Sonata (North Security 3)

“Because they’re not wearing armor?”

“That. And because of the places mud will end up.”

She laughs before sobering. “I’m going to play the song I wrote. I think that’s part of the problem. It was interrupted. It was unfinished. And I think… it doesn’t matter that my father gave me part of it. I mean, it does matter. It’s not only that melody. It’s not only the backdoor code. It’s the song I built on top of that.”

The song she built on top of what her father gave her. A metaphor for her strength. Her ability to build a palace from the rubble of her childhood. I haven’t played in months. As if that could stop her. Nothing can. Not even fear. I didn’t need to demand that she play. She would do it when she’s ready. Tonight. Now. Lights dim. The curtain rises.

She picks up the violin and bow.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Composer Claude Debussy wrote the now famous Clair de Lune early in his career. He didn’t want to publish it because it wasn’t in his mature style, but eventually, fifteen years later, he accepted an offer from a publisher.

Samantha

I’m wearing a black satin dress from an up-and-coming designer in Paris. Like most of the arts, music has a decided bias towards old, white men. So does fashion. That’s why I was grateful to find a woman about my age with only education—and an original perspective—to recommend her. Plus, she put pockets in my dress. Pockets in my couture dress!

That’s where I put the music sheet from Debussy.

In the bookstore it had seemed almost too holy to touch, this paper. There’s still a sense of unreality about it. The history alone—that someone wrote this a hundred years ago. The more I hold it, though, the more I feel the man behind the legacy. His uncertainty and his hope. His musical genius shaded into the notes.

Of course, he was one of those old, white men who saw opportunities that women of color never saw during his time. Women of color like me. A hundred years later, I’m standing on the stage where he performed. Did he have the same worry about what critics would say? Did he worry that he would stand in front of a crowd and forget how to play?

Did he feel the same unexpected serenity, as if every afternoon of practice, every night of dreaming, every second of yearning, led to th

is moment?

There is no dramatic entry from the back of the audience, no characters in costume, no tethers hanging from the ceiling. It’s a traditional format befitting a traditional venue. Bethany and Romeo complete an excerpt from La Bayadere to much applause.

When my turn arrives, there is not even an announcement. They will know who it is by the order in the program. Or by recognizing the hand that plays. That’s the way it’s done.

A hush covers the audience.

With my violin in one hand and bow in the other, I walk to the front of the stage. A thunderous applause shakes the timbers beneath my feet. Years ago I might have felt undeserving. Their clear anticipation might have even made me more nervous—after all, it will be that much worse if I disappoint them.

Now I close my eyes and let the energy wash over me.

There’s something very special about performing. It’s more than the accolades or even the chance to share my music. There’s a communion.

A community established in the space of twenty minutes.

The auditorium quiets.

I turn to see Liam waiting in the wings. He doesn’t watch me. Instead his eyes are on the seats in front of me. He’s ready to throw himself in front of me again. Ready to die so that I can play my music. If that doesn’t inspire me to greatness, I don’t know what would. Whatever similarities I may share with Claude Debussy, I don’t think he was worried about someone shooting him during a performance to cover up a political conspiracy.

A microphone stands in front of the stage in case I wish to speak. The program doesn’t say what I’m going to play, considering I didn’t know until last night. A courier hand-delivered the sheet music to the pianist this morning.

I lean close enough to feel the static on my lips. “Brooks Sonata Number One.”

The applause deafens me.

They know they’re hearing something for the first time.

I lift the violin. The bow tilts. And I play.

Liam

All my attention belongs on the audience.