The Composer: Chapter 3

Back in the sound booth, as my fingers hit the keys, I think of Euterpe–her voice, her hair, her eyes. Then, the ditty she played on the flute resurfaces, and I shudder. This wakes me from my stupor, and I realize that I’ve been playing the whole time. Without even thinking, I’ve begun to play the song I heard in the hallway on the first day. My fingers slow, notes fading out as I stare at nothing. 

That’s it; it must be the reason I can’t write. The song is a block, locking away my creativity. It’s seized my mind so that I can form no other melodies. The only way to stop it is to hear the song again, analyze it to rob it of all its mystery, and therefore, its hold on me. I have to find the composer.

At lunch, I’m surprised to find that the instructors are absent. Only Clyde and Einar are present. I sit beside Einar, facing the window. He smiles at me, but I can see the muscles twitch around his eye. Clyde, on the other hand, is scowling at the table. 

“Where is she?” he mumbles. “He must be giving her extra time. It’s nepotism.” 

He’s particularly querulous today, I think.

Einar shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. She is… how do you say? Honest—she is honest.”

Clyde scoffs. “No way. Her grandfather is paying off the school,” he accuses, turning to me. “Tell me that you see it.”

I’m still trying to piece together who the composer might be. Einar and Clyde were already in the orientation room when I heard it, as was the Headmaster. Any of them could have written it and left it for the musicians to play, but would they really leave their work unguarded? 

Roy was in the hall with Aubrey and me before we walked to the room together. But where did she come from? I struggle to remember, but Clyde’s stare pulls my attention to the present. 

“Well?” he presses. 

“I don’t really care,” I admit. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be more interested in your own piece?

“Or maybe you need an excuse to take her out of the competition early to help your odds,” I jab. 

Clyde stands up, eyes like a wild animal. He looks like he’s about to lunge across the table. 

Einar stands up too, putting out his hands while I prepare to push my seat as far away as I can. 

Just then, the Headmaster enters the room with Roy on his coattails. They both pause until the Headmaster continues inside. He walks past as if nothing is happening. Following his example, Clyde and Einar sit down, and I, more hesitantly, de-claw my fingers from the lip of the table. Roy looks over each of us distastefully before sitting beside Clyde. I watch his upper lip curl, but Roy ignores it. 

No one speaks while lunch is served, but after a few excruciating moments of eating in silence, the Headmaster speaks, “Now that you have had time to write your pieces, we can begin the transition to practicing with the musicians. Since this will take more time to perfect, you should prepare to have a semi-finished piece by this time tomorrow.” 

My face goes pale, and I place down my fork—my appetite lost. 

“Will that be a realistic deadline?” he asks, looking around the table. 

Everyone nods, including me. The Headmaster smiles. “Excellent! I must say, I’m looking forward to this year’s showcase more than most.” 

He carries on for a while until we are dismissed to return to the sound booths. Time is of the essence, which is why I hang back in the lunchroom. 

The Headmaster is putting on his coat as I approach him. “Yes, Mr. Shiron?” he asks. 

“Sir, I was just wondering about something I heard in the hall the other day,” I start. “It was coming from one of the rooms on my way to orientation.”

The Headmaster raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

“It was an original composition, I think.” 

“Ah, then I suspect one of your classmates was responsible, unless we have a secret composer among us—though I doubt it,” he says without elaborating. “Shall I accompany you across campus?” 

“No, that’s alright, sir,” I say. 

“It’s no inconvenience. In fact, I insist,” he states. 

A light rainfall begins to fall as we walk, making the colors of the early spring blossoms more vibrant. The croci, however, are closed with the sun being absent. 

Neither of us holds an umbrella, our hair dampening by the second. I can see raindrops rolling along the wrinkles in the Headmaster’s forehead. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I am hoping for you to win,” he infers, and I nod. No point in hiding what he’s already guessed. “Roy told me how you discovered her position at this school. If she wins, her grandfather will have even more influence over our affairs, tipping the balance of control. He will be able to choose who attends the school, how our funds are allocated, and eventually even own the Conservatory itself, pushing the rest of us out and turning it into a different institution entirely. As you can see, this isn’t in my best interest or yours.”

“And why is that?” I ask.

“You’ll be our star composer, of course!” the Headmaster explains. “And besides that, I will personally introduce you to sponsors who can kickstart your independent career, ensure that you are in complete control of your work.”

I smirk automatically. But who’s to say he isn’t a double agent, incentivizing all of us to beat Roy?

“Why not one of the others?” I ask. 

“Quite frankly, Clyde is not as apt as the rest of you,” he admits. 

“And Einar?” I ask. 

“He would make a fine composer, but I don’t believe he’s quite as proficient as you.”

“Comparing our portfolios?” I assume. 

“Yes, and your character,” he reveals. 

I raise a brow.

“Judging by how you were willing to stand up for your girlfriend—but not quite enough to jeopardize your career—proved to me that you are strong-willed, yet measured. This will serve you well.” 

I am silent, not daring to meet his gaze. 

“I hope I didn’t offend you,” he says after a long pause. 

“No, sir,” I say—not entirely sure whether it’s a lie. 

“Good,” he says as we reach our destination. “Thank you for your time and effort. I wish you luck.” 

I nod respectfully and head inside without a word. The silence persists in the booth, but my mind is loud enough to fill it. Is the Headmaster sincere? 

If he is, I could already have a leg-up over the competition and a guarantee of a prosperous career. If he’s not, even if I beat Roy, I would be on the same level as everyone else at the Conservatory. None of it matters if I can’t even compose my song.

I hold my head in my hands and push against my temples as if I can force the notes into being. My hand hovers perpetually over the page, and not a note is written. 

***

I grab a light dinner at the regular dining hall and retire to my room. Einar lies on his bed, reading, and I take this as my cue to sleep. I’m pretty exhausted, though I didn’t accomplish much, and I fall asleep without struggle. 

Tonight, I don’t dream of Euterpe or the mysterious door. I dream of the song. I’m in the hallway again, and suddenly it begins to play, but I can’t tell what direction it’s coming from. I hear it all around me—surrounding me. I’m defenseless. I cover my ears, suppressing it, but it slips through my fingers and into my ears. It floods my brain, taking over every cell. It rewrites them in its own sequence, removing all other possibilities in the past and future until all I know is the song. 

I wake with sweat beaded on my forehead. I wipe it away with a groan. I can’t take much more of this particular self-sabotaging brand of stress. It’s already day four, and I haven’t written a single bar–not to mention, I’ll have to present something for the musicians to play this afternoon. I try not to think about it as I make my way across the courtyard. 

I shield myself from another rainy day, wishing I could fold up entirely like the crocuses. Realistically, I have several hours to produce something mediocre. It would take several days to create something of a magnum opus. What other choice do I have? I imagine throwing myself into the lake and shaking my head. The basement door replaces the image, but I shake my head again. Both are equally unrealistic–maybe a little over dramatic if I’m being honest. I can’t rely on fantasies to save me. 

In the sound booth, I feel less distracted but still uninspired. I manage to write a piece that’s perhaps on par with some of my earlier works as an aspiring composer, but not more prominent works. If I want to win, I know I’ll need to exceed them–but it’s a start. 

As I step into the main Conservatory, a shiver travels up my brain stem. The phantom echoes of the song haunt me until I reach the music room I’ve been assigned to. The Headmaster has allowed us each two hours with an ensemble of musicians, staggered throughout the day to avoid hearing each other’s practice sessions. I am thankful that I’m going first, if only to get it over with. 

Disconnected notes slip from various instruments that are being tuned and warmed up. They don’t stop when I enter the room, but many of the musicians look up expectantly. I nod to them and allow them to continue their preparations. Then, I take the sheet music from my bag and begin to pass it out without preposition. Many of the musicians furrow their brows–or maybe that’s only my imagination–but no one says a word. They set up, and I take my place at the front of the room. 

A wand waits for me on a nearby music stand. I pick it up gingerly and raise it tentatively. The members of the band bring their instruments to their lips while those in the orchestra raise their bows. Then, they begin to play. 

Notes–my notes–rise from the page and occupy the space, but do not overpower it. They float through but don’t touch. Even the expressions of the musicians are bland and prosaic, perfect reflections of the piece itself. 

I feel my blood heat with every passing bar until my arms are shaking with anger instead of passion. The musicians follow my lead, increasing the tempo, yet the performance is still aggravatingly monotonous. I shake with fury as I watch their stony faces. I want the music to brand them, burn into them until it reaches their core and ignites a deathless fire. I want it written on their faces in teary eyes and mouths agape in awe of what I’ve created. I want-

The song ends, and the musicians bow politely. I allow myself a moment to calm down before bowing back, and I can see in their faces that it shows. That performance proved that I don’t belong in this program. Whatever potential the Headmaster saw has been washed away by a lack of confidence, which in turn caused my lack of vision. Without it, I have no chance. I have to quit. 

Red-faced, I dismiss the musicians and leave the main Conservatory, passing Einar on my way out. We share a smile, but there’s a tenseness hiding, rather unsuccessfully, just below. 

I return to my ritualistic isolation—this time earlier than previous days, since I spent less time with the musicians than in the sound booths. I go to the lower lunch hall and take my early dinner (late lunch?) back to my room. I decide that I will eat and then pack. It’s too late to leave now, so I resolve to tell the Headmaster in the morning and take the bus home. I’ll be home by early afternoon. 

By the time I’ve finished packing, the sun is centered in the window—the rain long gone. Einar has not returned, making the room seem bigger. I slump against the headrest on my bed, and slowly my eyes begin to droop. 

I see nothing but feel a presence all around me. I stand in a spotlight surrounded by total darkness, but I’m aware of an audience watching from the shadows. I’m not sure what they want me to do, so I stand very still, as if they could forget me in this brightness. They only press in, close enough that the hairs on my skin rise, but they are still invisible. Then, the whimpering begins, devolving into sobbing. The moisture of their tears dampens my skin, and I flinch. 

The crying is replaced with a sudden silence. I feel the audience retreat, but do not hear their footfalls. In the quiet, I hear Euterpe’s voice coming from all directions, “You don’t have much time. If you will not seek me out, find your mortal Muse—the one whose melody sways you more than I.”

I nod, and the spotlight shuts off.