Behind the Music: Part Two

She was gone.

Miroslav jerked up in his chair, breathing heavily. Loud, upbeat music was blasting forth from a door to his left. Where was he? How long had he been here? He glanced down and noted his violin case sitting by his side. His violin . . . suddenly, he remembered everything. He was at the Rehabilitation Center, the Twisted Roses were out onstage right now, and he was next in line to perform. "Fell asleep . . ." Miroslav muttered to himself. He lifted is case and set it on his knees before realizing his hands were shaking from the nightmare. He clenched his fists, then released them, hoping to relieve the tension. "Just don't think about it," he told himself. "You'll be fine if you just don't let your emotions . . ." Nothing was working. His hands kept trembling as images from the dream kept flashing through his mind. 'Why couldn't I save her? I'm a Lenny! I can fly!'

'Your wing was hurt, remember? You couldn't have flown,' that same, small voice inside his head spoke up once again in a kind, soothing tone. Miroslav touched his face, pressing back the tears as his emotions overwhelmed him. He took a breath. He let it out. 'Just breathe. Try not to get emotional.'

A roar erupted from the crowd just outside the door, and the Twisted Roses band exited the stage, waving to their fans with big grins on their faces. Miroslav didn't know all that much about the Twisted Roses, only that they were a hard-rock group. As they passed by, complete in their black garb and dark make-up, Miroslav wondered whether there was much wisdom in allowing a classical violinist to play immediately following a hard-core rock group. A group of rough Neopians used to the blasting drums and screeching guitars of a skilled band would undoubtedly be loath to sit through the delicate, intricate music he planned to play on a single, non-amplified instrument.

As soon as the announcer stepped out on the stage, Miroslav felt his stomach begin to churn. Through the open stage door, he could see an aged, soot-colored Kacheek address the crowd. Her purple sweater and wide-rim glasses (which were held in place by a cord attached to both sides of the glasses) showed her age to be somewhere in the 'ancient' category. The crowd of youthful Neopians groaned at her appearance onstage, and she scolded them in a proper, grandmotherly tone, "Now, younglings, quiet down, quiet down. You should know better by now not to behave like that - yes, you should, Ronald Howard Jackson! And you, too, Snelly Lippins! All of you should show respect to me, but, of course, I know you won't. Now, you sit your little fannies down into your seats and hush, now! Be respectful of our next guest for this afternoon - even if you have to pretend you're civilized Neopians, at least give him the illusion you appreciate him spending his time here." The crowd began chattering and a crumpled piece of paper hit the Kacheek in the arm. The old Neopet sighed and said in an exasperated tone, "Here's Miroslav Wilson." The old Kacheek cast him a compassionate glance as she exited on the opposite side of the stage.

Miroslav felt like his feet were made of lead. How in Neopia was he supposed to go out there? His suppressed, wrapped up, and bandaged grief had been slashed open by the dream. He needed time to think, to reflect, to . . . to get back into his shell. Despite the protest of his heart, his legs stood and his hand grasped his violin case. Despite the screaming inside, he remained silent. As he quietly walked across the stage, the Neopet crowd murmured. The sober, green Lenny stood in stark contrast to the wild and crazy band that had gone before him. The Neopets sitting before him weren't exactly the type of people Miroslav thought would enjoy classical music, either. Most of them had dyed their fur various colors, painted themselves with the most unflattering make-up colors, and were wearing necklaces and bracelets decorated with spikes and chains. Miroslav swallowed as he looked out at them, momentarily forgetting his dream.

"Um . . ." Miroslav fumbled with his violin case. "Hi." He hoped the crowd didn't notice the trembling in his voice. Finally, he got the case open and lifted the instrument out.

'Why didn't you get the violin out before you came out here?' the voice inside questioned mercilessly.

Miroslav didn't have an answer. He had been so shaken by the dream . . . he looked out at the crowd again. They were beginning to chatter and fidget. What could he do to regain their attention? He tried to think of a fitting introduction to the piece he had selected to play, but nothing came to mind. "This is, of course, a violin . . ." Miroslav tried not to look at the crowd, but he knew they had to be scorning him. "Even though it only has four strings, a violin can produce some of the most beautiful sounds anyone has ever heard."

'This is ridiculous,' the voice said. 'Just start playing.'

Miroslav decided to ignore the voice, which had now taken on a harsh quality. A thought played on the edges of his mind . . . "People can feel both energized and grieved by the music that comes from a violin, yet regardless of how the music makes us feel, it is still beautiful, and it still affects us." Miroslav swallowed - hard. He knew where this speech would lead him, and he wasn't sure that he was willing to go there. If he became too emotional about all this . . . "I guess what I'm trying to say is . . ." He hesitated again, ". . . is something my mother once told me. She was a violinmaker, so she tended to speak in violin and music terms whenever she wanted to say something important. My mother would tell me that life is a lot like music. There are sad times and happy - good times and bad. We all go through seasons of contentment and ease in our lives, and then hard times come and we don't know how to handle it." Miroslav felt that old, familiar burning in his eyes. Please, not now! He blinked back the burning and continued slowly, "But all those times, both the good and the bad . . . The times when we're on top of the world and when we feel like we're at the lowest of the low, all those times are music in our lives. And, no matter how bad things get or what life throws at you, something beautiful will come out of it. Everything, eventually, will work for good, and you'll get through it." The burning was beginning to turn into tears now. Miroslav half spoke, half choked through the next few words, "So . . . I want to dedicate this song to the memory of my mother."

With that, Miroslav lifted the violin to his chin and the bow to the strings. Yet, just before he touched the bow to the strings, he hesitated. To the young audience, it merely appeared to be artistic spacing, hardly lasting a second, but a thousand thoughts were running though Miroslav's mind. After what he had just said, after dedicating what he was going to play to his mother, how could he play what he had planned to play? He had used the song to mask his grief; his heart wasn't in it. The song was hollow . . . it was without meaning. How could he play something meaningless to him after that speech? But . . . if he chose to play something he felt like playing . . . something sad and melancholy . . . what if he couldn't finish? What if he just cried his way off stage? Miroslav swallowed, considering the possibilities. But, no. He had made his decision. This was for Mother, and so it would be something Mother would be proud of. Miroslav would play from his heart.

In an instant Miroslav knew what to play. It was a musical composition he had written himself, just after the events on the bridge. It wasn't the best composition he had ever made, but it came from the depths of his soul. As the sad, mournful notes filled the air, Miroslav lost track of what the crowd was doing. He had no doubt they were fidgeting away in their seats, barely able to stand what he was playing. But right now, Miroslav didn't care. His heart was intertwined with the notes, and every movement of the bow upon the strings and his fingers upon the fingerboard was a movement of his heart. A few hot, burning tears spilled over Miroslav's eyelids and onto face as he played, and even more spilled over as he played the last measure of the song and opened his eyes. Suddenly, a thought struck him - he had played the last measure! Yes! He had! He finished! He had completed the piece despite the fact tears were rolling down his face, despite his pain, despite his grief. He had finished!

Miroslav's eyes slowly made their way toward the crowd, scared to meet their undoubtedly harsh and mocking gaze. But, to Miroslav's immense surprise, not one eye was unkind, and no mouth was twisted into a mocking smirk. Everyone was silent. Here and there, Miroslav could even see telltale glistening in their eyes and on their cheeks. This moment, seeming to last forever, actually lasted barely three seconds before the crowd began to applaud. It wasn't one of those applauds that burst forth from delight after an outstanding performance, though. It was a much softer kind of applaud, one borne out of deep thought and contemplation. What Miroslav had said and played had touched them, and they were still trying to take it in.

Exiting the stage door, Miroslav cast a glance over his shoulder at the old Kacheek who now reappeared on the stage. Rather than being met with a rumbling, unruly crowd, she was now met with a silent, sober audience. Her voice sounded a bit shrill, as if having a quiet reception was more of a shock to her than the noisy one she had earlier, "Um . . . our . . . our next guest . . ."

Miroslav didn't listen to the rest of the announcement. He set his case on a chair and delicately set his violin inside. He smiled. For the first time since that terrible day, he smiled. Genuinely. Everything had seemed so hopeless . . . were happier times really ahead? Could it be that he and POE would get through this tragedy? Could it be that brighter times were ahead? Miroslav's smile spread into a grin. Yes, he and POE would get through this, despite the pain and hurt. Light was at the end of the tunnel.

The End