All I Ask

by KT Webb

  “What do you think?” Madame Rossi startled her back to the present.

  Aria laughed, “I’m such a weirdo. I was so taken with the story that I nearly forgot you were here. I’m so sorry.”

  The older woman shook her head, “I am simply pleased to hear you singing so confidently. I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised by your solo when I found you singing. You’ve clearly been practicing, but tell me, who were you speaking to on the stage?”

  The color drained from Aria’s face; she knew it was pointless to deny that anyone else had been present. Clearly, Madame Rossi had heard at least half of the conversation Aria had on the darkened stage. She had not spoken to anyone about D’Angelo for fear of them thinking she had lost her mind. Aria glanced at the picture of her father before returning her gaze to her former teacher.

  “My father often spoke of being visited by the spirits of music. He said they were like guardian angels for people who were gifted with the power of music. Before I started working with my tutor, I was convinced he was one of the spirits my father had spoken so fondly of; I let myself believe it wasn’t just one of those superstitions we’ve all been pulled into.”

  “And now?” Madame Rossi was feeling less impressed by the mysterious tutor with each word Aria uttered.

  “Now? Now I know who he is. I actually felt him near me today. Of course, I’ve always known he was just a man, but his methods are shrouded in mystery. Sometimes it messes with my head. In the months we’ve been training, I’ve often thought his voice was coming from somewhere beyond,” Aria made eye contact with her friend, waiting for her to interject her concerns for Aria’s sanity.

  “Aria, honey, you know those are just things people say, right? It’s like when we tell someone to ‘break a leg,’ it’s not literal. Things like what you’re describing are simply not real.”

  “No, I know! I don’t really think this is some kind of theater ghost. But the timing was perfect. I know he’s actually a man and I’ve accepted that fact, I’m just often left wondering if I should be intrigued or afraid.”

  “I don’t like the idea of this man breaking into this theater and preying on your grief. Why do you sing in the dark?” Madame Rossi asked.

  Aria shook her head, “He didn’t break in. Surprisingly, he lives here.”

  “Oh?” Madame Rossi didn’t want to expose D’Angelo if Aria herself didn’t know who her tutor was.

  Aria tried not to laugh; she knew Madame Rossi was merely concerned about her, but explaining it all showed her just how crazy it sounded.

  “If I tell you who he is, will you trust me and let it go?”

  “Aria, I’m not making any promises, but I do trust your judgment.”

  “He said he’s been living in the sub-basement of the theater for years. So, technically, my roommate is none other than D’Angelo himself.”

  Madame Rossi did her best to look surprised by the news, if Aria knew she had known about the other person living with her, she might get the wrong idea.

  “How long have you been working with him?”

  “Since the evening after the anniversary of the fire. There was a note in front of my apartment door. D’Angelo told me I’d inspired his music. I’d been second-guessing my decision to live here; D’Angelo told me he didn’t want me to leave.”

  “What does he look like?” Madame Rossi wondered if D’Angelo had been comfortable enough with the young woman to show himself.

  “This is going to sound crazy, but I have no idea. The only time I’ve seen him in the light, he wore a mask. He’s a very private person. D’Angelo asked me to promise that we would only work together in total darkness, and I agreed. He began speaking to me, and his voice was so comforting that I never felt it necessary to turn the lights on. I never felt afraid.”

  “And now?” The older woman posed the question again.

  Aria stared at the picture of her father, “Now I have mixed feelings. He’s done so much to help me, but I have no idea who this man really is. What if he hurts me?”

  Madame Rossi leaned closer to Aria on the couch and took her hands, “My dear, I think if this man meant to harm you, he would have done so already. Perhaps he truly is a friend of your father who just wants to help you.”

  Madame Rossi was one of the few people who had actually met D’Angelo in person. She knew he would pose no threat to her. Little was known about D’Angelo outside of his brilliant compositions. Due to the similarities in styles, the rumor began to fly years ago that somehow Durant himself had survived the deadly fire. Those who knew the late composer dismissed those rumors without hesitation; Alfonse would never have left his daughter alone if he was still alive.

  In a rare unaddressed letter, D’Angelo himself had written to the New York Times to demand they retract the comparison. He insisted that it was an insult to Durant to compare a humble beginner to the master of Broadway. The letter had been hand-delivered to the Editor in Chief of the Arts & Music section. No one saw D’Angelo deliver it; many said it appeared out of thin air. Fantastic theories about ghosts haunting Broadway immediately took shape. No matter how many people denied the possibility, there were always rumors and pitiful glances swirling around; could Alfonse Durant be composing from beyond the veil?

  Madame Rossi didn’t put much stock in such theories. The theater world was inundated with superstitions that could never be entirely disproven. D’Angelo had soaked up the style of Durant the way a sponge soaks up water. It came naturally to him, and given his friendship with the late composer, it made sense that he would embrace the same style.

  Hours later, Aria stood in her bedroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She was alone once again, thinking about what the future would hold. Without a doubt, she would audition for the leading role in D’Angelo’s newest production. Now, she had to find a way to tell the composer himself that if they were to continue their lessons, she would need to know more about him.

  D’Angelo’s latest masterpiece was a hot topic in the theater industry. It was being hailed the greatest accomplishment of his career thus far. Because of the attention it received, many big-name actors and actresses were rumored to be auditioning. A break like this didn’t come along often, and anyone who landed in the spotlight was sure to go on to great things.

  When Aria told D’Angelo about her intentions, he didn’t react the way she expected him to. He insisted she wasn’t ready. Aria pressed him for more information, but he wouldn’t give her any answers.

  “If I’m not ready, I’m not ready. But I want the chance to try, are you going to deny me that?”

  D’Angelo huffed in response, “If you’re going to insist on auditioning, we’re going to have to increase our practices.”

  Aria couldn’t help but smile. They increased her vocal exercises. D’Angelo was very strict about how she spent her time during those weeks of preparation. When he decided she’d perfected the song, he began running lines with her. Aria felt the passion he had for the play. It was a beautifully written script with songs that wrenched at the heart. It made Aria wonder if D’Angelo had lost someone he loved. The man was so tight-lipped about his own life that Aria couldn’t help but be fascinated by what his story could be.

  D’Angelo wasn’t pleased that Aria had taken such an interest in the play he’d secretly written for her. If she looked hard enough at the story, she might realize he intended to tell the story of a couple fated to be apart. He had feelings for her, he couldn’t deny it, but he couldn’t let her know. D’Angelo hoped that Aria would give up when he insisted on rigorous practices; her tenacity only made him more frustrated. If she was going to take part in the production, he would have to see to it that Aria never had a chance to recognize the message hidden within his words.

  About two weeks before auditions, Aria decided it was time to graduate from just running lines with D’Angelo. If she were going to accurately portray the emotion required for the scene she would be performing in her audition, she would need
to work the scene with another person. Part of acting is being able to act and react in relation to co-stars; they’d run lines but hadn’t actually practiced the scene as it was intended. Aria worked up the courage to ask D’Angelo if he would be willing to sing with her.

  “So, I was thinking. I’ve come as far as I can singing the song on my own. It’s time for me to sing it as it was intended; as a duet.”

  “No.”

  Aria couldn’t believe he was dismissing the idea without any conversation, “Why?”

  “This part isn’t for me. I cannot sing with you.”

  Aria rolled her eyes, thankful he couldn’t see her face in the dark theater, “I didn’t say you had to audition with me, I only want you to help me with the male part. If you don’t practice it with me, I’ll be forced to find someone else to practice with me.”

  D’Angelo scoffed, “Are you trying to threaten me?”

  “It wasn’t a threat; it was a statement. I’m not wrong, though, am I? I need to practice, and you’re forcing my hand.”

  He’d left her then. She ended up practicing with multiple actors who hoped to play opposite the leading lady. None of them seemed to portray the emotion necessary to effectively deliver the message D’Angelo intended to convey. He made it clear to her each time he worked with her following those practice sessions. Aria couldn’t help but feel like he was acting like a jerk, and she told him so.

  “You know, you’re a bit of an asshole when you don’t get your way,” Aria finally said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, were you expecting me to lie and tell you those guys were fabulous? You’re better than that, Aria. You know they’re so far beneath you, they may as well be six feet under,” he spat.

  “Are you kidding me right now? What the hell is your problem?”

  “I told you not to audition for this role, but you’re too stubborn to listen!”

  “Is that what this is about? You’re still butt-hurt that I didn’t follow your commands? Well, excuse me for loving the play you wrote,” Aria knew she was behaving like a petulant child.

  “Just because you love something doesn’t mean it’s right for you, you’ll do well to remember that,” he stormed off and hadn’t spoken to her since.

  Three days had passed since their argument. Aria had no idea what he was truly upset about. It seemed ridiculous for him to not want her to audition. He had no idea if she would get the role anyway. She stormed up the stairs and slammed the apartment door behind her.

  On the night before auditions, Aria found herself unable to sleep. She wanted nothing more than to deliver an audition that landed her the coveted role, but she could not shut her mind off long enough to fall asleep. Aria wandered down from her apartment, unsure of where she was headed. The empty seats and vacant stage had become more familiar to her than the home she was ripped from before her tenth birthday.

  She had finished her education at the Webber Academy at the end of spring. She could have been done when she turned eighteen, she had studied under the best teachers and already had several supporting roles under her name. When the day came to say goodbye to the Webber Academy, she realized she wasn’t quite ready. The past few years had been spent focusing her studies on the art of acting on the stage. In the last year of her education, she had been nothing short of terrified. Auditioning for the play was not only something she wanted to do, but it was also something she needed.

  When Alfonse Durant died, he left his daughter a significant sum of money. There was enough money that the Durant Foundation was able to continue to support the arts. Aria was proud of the legacy her father left her and couldn’t wait to take a more active role in the community he loved so much. At the beginning of summer, she signed the paperwork for the trust to begin renovations on the Durant Theater. It had fallen into disrepair without her father’s watchful eye keeping every detail in line and every inch of the building in working order. No one had performed there in six years. It was empty. Her deepest wish was that one day, D’Angelo himself would compose a production to be performed on that very stage. Of course, Aria had a more selfish reason for wanting the renovation project to push forward. Above the theater, her father had the apartment. It wasn’t lavish by any means, but it was the only other place she could possibly feel at home. During the running of each production, Alfonse and Aria lived in that apartment so he could remain close to the theater and tend to anything that may arise.

  The few things Aria possessed that had once belonged to her father had come from that apartment. Everything else was destroyed in the fire. Pictures, clothing, toys, books, and knick-knacks meant nothing compared to the one thing she wanted to survive; Alfonse. The day she returned to the apartment and made it her permanent home, Aria felt closer to her father than she had since losing him. Many people wondered how she could live in the oversized building with its hidden passages used by theater performers and stagehands to quickly move through the building. The fact of the matter was, Aria knew that building better than she knew anything.

  As she wandered through the theater, she found her mind drifting beyond its walls. She stood at the back of the sloped auditorium that led to the stage. The imprint of every production performed on that stage could be felt in the atmosphere. It was one of the many things Aria loved about the theater. The energy. She made her way backstage and flipped the switch to turn off the lights. D’Angelo wasn’t there, but she wanted him to be. Maybe something inside her thought that he would sense her concerns and come to visit her even at that late hour. It seemed impossible. It was impossible. Perhaps her brain had gone on autopilot and brought her to that spot because she felt compelled to practice one more time. It couldn’t hurt.

  She laughed to herself as she realized how conditioned she had allowed herself to become to the requirements of D’Angelo. It was he who insisted that darkness encouraged her to feel things deeper and stronger than she ever could in the light. He was right, in the dark, Aria felt as though she could be anyone or anything. She felt that anything was possible when she wasn’t limited by the things she could see. With eyes closed, Aria pictured Erik in her mind as he had been the night he died. The song came from her with ease, each note perfected, and each emotion raw and tangible. She had taken to singing both parts to keep herself on track, but this time she was stopped short when a clear voice joined hers.

  The voices mingled and harmonized perfectly. In her mind, Aria stood in the music room of her house, singing with Erik Overland. It was impossible, she knew it, but at that moment anything felt possible. As the song reached the crescendo, Aria imagined how it would feel to be wrapped in his arms. Their voices rose as she felt his arms snake around her waist. On impulse, she put her own hands on top of where his hands would be if they existed outside of her imagination.

  She froze. The hands were real and were ripped away as soon as she touched them. Aria took a few ragged breaths before beginning to turn. Of course, it was dark, and there was no hope of seeing anything or anyone. Had she imagined the whole thing? Was Aria’s mind playing tricks on her? Or had D’Angelo finally broken his resolve and come to sing with her?

  “If you’re there, I’m not sorry, and I’m not afraid of you,” Aria’s shaky voice gave away her true feelings.

  There was no response to her statement. Aria thought she could feel him there, just out of reach. She took a deep breath and another step forward, “I know you’re there. I don’t know what you’re so afraid of. I’m sorry we fought.”

  Again, no answer was given. Aria took a deep breath and began to leave the stage dejected, “I have to go to bed. The audition is tomorrow. I wish you could be there, but I wouldn’t know if you were anyway, would I?”

  “Aria. . .”

  She stopped dead in her tracks. It wasn’t the first time D’Angelo had said her name, but it was only the second time she sensed something other than frustration behind it. Usually, he only directly addressed her in exasperation. She didn’t move, “I’m listening.”

 
“You have to understand,” the whisper sounded apologetic.

  “No, I don’t. You can’t tell me to understand when I don’t even know who you are or why you’re here. I’ve never seen your face. All I really know is your name and your music. There’s more to you, and I want to know it all.”