среда, марта 12, 2014

The Maestro (Pt. 2)

But what had happened on that night?

He found it hard to tell for sure. It was a performance of Die Walküre at his home, the opera house where he had made his name, established himself, and over which he ruled with an iron fist. Outside, it was a cool summer night, the sky enveloped in a muffled, whitish light. Inside, the house was full, the orchestra ready for the prelude, for depicting Siegmund's mad escape through the forest as the thunder and lightning of Valhalla echoed over his head. The Maestro burst into the pit, the applause echoed through the hall and the spotlight shone on him. He climbed onto the podium, made a subtle curtsy, and turned around to his orchestra.

The applause came to an end and, for a split second, everything was silence: the heavenly silence he enjoyed ripping apart with the initial chord, whether played by the lower strings of the Walküre or the bassoon of Священная весна.

Yes, for a moment, everything was as he wanted.