Autumn Sonata

Chapter One - Moonlight Sonata

Spring 1984

Violet's fingers glided over the keys of her Steinway Grand as she closed her eyes, allowing herself to become lost in the music, which drowned out the cacophony of the city.

The lamp by the piano glowed a pale yellow, illuminating the space around her as she descended into the minor chords of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

Violet stared out the window that overlooked Central Park. Yellow taxis passed by. In the distance, Violet saw the towering skyscrapers lined up perfectly as if they were all part of a gigantic LEGO set.

But it was a view that she grew up with, and one that she found great comfort in. Violet longed to stay in the moment forever, but she knew it had to come to and end, and soon. This was not, nor would it ever be her home. 

The apartments overlooking Central Park were some of the oldest, most expensive in the city, and the owner of this piano was sitting down right behind her.

She played a wrong note at the realization that she allowed herself to become carried away yet again.

Violet banged on the keys and cried out as she allowed her fingers to play whatever they wanted, even though it sounded a complete jumbled mess.

"Do not allow yourself to get distracted like you always do!" her teacher hissed, clapping Violet back into attention. "If you are going to audition for Gracen Conservatory, you must give it your all."

"Yes, Dr. Foster," she said, shifting her gaze back to the piano and looking over the plethora of notes that she had scrawled down over the years, some of them Dr. Foster's own words.

"From the top!"

It took no time at all for Violet to find her voice in the music once again. With each crescendo, she bloomed like a daisy. With each soft descent, she retreated back into herself, like a flower sleeping in the pale haze of moonlight.

Violet no longer was a musician at that moment, but she was music itself. She was living, breathing it as the notes waltzed around the room. Then, the last chords. The hush of silence.

"Was it that bad?" Violet asked, biting her lip in anticipation.

He shook his head and seemed to stare off into the distance. "This was the best I have ever heard you play the first movement. You know you have always had the gift, yes?"

"Well, yes. I know, but I -"

"You know you have the gift, Violet. You had it the night I first heard you play Chopin's Winter Wind Etude to near perfection after only hearing it once."

"Yes, I know," she said in return.

"But you played it in the style of Antoni Kafka," he said, frowning. "You did not play it in the way Chopin intended. Kafka has been playing his way for many years. It took me ages to get Kafka's style out of your playing."

Why was she bringing up Antoni Kafka again? Of all people in the world, why him? It was a name that she had spent many years trying hard to forget.

"Are you wondering why I'm mentioning him right now?"

Violet nodded. "Yes."

"It came back to you again," he said as he narrowed his gaze toward the Steinway. "Kafka's style as you were playing. You went back to your old ways again."

"But the way I play is comfortable." 

"You paid little to no attention to Beethoven's markings. You know that Gracen Conservatory will be watching you like a hawk over every little thing you do. The music must be true to the composer. When you are a famous pianist like Horowitz, you can do whatever you wish, but not now."