Chapter 12 - The Stage of Gilded Glass
On Friday evening, the Grand Metropolitan Symphony Hall was ablaze with light. A fleet of black limousines choked the boulevard outside, disgorging ambassadors, corporate magnates, and international critics wrapped in ermine and silk.
Backstage, the atmosphere was thick with perfume and nervous energy. Young Lawrence Dubois stood in the wings, adjusting his diamond-studded cufflinks while his father conferred with Dr. Marcus Vance-Pemberton.
"The police report said the Blackwood piano was completely compromised," Marcus was saying with a thin, smug smile. "Julian won't even show his face tonight. The boy will have the entire second half to himself."
At that moment, the backstage loading doors rolled open with a loud industrial clatter.
A blast of cold winter air swept through the corridor as four dockworkers in flannel shirts wheeled an ancient, dark-stained upright piano onto the backstage floor. Behind them walked Julian Blackwood, wearing a simple black suit with open collar, his hair slightly rumpled, accompanied by Eleanor Vance and Clara.
Marcus’s jaw dropped. "What is the meaning of this circus?" he hissed, marching toward them with his cane raised. "You cannot bring that piece of firewood onto this stage!"
Julian stepped forward, placing himself between Marcus and the movers. His eyes were cold, steady, and devoid of the deference he had shown for twenty years.
"Rule seven of the Guild Charter, Marcus," Julian said, his voice echoing clearly off the concrete walls. "‘The sponsoring patron reserves the right to provide an instrument of specific historical character appropriate to the soloist’s repertoire.’ This is an authentic 1890 upright. It is fully registered with the stage manager."
"This is an outrage!" Lawrence Dubois’s father barked. "My son is playing an eight-foot Hamburg concert instrument! You are turning the showcase into a mockery!"
"If your son’s talent can be eclipsed by an upright piano from a church basement, Dubois," Julian replied evenly, "then perhaps his talent isn't worth two million dollars."
The stage manager, an old theater veteran who had seen fifty years of artistic egos come and go, checked his clipboard. He looked at Clara, then at the scarred upright, and finally at Julian's bruised hands.
A slow smile crept across the stage manager’s weathered face. "Patron’s paperwork is in order. Piano goes on the center riser for performance number four."
May you like
Marcus turned crimson, his walking stick trembling against the floor. "You are finished in this city, Julian. After tonight, you will never sit on another cultural board."
"I certainly hope so," Julian said quietly.
