Libelle Hall (an Unexpected Love Story in Three Movements)

Part Three

The second Gilbert picked the lock and stepped through the front doors of Libelle Hall, he heard the music. And the second he heard the music, he knew he was not alone. "Little Austrian," he muttered under his breath - pretending to be surprised, pretending to be annoyed, pretending he had not expected to find this all along. But Gilbert never was a very convincing liar, even to himself. So he simply shrugged resignedly, took a swig from the glass bottle he'd cracked open two streets over, and followed the music.

The old foyer was lit faintly by floodlights from the demolition equipment outside, filtered through high, dusty windows, illuminating faded gold walls and frayed red carpet. The hall was deserted now - no sign remained of the protestors who had cried so very loudly for its salvation. Nothing except that intricate music, deep, full, and echoing through the eerie emptiness, drawing Gilbert deeper into Libelle Hall and towards the only person who actually seemed to give a damn for it.

He walked through the dim foyer and up a red staircase; through a large, golden, doorway into a wide, open hall where the air lightened and the music swelled. Down past aisles on aisles of red, musty-smelling chairs and then a few wooden steps onto the stage itself. Gilbert had never been in here before - after all, what was the point? He was only going to knock it down. But now, he couldn't help feeling a little awed as he stared up at the high, domed glass ceiling, the embellished balconies, the massive silver pipes lining the walls. Even in its decline, this place was magnificent.

The music now blasted down from directly above, shaking the very air, and Gilbert followed it to a narrow staircase behind the stage. He climbed it steadily, the old wooden steps creaking beneath his feet. He was pulled towards this, unable to turn back, but why? Why had he even come to this place, with nothing but a six-pack of beer and a vague sense of confused inevitability?

Because, his traitorous brain answered, you knew he'd be here. "I don't know what you're talking about," Gilbert muttered. He finished his beer, tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder, and reaching the top of the stairs, he stepped onto a small, balustraded balcony.

His heart did a somersault in his chest.

On one side, the balcony looked down on the stage below, and rows and rows of empty seats stretching dimly into the dusty light. On the other...

Roderich sat with his back to the hall, fingers flying over four rows of keys, feet tapping across a line of pedals, his entire body practically dancing with the massive sound he drew like magic from the old pipe organ. Gilbert nearly reached for the wall to hold himself steady. He felt his breath catch as he watched the Austrian play, and for a moment he almost thought the soft, gold light that filled the room was glowing from Roderich's beautiful face rather than the tall lamp which sat atop the keyboards.

After what might have been a few minutes, or might have been an hour, the air-shaking music finally drew to a close. Roderich still had not noticed Gilbert standing mere feet away. Heavy silence engulfed the hall, and Roderich slowly stilled, head bowed and hands resting on the keys.

"Holy shit!" Gilbert slammed his mouth shut, too late to stop the words echoing accusingly off the cavernous walls. Roderich gasped loudly and spun around, hand flying to his chest, face white and utterly stunned. Gilbert's blood roared to his head and he stammered, "I mean, fuck - I mean, gah - I mean..." Be cool! "S'up."

Roderich's astonished expression turned nervous. He glanced briefly at the exit. "How did you get in here?"

Gilbert answered too quickly. "The front door was open."

"No it wasn't."

"It was unlocked."

"No, it wasn't."