Ringtone of my soul

(part 2)

“What are you doing, Florian?! You have been loitering around looking as lost as a headless chicken, don’t you wish to find out what is happening? Stand up, stand out…” This quiet voice is whispering again in my head, the words a subtle threat wrapped in a veil of unsettling calmness, a malevolent entity which demands to be listened to… I have never recognized as my own, albeit I find myself willing to obey it.

I decide to approach the piano, driven by a need to uncover the mystery who can put my whole reputation in jeopardy. I begin to dismantle its inner workings, meticulously examining each hammer, string and damper. The air in the room grows thick with the scent of metal, old wood and my own sweat, destroying my neatly crafted appearance, I could feel the dark strands of my hair slick with the evidence of my effort, the droplets travelling down my face, a sensation I abhor the most.

Had anyone seen me like this, they would have thought I am no more than a peasant, it’s truly laughable, isn’t it?

1810. The year this cursed piano came into existence. The number was almost wiped off completely, it comes as no surprise though, as 90 years have passed since it was assembled piece by piece. I looked at the pile that was not too long ago a piano and a cold shiver ran down my spine. Human… This whole landscape, if I dare use such a word to describe it, reminds me of a human. I have read about autopsies before in my pursuit to enhance my knowledge regarding our anatomy. I run a hand across my face in exasperation. Am I mad? How could that cross my mind in the first place?

I tried to shake off the dark product of my imagination, as I examine the guts of the instrument one more time. No loose screws, no warped wood, no logical explanation for the shifting notes. The piano was, by all accounts, perfectly sound. I am feeling defeated and increasingly unnerved. Suddenly, the chamber felt smaller, the high ceiling seeming to shrink, the chandeliers descending little by little. This must be fear. Is it possible? Can the root cause be a spirit or a ghost, someone who took over the piano?

My hands begin to tremble treacherously. I have to sit down. The four-poster bed felt foreign as I think of a solution. To the best of my knowledge, there is a man who might be the only one willing to help me… My only friend, Antoine, a fellow member of the literature club I attend, known for his sharp intellect and cynical wit, a genius that has worked his place up as a writer in “Le matin”, the most awaited newspaper in the elite society, a French delight for ravenous brains.

With this idea in mind, I stormed out of the chamber, a single-minded focus to find my most entrusted servants to carry out the task of assembling the piano and ask the postboy to deliver my letter to Antoine’s address, handing it to the butler of the mansion. I put pen to paper in a hurry, trying to explain in a few words the reason I have to disturb him at such an inappropriate hour, expressing my utmost appreciation should he agree to meet me right away in front of the well-known café on the Avenue de la Nouvelle Aube to discuss a matter that demands immediate attention.

Over absinthe at that dimly lit café, I recounted the strange occurrences with the piano, my voice embarrassingly hushed and hesitant, a shadow of my confident self. Antoine listened intently, his face a mixture of seriousness and mild disbelief. I could make out an undercoat of amusement and fascination, but I decided not to question my friend, I was acutely aware of how absurd my revelations sound to a man whose foundation is a logical and structured mind.

“If I caught on to your words correctly… the piano is changing keys? And there is also no pattern?” Antoine asked, swirling the green liquid in his glass.

“Like some sort of sentient instrument?”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, a feeling of irritation surging through my body. “I swear on everything I hold dear! I’m not imagining it, you must believe me!”

Antoine chuckled softly, a sound that was as beautiful as the golden tapestries depicted in portraits. “Of course not, Florian. You’re an artist, a sensitive soul. Perhaps you’re simply experiencing a heightened state of perception… I am not going to lie, I find that your story… needs a level of comprehension from my part that I do not have yet.” He said as he took a sip of his drink, savoring it.

I frowned. “It is not just a feeling. I have been playing that piano since I was 5, I know it like the back of my hand, we have a history of 20 years together.”

Antoine finally let go of his glass, the ominous light reflected in the glass now a part of his eyes, as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or perhaps, Monsieur Florian, your mind is changing the keys. You spend all the time holed up in the confines of your chamber when you are not studying, you haven’t even indulged in the pleasures of life yet…

In my opinion, you are… losing your grip on reality.”

I remained frozen in place. I couldn’t bear to hear any of this anymore. (part 3 soon)