Page 3 of Semblance

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By the time Saturday rolled around, I was high off of adrenaline. I felt like a fired-up athlete about to play game seven of a championship series. I was ready to go out there beating my chest and putting on the performance of a lifetime.

I burst through the doors of the China White, ready to tear the house down with my dexterous fingers and dazzle the eardrums of all that entered into the restaurant that night.

All I needed was someone to show me to the piano.

After a brief introduction and some pleasant conversation, Abraham Constantine, the owner of the China White, showed me to the dressing room instead.

He offered me a shimmering white gown that was more suited for an actress on the red carpet than a broke-ass music student in a Chinese restaurant.

I was nervous as I tried it on. I couldn’t help but feel like a peasant deflowering an outfit fit for a princess.

Thankfully Abraham’s kindness eased my nerves, his words as warm and soothing as chamomile tea.

“Lovely,” he smiled. “You’re like a princess wearing a glass slipper, but in this case replace the slipper with an elegant Vera Wang exclusive.”

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to wear this?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” Abraham replied, rubbing his grey stubble chin. “This dress on another’s skin would be an absolute sin. If I were twenty years younger, I would have made you my queen in a heartbeat.”

“Your tongue is all sugar and spice,” I smiled. I always had a misconception of the wealthy, picturing them as eclipse-sized assholes that shat all over the simpler ways of life, while wiping their rears on the sleeves of the lower class.

Abraham certainly proved me wrong. He reminded me of my dearly loved and missed uncle, both in physical features and characteristics. He was in his late sixties, aged by his light grey hair and the crow’s feet around his eyes. However he walked and talked with vibrant energy that convinced me he was possessed by a twenty year old.

I also admired how he interacted with his employees, treating every one of them like his equal. I was surprised to see him consult with a baby-faced junior cook about the evening’s menu selection.

He treated me, a poor girl dressed in hand-me-downs, with respect at first sight, shaking my hand graciously and asking me what music I thought was best to set the mood for tonight’s dinner.

I had suggested some Chopin right off the bat, eager to show off my ability to perform his hauntingly beautiful and technically challenging pieces. I wanted the audience to witness my bravura on the ivory keys, hopefully garnering enough positive attention to get invited back for a second gig in the near future.

Abraham agreed to my choice, being a huge Chopin fan himself.

“The patrons should be arriving in about an hour or so,” Abraham said. “Do you need to warm up? Our grand piano is a modest Borgato, probably not one as spectacular as the Steinways you’re used to playing at the University.”

“Are you kidding me?” I was surprised. To call a Borgato modest was like saying a Mercedes was as nice as a bus pass. “The Borgato’s a stunning piano. You have excellent taste,” I said.

“As much as I’d like to take credit for making the selection, I can’t,” Abraham replied. “It was donated by a benefactor, the same person that requested for you to perform for us this evening.”

I was shocked and ecstatic to hear that someone with musical influence had heard of me, or even listened to me play, let alone recommend me for such an amazing gig.

“I don’t need a warm up,” I said. “I’m always ready to play.”

“How about we feed you then?” Abraham asked. “How does Peking roast duck sound?”

I had starved enough over the past few years to appreciate a free hot meal. “You sure know how to sweet talk a girl,” I replied.

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I had performed countless times before in front of other music students and classical music aficionados. The people here tonight were different. They weren’t classical music gurus or music critics. They were just a bunch of rich people here to taste the incredibly delicious duck while listening to a few songs.

Would they appreciate Chopin and the beautiful complexity of his music?

I felt the smooth ivory keys underneath my fingertips. There was only one way to find out.

I hit the first note, creating an instant bond between my mind and my art. I closed my eyes and allowed the spirit of the music to possess me, my hands no longer my own but an extension of the piano itself. I was its vessel—its mistress—and the intimacy we shared was one filled with beautiful and majestic music.

I began to play and was marveled by the brilliant acoustics of the room. The sounds of the piano filled every nook and cranny of the restaurant with its vibrant melody, and the building responded with a lively echo that flooded the space between the walls with the genius imagination of Chopin.

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