Your Mark on Me

Chapter 27: A trace of hope

After that afternoon, there was no more watching anime, no more catching up on the old comics. Casual hanging out was restricted to once or twice a week, or nothing, unless I'd reached my target and mastered the passages that I needed to, for the Van Cliburn Junior competition. I had to pull myself together and stop allowing myself to get distracted from my life goals by mundane things.

In June, me and Mom travelled to Forth Worth in Texas, where I won the second prize again, and $5000 cash in the Van Cliburn. I had practiced six to eight hours a day, like a machine, but two months hadn't been enough to master the repertoire and a whole concerto to that level of excellence. The second prize in such a prestigious competition was still incredible, however, I was disappointed in myself.

I felt bad for the time I'd wasted, those few weeks in which I'd allowed myself to be a teenager and have friends, and have a boy over.

In July we went on holiday to Toronto and the Niagara Falls. I was trying to convince Mom to go on a trip to Europe, perhaps have a look at some of the Conservatoires there. She was reluctant, and she was right to be; it was far, it was expensive, and, if I got in, the Juilliard was still the better school.

On the 28th of July, Mom, Mrs. Jackson, Roy, Zoe and Debbie, all came to see me in what was my biggest recital so far. It was part of a Youth Series Concerts — as a local talent, I'd been recommended by one of the judges in the Van Cliburn competition. It was taking place at the Kennedy Center, the same venue where I'd seen Martha Argerich, with Mark.

A year ago, I wouldn't have even dreamt of playing a place like this. I would have never imagined that, in only few months time, I'd be winning prizes in big competitions. A year ago, I had no big dreams, no real ambitions, no aspirations.

A year ago, I hadn't met Mark.

I was now able to play the whole Gaspard de la nuit (I'd already played Scarbo for Van Cliburn) and, while I liked all three movements, Ondine was still my favourite. I always imagined playing it for him, but, for some reason, that night, the feeling was more vivid than ever.

The concert went well; I was used to this by now.

As I bowed and smiled at the end, receiving the clapping, feeling it in all my pores, one of the attendants came and handed me a huge bouquet of white roses. I loved white roses. They weren't showy like their colorful counterparts, but their scent was stronger. I bent down to smell them, and that was when I noticed the tag.

Well done. I'm proud of you.

I would have recognised that handwriting out of a million. Suddenly, there was no air in my lungs.

With a quick bow, I left the stage abruptly in the middle of the clapping. I threw the flowers on a table backstage and ran like a derailed train towards the exit. To the parking lot.

I removed my high heels and ran barefoot through the car park, hearing the engine in the distance. I sped towards the black car, reversing out of the parking space, my pulse pounding in my ears, my breath short. I caught up with it right before it started towards the exit, and banged loudly in the window.

The car stopped, the window slid down. From inside, a wrinkled lady with red hair tied in elaborate chignon bun frowned at me.

The people at the concert were now coming out of the hall, flooding the car park, there were ignited engines everywhere, and everyone stared at me, my hair dishevelled, barefoot, looking around with a lost, blank stare.

"What are you doing out here?"

Roy took my hand and pulled me back inside, and I followed, sheepishly.

"I thought... I thought I saw someone."

A shadow passed over his face. He didn't ask whom I thought I'd seen.

***

It felt as if the very depths of my being had been ransacked. All the feelings that had just started to settle, were now boiling, stirred up, inflamed.

Back inside, I looked for the attendant who'd handed me the flowers and asked when, and who'd given them to her. Apparently, it had happened at the very beginning of the recital, with the instructions to hand them to me at the end. The man was British, had blue eyes and wore a blue shirt. That was accurate enough.

Mark was in DC. Right now. Or he'd been, only hours earlier.

I stared a the cardboard tag, and those few words, wondering what to make of it.

Back home, I waited restlessly for Mom to finally go to bed. Then, I ran to Mark's house, bursting with hope and anticipation.

There was no one there. The lights were off, the rooms empty, just like I'd left them. Nothing had moved. I took out my phone and tried his number again, only to hear the same old robot. This number can not be reached.

I walked back home dragging my feet and lied on my bed again, thinking. Mark was in DC. He'd come to my concert. It was almost midnight. Where would he go if he wasn't in his house?

A hotel, of course. It was worth trying. It wasn't like I had anything better to do.

I opened up my computer and looked up all the hotels in Washington DC. Three hundred sixty-one of them. I filtered them out, leaving in only the four and five stars, and that gave me forty eight results. A bit more manageable. It was a long shot, but it was worth trying.

"Hello?"

"Hello, The Jefferson, how can I help?"

"May a leave a message for Mr. Mark Crawford, please?"

A short pause and some clicking noises let me know that the receptionist was checking the register.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid there's nobody with that name staying with us."

I hung up.

I couldn't allow myself to be disappointed. Not yet, not before I exhausted all possibilities. So I did the same thing, forty seven more times, every time with the same result. And every time, when the pause was longer, or the clicking more intense, I hoped. But no. There was no Mr. Crawford staying with any of them.

That was it. Just wishful thinking. I had no clue of his whereabouts and he didn't want to be found.

And then, I had another idea. What if the flowers weren't a reach out sign, but a good bye? What if he wasn't coming back, but going? Of course, how had I not thought of it beforehand? He could drive and he would have preferred a direct flight to London, rather than flying from Ronald Reagan and having to change.

I widened my search area to include the Baltimore-Washington International Airport, again filtering by the number of stars. There was only one five star hotel close to it.

"Four Seasons Baltimore, good evening."

"Hello, may a leave a message for Mr. Mark Crawford?"

"One moment, please."

There was the usual clicking, then a long pause, and then the female voice spoke again.

"I'm sorry Madam, but Mr. Crawford left clear instructions not to be disturbed. Would you like to leave a message?"

I could barely hold in a scream of joy as I replied:

"No, thank you" and I hung up.