Debut

Maybe it could. More likely it won’t.

Failure was regular for him. This time will be no different. Well, perhaps the only difference was the ocean of crowd gathering down in the main mezzanine and balcony to witness his demise.

He pulled a part the black curtains to see the pews fill, the men stalked in their fitted frock coats. The women bounced in their petticoats and custom-embroidered dresses. It was as if all of Austria had gathered for this one special occasion to watch him fail. Though the hall flooded with the buzz of excitement, joyous reunions and chatter, it did little to settle his nerves.

Oh the scham!

Maybe he should. Maybe he shouldn’t.

It was 1788, Mozart had just released his acclaimed Jupiter Symphony, he had performed here in Salzburg some years earlier. At five years old, the prodigy performed a stellar debut in the Aula Magna. The crowd adored Mozart even then.

When this young man was five - he was anything but adored. In fact, he was an orphan, hardly remembered his parents - a tale for another time perhaps.

He would roam the polished Salzburg streets day in and day out looking for food, for friends, for a home. He smiled at the reminder of the one auspicious morning he chanced upon the sound of an orchestra, he followed the trail to a gated keep.

For his size, it was no surprise, he was able to squish his way through the metal fencing, he placed his hands on the window, his small flushed face pressed against the glass, peering inside to see a mass gathering dressed just as they were now.

Glassy eyes, he watched the talent longingly on centre stage, he had seen Mozart in one occasion, and would come back to this keep to watch many others. He memorized every line of every scratch made on that window for months, it was his way of remembering his assigned seating from the outside. Whether it shined, whether it poured, he stood out there to watch.

On one precipitous night, he hardly remembered the performer as his thoughts centred around the first time he met His Lordship Zwerling, whenever he smiled, the long tailends of his moustache followed the arch of his grin.

Except, the first time they met, the lord was anything but his typical jolly self. In fact, he nearly ended the boy with a switch, only to be rescued just in time by his wife, the Lady Zwerling - who had a charm that would captivate any gathering,

Yet she also had a nurturing quality that would sustain the boy when he was eventually adopted by the Zwerlings.

Lord Zwerling had served as a general during the nearly never-ending campaigns of the Austrian Succession, after his service, he retired with the blessing of Her Holy Empress, and had committed to a love for the arts and determined that music would be a regular part of housekeeping. He was quite the proficient when it came to the pianoforte, while Lady Zwerling had two boys later, and would often be preoccupied with anything to do with the nursing quarters.

Not that this bothered him at all, during his adolescence, he became the lordship’s page turner, whenever he would play for the house after supper. Though the lordship was very much like a father to him, he refused to teach.

So, the boy learned purely from sight and sound, listening in on the hours of chatter about theory and composition from every midday kaffee. The lordship had made many friends during his service who shared his love for music. Even now, the boy couldn't believe the fortune he was blessed with under the Zwerlings.

“Get it right, waise,” Lord Zwerling croaked, his husky voice looped over again in the boy’s mind.

The familiarity gave some comfort, but it also did little to quell the inner panic. Around he paced back and forth behind the curtains while his mind entertained him, absorbing all the voices on the floor, presuming they were all jests and mockery of him. Surely, the moment he’d step through, he’d ready his arms to shield himself against the onslaught of garden tomatoes and the stage will be left with nothing but reddened slime.

He watched his feet as he paced, fidgeting, massaging his frozen fingers. Perhaps, it would help to close his eyes. He ran into a pole almost immediately, sending the curtain into a violent shake.

Perhaps not.

Perhaps a breath or two - heaving in air reminded him of the tightness in his chest, and the pulsing lump still trapped in his throat. The more he thought about breathing, the more he couldn’t.

Perhaps not.

Had Mozart felt this shattered before a performance? Surely not for a prodigy.

What a silly thought.

One more breath. Yes, he is human after all. Breathing is a part of life - success and failure. While he attempted another futile round of self-sooting, a clerk lady rushed in-

“Herr Arnfield, it is time.”

Arn could only afford a nod, the woman dressed softly in a black and white dress curtsied and sped off, her footsteps shook the wooden flooring.

He peeled away some of the curtain again. He could see his lord and ladyship had arrived. Lord Zwerling had on his field tunic, adorned with stripes, the Lady was wearing her special dress made by one of the Empress’ tailors. They were both seated in front chatting with strangers Arn would be shaking hands with later.

Oh the scham!

He stepped unto the stage with a crescendoing applause, his eyes fixed on his feet all the way to the grand pianoforte. He stopped midway and remembered to give a bow, still not making any eye contact. Then the applause ended.

The walk toward the piano dragged on for what felt like a Sunday pilgrimage. Arn pulled his seat in making a sharp creak with the floor. He could picture members of the audience wince and frown. Well, they might as well leave now.

The occasional cough escaped the silence.

For a moment he examined the grand piano, at the inner tapestry of bars, pins and rails organizing the strings, the iron structure of the frame, and then the keyboard that would seal his fate. He reached out slowly, surely they must see his trembling hands and would know he was a fraud. Have they left yet?

No don’t look. He shook his head violently. Surely everyone saw and questioned that. Another cough.

Oh to hell with it all, Arn sighed.

He closed his eyes, placed his fingers on the keys he knew from his youth, and began to play.