thumbnail over the raw flesh of his fingertips. Silver glints over a monolith of brass instruments and woodwinds. Strings arpeggiate, and others tune. Valves pop and glide from fresh oil. Over all the noise, he listens to her breathe, and waits for a sharp exhale from the nose, or a sigh.
Marina flips the second page, and smiles. Her hand trails his shoulder to elbow, sleeve to naked skin, and it is a volt of electricity. Copper glints in her eyes, and the countless rings sink inward.
"Those competition judges don't know good music," she says. The manuscript touches her torso, and crosses her necktie. "Let's talk about this after rehearsal."
Daniel curtly nods. He returns to his foldable metal chair, while his head hums with new chords. Second chair after the concertmaster, who glares at him— he's the one who is supposed to get special treatment from the conductor.
Marina raises her hand and the symphony hall is silent. Instruments on laps, wet reeds out of mouths. A remnant echo of warm-up rings on glass panels hung from the ceiling, and dim, into nothing. Her black tuxedo contrasts the spotlight.
She speaks softly. So soft, Daniel leans on the edge of his seat and watches her lips move to make sure he catches every word.
"Take out the Stravinski. We sight-read this on Monday, so please take into consideration my notes on articulation and dynamics. Concert is tomorrow evening."
Her baton taps the stand twice. Her conducting style is akin to a military band. She tilts her head back and forth, like a classic metronome, considering a tempo. The baton traces a square in front of her, and stabs.
Entrance: an accelerando, each note stings. Daniel glides memorized positions across the violin neck. It cuts and burns like tiny lashings of a whip. With the recommended five hours of daily practice, the wounds never have time to heal. Carpal tunnel numbs his wrist, knuckles, fingers. It won't be much longer until he is completely useless, the fate of many musicians.
