by Blake Pierce
She listened through the remaining movements, and applauded with everyone else at the end. By the time it was over, it seemed impossible to think that Huber would be able to play his own arrangement. But after a short pause to bow and smile and wave for the crowd, he sat back down and began to play. This was it. The debut of his Jupiter Symphony, the piece of music that will light the classical music world on fire.
It’s history being made. Of course, this will make me cry. I’m sure of it.
And again, it was lovely. Very moving. He seemed to care greatly for the work, and the melody was haunting, combining with that of the oboe, to create a truly mournful sound that pulled at Diana’s heartstrings. She listened intently, not wanting to look away, not even wanting to breathe, for fear of missing something.
Still, no tears.
But he’s wonderful. Amazing. I’d love to have his autograph, because he’s probably the best in the world. And yet . . . why did I not cry?
As the last note lingered in the hall, Diana realized that it was over. Over, and her eyes had stayed completely dry. People jumped to their feet in a standing ovation. Diana followed them, applauding until her hands hurt. Huber stood up and swaggered to the edge of the stage, where he again smiled broadly and bowed for the audience. Waved some more, and even winked at a few people. Then he strutted off the stage as the applause continued.
Diana watched him go as the rest of the orchestra began to leave. When she looked up at the stage, she realized with a sinking feeling that that was it.
She lingered there, not wanting to let it go. Her last, best chance.
Here she was, in the greatest hall on Earth, with the greatest performer on Earth, and she’d missed her chance. She cursed herself for letting her phone go off. She cursed herself for being too nervous to fully get into the music and let it take her away. It wasn’t the venue, or the performers. They were clearly celebrated and deserved to be so. No, this was something else. Whatever happened, she felt like it was her fault.
Maybe it was because I was here all alone. I couldn’t let myself relax enough to just enjoy it.
She gathered her things as the theater patrons began to leave. As she was walking up the aisles toward the back of the hall, she noticed a couple of women, slipping behind some curtains that seemed to lead toward some back room. I wonder if I could go in there and actually meet him?
She glanced around. Most people seemed intent on the exit doors. No one appeared to be lingering. No one would notice her if she just slipped off, to the side, would they?
You only live once. And you’re only at Musikverein once in a blue moon, she said, side-stepping over to the curtains. Once she got close enough, she scurried to it, ripped the curtain back, and slipped inside, finding herself in a long hallway.
The second she got there, she had a strange sense of déjà vu. It was only a week ago that she’d gone to visit a handsome actor backstage in Verona, only to witness his poisoning. That had been the start of a crazy few days of trying to prove her innocence while finding out who the real killer was. But this time, she wasn’t interested in love. All she wanted was to meet the “Next Beethoven,” tell him how wonderful he was, and get his autograph on her program. Simple.
She followed the women down the narrow hallway, toward the back of the stage. When she turned a corner, the hallway opened up to a larger hallway, which was choked with people, mostly women. They were all murmuring and chanting, “Lukas!” Someone let out a squeal of, “I love you, Lukas!”
Apparently, Diana wasn’t the only one with the idea of meeting him after the show. It was just as Leonie Winkler had said—people were lined up to meet him, waving their hands frantically in effort to get his attention. They all seemed to be zeroed in on him, but Diana couldn’t see. Diana tried to stand on her tip-toes, but all of the women were also on their toes, trying to get a better look. Some of them had their arms raised, and were waving their programs. Others had rolled posters and . . . wait, was that woman holding her lace underwear?
One woman shouted, “Ich liebe dich, Lukas!” Another followed. Diana assumed that was some version of, I love you, Lukas!
An older woman next to Diana fanned her ruddy face. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I am so close to him. He’s so beautiful, like some kind of Greek god.”
Diana looked at her. “Does he get this kind of reaction all the time?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes. And it’s only growing! Oh, he’s so sexy.”
A younger woman jumped and whistled, then screamed, “I will have your children, Lukas Huber! Call me!” just as the ruddy-faced woman let out a gasp of air.
Diana turned to her in horror as she slowly slipped to her knees, then slumped face first on the ground, right at Diana’s feet.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Diana blinked. Seriously. People do have a way of falling at your feet, don’t they, Diana?
Meanwhile, nobody else seemed to notice this poor woman had sprawled onto the marble floor, out cold, her dress up around her thighs to reveal part of a lace slip. They were too busy jumping up and down, trying to meet their idol. Was this a classical music performance or a Beatles concert?
She knelt down to check on the woman, whose eyelids fluttered. She murmured, “Lukas, Lukas, Lukas . . . are you there, my love?” in her delirium.
Diana put a hand on her ruddy cheek and turned her face upward, trying to get her to focus. “Hello? Are you okay?”
The woman continued to murmur. The crowd, oblivious to them, swelled larger, until it started to swallow them up. She pulled the woman onto her lap as someone’s massive purse knocked against the back of Diana’s head. “Hello?” She patted her cheeks a little more forcefully.
The woman’s eyes fluttered open and she stared at Diana. “Who are you? Where am I? Where’s Lukas?”
“I—” Someone stepped on Diana’s heel and didn’t bother to say “Excuse me;” in fact, it seemed like the crowd was so obsessed with Lukas Huber that none would’ve noticed if a nuclear bomb went off in the building next to them.
We’re about to get trampled, Diana thought with worry as she held the woman’s unnaturally cold and clammy hand. I’ve got to get her out of here.
“Uh . . . ambulance?” she called, standing up, reaching for the phone in her purse. “Can I get an ambulance, here?”
Just then, two security guards in gray uniforms, one male, one female, arrived. The woman was clearly upset. “What . . . wasn’t anyone watching the doors? Where did all these people come from?”
“You know Huber. He insists on us letting them back here,” the male guard said, and spoke into a radio. “We need more help back here,” he said, and attempted to corral the growing crowd.
Diana waved to him. “Help, please help. This woman fainted.”
The female guard rolled her eyes. “Of course she did. Happens all the time. George! We’ve got another fainter!”
Together, the three of them were able to lift the woman up and get her to a bench at the side of the hallway. By then, she was awake and alert, yet no less starstruck. She clutched her program in a sweaty death-grip. “I have to get my program signed by Lukas. It is a dream for me! I came here all the way from Schruns!”
Diana had no idea where that was, but she felt sorry for the poor woman. More guards had arrived, and were beginning to get the crowd under control. Some people were leaving of their own free will, but a few were lingering, still trying to see the great pianist. As the commotion died down, Diana could hear the man speaking, loudly and confidently, though she couldn’t make out his words. The women in his circle, though, now a comfortable grouping of fifteen to twenty, were all listening, rapt. She moved closer.
“He’s so wunderbar,” a woman gushed dreamily.
Diana watched their faces. They couldn’t have been more captivated had Lukas Huber hypnotized them. In fact, he had hypnotized them. Diana watched for a few moments, and never saw one of them blink.
Suddenly, a couple of women
broke through the group, giggling. “I got his signature! Right here!” She pointed out the scrawl on the front of her program.
The other woman dipped her blouse to show a scrawl over her cleavage. “I got one, here.” She patted her heart, swooning. “Oh, my goodness. I am never going to wash again! He’s so sexy!”
The two women skipped off like schoolgirls after talking to their first crush. Now, it was much more orderly, with the guards guiding people toward the exit once they finished speaking with Huber. A few other people peeled away from the group, heading off with their own signatures. Diana watched them, summoning her courage. Well, why not?
She went back to the fainting woman and took her program. “Stay here. I’ll get our programs signed. Okay?”
“You will?” The woman’s eyes filled with excitement. “Oh, thank you.”
Diana moved into the crowd, behind a woman with her young son. She maneuvered so she could see the man of the hour better. Huber was even more good-looking in person; he was actually quite slim and small in stature, but with his long dark hair, a bit windswept like Beethoven’s, and dark stubble framing a sparkling white smile, he had a certain charm about him. As Diana swayed this way and that, trying to get a better look, he held a program and signed it, meanwhile, talking in a voice that leaked confidence, bordering on arrogance. Something about it triggered another bout of déjà vu. The way he spoke, he reminded her of someone . . .
It was only when she’d gotten close enough to get a perfect view of him that she actually listened to his words. He was speaking to a woman with a lot of dark hair and too much make-up. She was one of those types who would’ve been beautiful without make-up, tall and dark-skinned and high-cheekboned. Diana was sure she’d seen her, sitting a couple rows in front of her. The thick mane of ebony curls gave her away.
“Well, evidently, liebchen. But while I have taken a bit of inspiration from Beethoven, the truth is that he wasn’t the most gifted musician. He lacked style. I’ve taken something from the greats, here and there, but you can’t deny that I’ve improved upon it. As you could tell by my Jupiter Symphony. It was stunning, yes?”
Diana just stared at him. Had he just said what she thought he said? That he was a better musician than Beethoven? Right.
She nearly laughed at the absurdity. He must’ve just misspoken. He couldn’t have meant that. And The Jupiter Symphony had sounded nice, but . . .
“Why did you choose to call it that?”
He chuckled. “Because Jupiter is the best, of course.”
The beautiful woman at his elbow leaned into him and whispered something in his ear. He smiled with delight and murmured something back to her. There was some familiarity there. She had to wonder if they’d been acquainted before.
The young woman with the child was now next to Diana. She leaned in to Diana and whispered, “This is the greatest day of my son, Franz’s life. He is a big fan. We’ve come here from Innsbruck to meet him. I saved up all year so I could purchase these tickets for his birthday. He has wanted to meet him, his whole life!”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Diana said back to her, excited to see the boy’s dream come true.
Huber signed another program for someone and said, “Yes, well. I know, some journalist somewhere compared me to Liszt, and another called me the Next Beethoven, but they’re philistines, really. The two composers are clearly different as night and day, and have their own thumbprint, as I have mine. How can you put me in a place between the two? Let the reporters write their banal puff pieces for the masses, as long as it sells papers. I’d like to think of my work as in a class of its own.”
“Well, what piece of classical music is your favorite?” someone from the crowd asked.
“Honestly?” He grinned and shrugged humbly. “Mine! I’m partial to my Jupiter. It was wonderful, was it not?”
Everyone broke out in laughter, clearly agreeing with him.
“But truly, they’re like my children. I can’t possibly choose from among them. Really. The traditional composers clearly had a lot of talent. But their efforts are rudimentary. I added new layers, new depth that’s never been seen before. In fact, Riccardo Muti, the great conductor, just told me that of all the works he’s ever had the privilege of conducting, mine are the most challenging, just because of their intensity. And I have to agree. I challenge my orchestra. As it should be.”
The woman in front of Diana nudged her son forward and said, meekly, “Mr. Huber. My son, Franz, has been playing piano since he was three. You are one of his idols, and—”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered, winking at a blonde in the crowd. “Don’t just stand there skulking behind your mommy’s legs, boy. Give me your damn program and let me sign it.”
With shaking fingers, the child, who couldn’t have been more than ten, held the program out. Huber grabbed it, scribbled something, and tossed it back to the boy.
“Now go home. It’s after your bedtime. Time for the adults to play.” He gave the women in the audience a mischievous glance.
The poor kid, head down, retreated, without so much as another word. Diana looked after him, feeling sorry for him, as he let out a big sob, broke through the crowd, and rushed off.
His mother ran after him. He’d learned a big lesson. Never meet your heroes. They’re sure to disappoint you.
Meanwhile, the blowhard Huber continued, unaffected by the child’s clear disappointment. Had he even noticed, or had his big ego been blocking the way? “Schubert’s fine, and everything. But he really was just a mole, sitting in Beethoven’s shadow all his life. He really had to work hard to achieve anything with his stilted tunes . . . I still say that’s why his eighth symphony went unfinished . . .”
Now he was saying he was superior to Schubert? Was there anyone in this world he was inferior to? Diana couldn’t help it. Though she meant to cover her mouth, she wound up letting out a laugh.
Of course, at that moment, Huber decided to come up for air from his long-winded speech, so there was relative silence for her laugh. Everyone turned toward her. Huber snapped his eyes to her. “What? What do you know about great music, woman?”
“Well, yours was good, but—”
“Of course it was! Mine was incomparable,” he said smugly. “Wait . . . I know you. You’re the woman in the audience whose phone went off during the performance. The Entertainer, hmm?”
A general gasp rose up from the crowd. People looked at her with disgust.
“And you want to critique my musical genius? You have some nerve!” He said, looking around and smiling at his admirers.
Her cheeks burned with indignation. Fighting the urge to run off, she blurted, “It’s not a critique. More of an observation. You mentioned that your work challenges the orchestra. But is that really the aim of musical composition?”
He frowned. “What are you saying?”
Now, the crowd had gone silent. Everyone was looking at her. Her cheeks flamed more, the heat travelling down the back of her neck. “I’m just saying that good music doesn’t have to be complicated. It’s more than that. So much more. It should transport. Transform.” Move someone to tears.
He scoffed. “Mine does that.”
Suddenly, it occurred to her just why her sense of déjà vu seemed to be growing, the more she spoke with this man. She’d had an awful blowhard of a professor at college in New York, in one of her history classes. Professor Marsden. He was a total jerk, who loved the sound of his own voice. He’d get up to the podium and pontificate for the entire class, never bother to answer questions, and if anyone wanted to debate him on any point, he’d shut them down. When someone didn’t know an answer, he’d make fun of them. Unless, of course, it was a pretty girl. Professor Marsden always had an eye for the pretty girls, and would often ask them to stay after, using his influence and stature in the college to prey on them.
The thought made her stomach turn. She said, not really sure what she was getting at, “Maybe it does. But you can’t say that the oth
ers were inferior just because they were less complicated. A whole bunch of notes can be just that—a whole bunch of notes. And yet a single note, played in just the right way, can be all you need.” She thought about what her grandmother used to say, about some of her favorite pieces. “Sometimes, simplicity is better.”
He snorted, as if the notion was ridiculous.
It probably was. Why was she even talking to him about this? She knew nothing about music. She was a casual listener, which was far from a serious performer. But somehow, her wayward mouth betrayed her. “It’s true.”
He stared at her, his face twisting with rage. “What’s your name?”
Oh no. Now you’re in for it. This is where Professor Marsden would embarrass you out of the room. “Diana. Diana St. James.”
To her surprise, a smile appeared on his face. He motioned her forward. “Come. Come here. Let her through.”
The people on either side of her parted, allowing her an easy path to him. She squeezed through, trying to keep her breathing even.
“American?”
She nodded.
Then he pointed to the programs in her hand. “You want those signed?”
She nodded and handed them to him. But he just stared at them, then motioned her closer.
Diana moved closer. He motioned her even closer, so close that she was almost touching him, as if he wanted to tell her a secret.
He leaned in, his breath hot on her ear as he cupped a hand around his mouth and held it to her. “I’ll sign those programs for you if you agree to meet me in the alley out back for a little fun. Shall we say, ten o’clock?”
Her jaw dropped. She pulled away from him in revulsion.
He smiled and looked her up and down. “You’re older than I’m used to, but you’re still a looker. Plus, I like the old ones. They know what they want. What do you say, woman?”
She stared, speechless for a while, her face growing redder and redder. She turned, meaning to stomp away, but she knew she wouldn’t feel fulfilled if she left, now. She was just too angry. Besides, how many times had she’d wished she could be in Professor Marsden’s presence now, to give him a piece of her mind without having to worry about him giving her an F because of it?