Death and Transfiguration

Chapter 2

I froze, dumbfounded by what I had just heard. It couldn't be, not while his music was still echoing through the auditorium, vibrant and full of life. Johann Bergmann was only thirty-nine. He was far too young to die.

The three policemen rushed out of the auditorium, the youngest looking rather queasy again, while word of Bergmann's death spread through the audience. As the riots started up again like they'd never stopped at all, I felt as if my dreams were passing me by once again. I'd hoped to meet Bergmann, to show him the pieces I'd written, to convince him to teach me the art of composition, to become a great composer, just like him. Now, all of those dreams had disappeared, as if they'd never existed in the first place. Perhaps they were nothing but silly, childish thoughts, but they were everything to me. I couldn't imagine returning home to London empty-handed, resigning myself to a dreary, meaningless life, teaching students who didn't care, never again touching the keys of a piano, but with Johann Bergmann gone, I didn't see any alternative. Without him, I had no purpose, no meaning, nothing left to live for.

As I realized the extent of what I'd lost, not just Johann Bergmann, not just his glorious compositions, but my childhood dreams too, I began to weep.

I couldn't bear to watch the rest of The Lost Shadow, so I ran out of the auditorium and into the Grand Foyer. Once I was there, I wiped my tears away with a handkerchief and then continued down the staircase. Upon reaching the bottom, I saw the policemen, now joined by a coroner, preparing to transport Bergmann's corpse to the morgue. I stepped closer, hoping to get a glimpse of what had happened.

"Stand back," one of the policemen told me. "This is no sight for a young lady like yourself."

I briefly glanced toward the scene of Bergmann's death; however, I couldn't see anything other than a pool of blood on the floor. I then backed away and headed for the door, but I wasn't sure where I was going. The stars twinkled above the city, and I knew there wouldn't be another train home until tomorrow morning. I needed somewhere to stay for the night.

I spent the next hour or so aimlessly wandering around Paris, contemplating Bergmann's death. I had never truly met him, but nevertheless, his passing felt like a great tragedy. Even if we had never spoken, I felt like we were kindred souls. Sometimes, when I listened to his music, it was as if he had taken my emotions, written them into notes, chords, and melodies, and played them back just for me, just so that I could know that I wasn't alone in the universe. He had guided me through the turbulent years of my youth, showing me the darkest and brightest parts of life, opening up whole new worlds for me to explore. How could I not mourn the loss of a man like that, even if he never knew who I was?

It still felt as if there was a massive hole in my heart, one that might never heal, but I thought that it might be best if I got some sleep. Maybe I would wake up tomorrow, and I would find that all of this was nothing but a nightmare. Even if this was real, even if I woke up tomorrow and Bergmann was still dead, I would at least be well-rested for the journey home.

Eventually, I stumbled upon a boarding house somewhere in the Quartier de la Porte Saint-Denis. It was certainly not a glamorous neighborhood, and the building looked old-fashioned and worn down, but it would have to do.

I knocked on the door, and a large, stern-looking woman answered. "What do you want?" she said.

"I would like to rent a room for tonight only," I said, struggling to remember the words in French. "Could I?"

The landlady sighed and said, "It will be two francs." After double-checking to make sure that I would have enough money for the trip home tomorrow, I counted out the coins and handed them to her. She left for a few moments, but she soon returned with a key. "Your room is on the third floor, at the end of the hall," she said. "Breakfast is at 7 o'clock sharp."