Sonata (North Security 3)

A less sympathetic observer might call it garish.

As a child it had been overwhelming.

Now that I stand before the grand staircase that splits to either side of the theater, I can’t help but feel awe. How could I not? It’s a monument to art. Recognition of music’s place in society’s consciousness. The elaborate showmanship of the shows in the US aren’t necessary here. The setting provides the grandeur.

We only need to add music.

Easier said than done. Liam appears behind the central stairs. He’s been liaising with the house security for days now. His footsteps echo off marble, bronze, and canvas paintings on the ceiling. His expression looks as severe as a statue. “Are you ready?”

“Are you afraid I’m going to stand up there and not play a note?”

He’s distracted by the logistics of safety. The entrances, the exits. The armed gua

rds. It’s reflected in the lightness of his green eyes. Slowly he focuses on me. He doesn’t look worried about what I said though. “Of course not.”

“There’s no of course not. I haven’t played in months.”

“Some things you don’t forget how to do, no matter how long it’s been.”

We’re clearly talking about the violin. Or maybe about physical agility, the way that Bethany described. We’re definitely not talking about sex, but my cheeks heat as if he’s said something dirty. It feels even more taboo that we’re talking about it here, at the premiere theater in the world, in a place meant to be packed with people.

My face feels warm. “It won’t be good to be rusty, either.”

He looks amused. He must know what I’m thinking about. “You won’t be rusty. But even if you were, you’d still play better than anyone else.”

“You sound like a proud—”

His gaze sharpens. “I sound like a proud father?”

It comes out as a whisper. “Yes.”

“I’ll never be able to separate that part of me. The man who made you breakfast before school and signed your permission slips. The man who knew you would conquer the world. I’ll never be able to stop wanting to protect you, Samantha.”

And I would never stop being the grateful orphan taken in by him.

Where does that leave us?

He takes my hand and leads me up the stairs to the Grand Foyer. Paintings cover the sixty-foot ceilings, each framed with elaborate gilt. It’s not hard to see the dismay through the eyes of the common citizen. What is the usefulness of luxury to a person who can’t buy bread? The French underwent a particularly bloody revolution in response to this sort of excess. Is it irresponsible? Or full of hope? What a strange dichotomy to walk.

We come to the theater. A gasp escapes me.

Elaborate carvings line the balcony. Red velvet covers the seats. The chandelier rises high and proud, uncaring about whether a poor man needs to eat. It’s beautiful and troubling, a mixture I find more common the older I get. Everything felt so black and white when I was young. Playing the violin well was a good thing. Having parents who were alive was a good thing. Now I have both, but the only thing I want stands beside me.

“The theater was the inspiration for Phantom of the Opera.”

“I visited the canals this morning.”

The canals, which are beneath us right now. We’re standing on top of the Phantom’s supposed lair. All I know is what I’ve seen in the movie version. “Does it look like an underground Venice?”

“It looks like a sewer.”

Disappointment sinks in my stomach. “That’s less romantic.”

“If it makes you feel better, the chandelier actually fell during a performance.”

Even in the daytime, with the lights off, a thousand crystals shimmer. “Because the Phantom was angry that Christine didn’t get the lead role?” I ask hopefully.

“More likely because seven tons of bronze weren’t properly counterbalanced.”