Your Mark on Me

The Competition (II)

The hall was half-empty, the first few rows completely unoccupied. Further at the back, I could see the judges, on the table in front of them bottles of water, glasses, pens and for each of them, a file with our names and repertoires.

The emptiness of the room was comforting and scary at the same time; it meant less pairs of eyes to glare at me, but no barrier between me and the unforgiving eyes of the judges. They were six: four ladies and two men. I already knew everything about them from all the research I'd done before the competition.

I barely managed a tight-throated "Hello", before walking to the piano. It took me a conscious effort to force my legs to carry me forward.

I sat down, then got up again to adjust the piano stool. It was better, but still didn't feel quite comfortable. I was embarrassed to adjust it again, so I just left it as it was.

My palms were already clammy. I felt as if the judges and the few people in the audience were waiting for me to start already.

I breathed in, then lifted my right arm and brought it down, ready to press the first note. I let it fall and touch the key, but didn't press it.

Fake start.

The judges were already taking notes.

I closed my eyes and breathed in again, trying hard to calm down, remembering Mark's words earlier on the phone. The hall was starting to vanish, and so were the judges and the people in the audience, and I was in Mark's living room, on one of our usual evenings, a steaming cup of tea waiting for me on the table, Mark writing away in his office, against the background of my music.

Feeling somewhat calmer, I lifted my arm again and started.

While it wasn't as impressive and showy as other pieces in my repertoire, the Bach - Prelude and Fugue in A minor was the one I was most scared of in this round. For some reason, I found it hard to memorise Bach. When I practiced at home, it often happened that if I made a mistake, or if anything went slightly different, like if I changed the fingering, I could not recover; I'd simply forget what came next.

I tried not to think of what could go wrong, but to concentrate on leading each of the voices. I managed to get through the Prelude without messing up and rushed into the fugue. Here, I had two deal with three, sometimes even four independent lines, reaching climaxes and cadences at different times, all requiring a great deal of concentration on my behalf. I didn't particularly like Bach, but I had to admit that his music was as complex and, sometimes, as hard to understand as some of the more impressive-sounding modern pieces.

Halfway through the fugue, I made the mistake of trying to remember what came in the score a few bars later. A sudden chill pierced my stomach. Had I not played that before? The pattern sounded exactly like the one that I'd played earlier, but did they not all sound the same anyway?

My hands suddenly felt floppy, my arms stiffened and I slowed down the rhythm unwillingly for a few bars, then immediately accelerated, to make up for it. It was now way faster than I'd practiced and, during a run, I accidentally touched a key I wasn't meant to. The harsh, dissonant sound resounded in my ears, for a moment covering everything else. Adrenaline rushed in and I accelerated even more, even though it was already too fast.

Had I not practiced so much, I would have surely tripped and stopped. But somehow, even though my brain was frozen and my heart was racing in panic, my fingers remembered the patterns from all those endless hours of study, and I managed to get over the passage I thought I couldn't remember. I reached the end without making other mistakes. I rushed the last cadenza, happy to have finished the piece.

I lifted my head and looked towards the judges; their faces were impassible. I didn't think I'd impressed them. In fact, I didn't need to look at them to know that I'd blown it. I'd just played Bach as if it was Chopin — rubato.

At least I'd managed to pull the courage to walk onto that stage and play in front of them. For me, that was already a victory. I didn't even care anymore about what came next.

I played through the Mozart sonata without a single mistake. All the notes were in place, all the indications followed, but it felt mechanical, like a string of notes put together. I was experiencing that floating feeling again, as if I wasn't inside my body, but watched and heard myself from the outside. My hands were playing without me thinking, without me even paying attention to them.

The sonata was quite lengthy. Half-way through, I found that I, myself, was bored of my own playing. When I finally finished, I got up, bowed without even looking towards the judges, and left the stage.

That had to be one of the worst performances I'd ever given, but somehow, I wasn't feeling bad.

I was just glad it was over.

***

"I didn't think it was that bad", Mom repeated in the car. "It was decent."

Great. A "decent" performance. I knew exactly what that meant.

I didn't want to think about it anymore.

I was, of course, not expecting to make it into the finale, but I still had to play in the second round. All contestants had to play through the required pieces, and only after that, five of the twenty would be chosen to fight to death in the grande finale, with the weapon of choice the first movement of a concerto off the recommended list, accompanied by the local Hilton Head orchestra.

Which meant I could only allow myself a little bit of relaxation before I'd start panicking about the second round. That was, if I decided to keep going. I wasn't sure I wanted to go through that emotional torture again. Not unless Mark really came to support me.

"Who were you talking to on the phone?"

I flinched, even though I was expecting the question, eventually. "Just a friend."

"Someone I know?"

"No, I don't think you know him." Immediately, I regretted my choice of a pronoun. I sighed in advance knowing what would come next, and there it was: Mom's cheeky smile — the "boys smile". I rolled my eyes and denied it, even though I could feel my cheeks blushing.

"Is he someone from school?"

I hesitated. I didn't normally lie to her (omission didn't count as lying), but simply had no idea how to explain it without making it sound strange. Or without mentioning the accident. Or George's party. Or the attempted rape. Or everything that came after.

I gave a faint nod. She seemed content; no more other questions followed.

Now, if Mark actually came, things would become more complicated. I checked the screen of my phone, to see that I already had a text from him.

"How was it?"

"Decent", I typed back.

"When's the next round?"

"I'm in on Thursday."

I waited for the reply, but nothing came for a while. Had he changed his mind? Maybe it was better if he didn't come, after all: I could not think how to explain him to Mom. At the moment, she was chatting to Jackie about the best way to grow a cactus indoors, and I was grateful that she was kept busy.

My phone buzzed again.

"I've booked a room at the Hilton. Will be there tomorrow. Hang in there, little one."

I couldn't help but smile - a big, broad, happy smile.

Perhaps I wasn't as insignificant to him as I thought.