Death and Transfiguration

Epilogue

The following year, I found myself on the podium of the Concert National, a baton in my hand as the percussionist pounded on the timpani, the violins played a proud, triumphant melody, and the brass section took us all on a wild ride through the heavens. As I cued the clarinet soloist in, I smiled- when I first arrived in Paris, I never thought I'd find myself here, in front of one of the world's leading symphony orchestras, conducting Bergmann's final symphony.

Except it wasn't Bergmann's tenth symphony, not after I'd taken his ideas and changed them, twisted them, made them my own. When those dissonant chords echoed through the hall, they weren't truly Bergmann's. They were mine, and I wasn't about to let anyone in the audience forget it.

We were nearing the end of the piece - we'd already made it over halfway through the fourth movement, and all that was left was the coda, the grand finale of the whole symphony. However, I couldn't let the piece fall apart. I had one eye on the score and one eye on the orchestra as I gestured for them to play louder, fuller, to bring the whole auditorium down with them if they had to.

In the front row, Moreau smiled - he knew exactly what I meant. He had passed his audition to be in the Concert National the previous year, and he'd moved up through the ranks quickly, impressing the music director and his fellow musicians with his skill and determination. His hard work had finally paid off, and now, he was one of the top violinists in Paris' leading concert orchestra.

As Moreau led the violin section charging to the end of the last movement, I wished that the symphony would never end. I had written the sort of music I wanted to listen to, and hearing the Concert National bring it to life was an experience like no other. The chords crashed through the hall, reverberating as the waves of sound echoed through the auditorium, and I dreaded the moment when it would all be over, when I would have to turn back toward the audience and face whatever judgment they had for me.

I took a deep breath and kept on conducting, but more than anything, it was the orchestra that was shaping the sound, that was taking the notes on the page and turning them into something greater than I could ever imagine. I only wished that Lajoie was in the back with them, driving the bass line on his tuba. Surely, he would have loved this piece, all of its twists and turns, every odd harmony and offbeat rhythm, but not even the magic of the symphony could bring him back.

Finally, we arrived at the last chord, and when I cut off that final note, I turned back toward the audience and took a bow. However, most of them stayed silent, unsure of what to make of my music. I panicked for a moment - perhaps I had gone too far in my experimentation. What if I had tarnished Bergmann's legacy?

All of a sudden, Léa started to applaud vigorously. She had performed the vocal solo at the start of the last movement, her beautiful, expressive voice soaring through the concert hall, and now, she was back in the audience, cheering and asking for an encore. I smiled: after all, I was lucky to have Léa in my life, to have someone who supported me, who loved me unconditionally.

Soon, others started applauding: Gertie was there to cheer me on, as were Mum, Dad, and Winnie and her family. I swore I saw Sylvestre and Sophie near the front row - I had left my position with the Sylvestre family months ago, and I was too busy composing these days to spend much time with my former teacher, but I was glad to see both of them there, finding happiness in music, even now that Jean-Luc was gone.

Within a few minutes, the entire audience was applauding, and when Léa stood up to give the orchestra a standing ovation, the rest of the concertgoers followed her lead. As the applause continued, my thoughts drifted away from the concert hall and toward a distant land, somewhere out in the Indian Ocean, far away from the streets of Paris.

I imagined the once-famous child prodigy, Jean-Luc Sylvestre, stepping off of the boat for the first time. I imagined him looking out over the palm trees, the rock formations, the blue-green ocean, seeing his new home for the first time. He must have been terrified, but maybe, he saw a familiar face, a woman with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.

I imagined Jean-Luc running up to his mother, tears in his eyes, and I saw the two of them embracing for the first time in over a year. The next few years would be hard for both of them, but at least Jean-Luc and his mother were together again at last.

Maybe that never happened, but I like to think that it did.

My mind drifted back to reality, and to my astonishment, the audience was still cheered, still applauding, still on their feet, giving us all a standing ovation. I couldn't quite believe it, and some days, I still can't. Against all odds, my first symphony was a smashing success.

After the applause had died down, after the lights came up and the curtains went down, after Moreau had told me what a whirlwind of a piece I'd composed, after my family had done the same, I found Léa amongst the crowd, and we hardly had to say a word to each other. There was no need for pleasantries, no need to go on and on about how beautiful her performance or my writing was. Instead, she took my hand, and even though the world would keep on changing around us, even though there would always be people living and dying, even though there was so much happening that was bigger than us, I was unafraid.

Because no matter what happened, we would always have this moment, we would always have each other, and we would always have the music.