On the morning of my release -- as soon as I was able to stand without feeling my side in agony with every step when I went into the bathroom -- I was finally given my clothing back. My red coat with gold trimming and mother of pearl buttons; a white vest with gold buttons; white shirt with ivory buttons; the only good cravat that I owned; and a black ribbon. Within an hour of my release, I proceeded to dress, all the while looking in the only mirror in the room.
As I slipped on one piece of clothing at a time, my mind was pulling me in two directions at once. On the one hoof, I was excited and curious about this new world outside of the plain hospital room that I’d been cooped up in for a week. I wanted to know what had changed in two centuries, of what literature, what inventions, philosophies, discoveries, and arts had been created. To see how far Equestrian society had gotten to since the days of stuffy salons and traditional opera; to see how ponykind sees itself now.
Yet, on the other… I still hadn’t gotten over the fact that my wife and children were gone. The thought alone was enough reason not to smile. As excited as I was, part of me didn’t feel welcome and I knew it. To ponies outside, I would be a walking antique. A living ghost from a dead age. Loneliness doesn’t cover it. Sadness doesn’t begin to describe it. But the worst part, however, is I knew that the moment I stepped out, I could not ever show any of that. None. I learned long ago that ponies don’t want you to see you upset, or in tears, or to witness you cry for help in your helplessness.
Oh no. Eveypony, no matter what century, wanted to see the happy Moztrot. One that could wear a mask of joy without you knowing it is a mask. Even in my music, they don’t want to listen to melodies and harmonies that would make them weep like a child who has lost everything. I know my audience and what they came for; they want the sounds of tranquility, not the storm from inside.
As I put on the last bit of clothing, the black silk ribbon to tie my white mane back in a ponytail, I looked in the mirror to paint a smile on my lips. “No time for any of that nonsense Wolfie,” I said to myself. “You have a new world to conquer.” Before I left the bathroom, however, I felt through my pockets to find something hard, round and familiar. Pulling it out, my smile nearly faltered as I looked at the tiny locket. Upon opening it, I found the tiny portrait of my wife staring back at me with a smile on her lips and a lock of her mane in the lid. Admittedly, I was forced to close it before I could burst into tears again. “Do keep it together,” I whispered to myself. “They are expecting it of you.”
It’s rather amazing how little the castle itself had changed, even with the interesting group of characters in the foyer. At the top of the staircase was Celestia herself, Sunburst by her side, addressing the crowd below at the bottom of the steps where a piano was set up. I was meant to come down one of the staircases, but I didn’t think that would be a good enough entrance. So I sneaked to the back of the crowd and peeked from behind a curtain.
“I’m sure all of you are wondering why I have called for this press conference,” Princess Sunbutt began and the reporters bobbed their heads. “Well, I have invited you all here today to give an announcement. A few years after Ludwig van Beethoven had changed the landscape of classical music as a whole, inspiring other composers to take up the challenge as well, today we have the return of another outstanding artist. As incredible as it might sound, it is nevertheless true: that a week ago, the composer, Wolfgang Amadeus Moztrot, has come to modern Equestria.”
Suddenly, all around me, these ponies held up these – mechanisms? -- and the room erupted with flashes like lightning, and a confusion of voices all at once asked many questions. I remember it being so loud and discordant to my ears that I had to cover them.
“I know that you are wondering how this has happened,” Celestia continued. “For that, I’ll turn it over to Sunburst to explain a few things.”
He nodded as he stepped forward, pulling out a scroll from underneath that cloak of his. “I have prepared a statement,” he said as he unrolled it. “When I came here a week ago, I was planning on demonstrating a new, complex spell with which it was possible to retrieve an item that was lost in the past. To show this, I was asked to fetch something that was from the eighth century. When I cast this spell, the item in question that was retrieved was the composer, W. A. Moztrot, from the day he died. Seeing he was on the verge of dying, we took him to Canterlot Hospital where the doctors were able to save him. Today, I would like to announce that the world-famous composer is here with us today, and is ready to take your questions.” He looked at the empty set of stairs. Blinking, he went up to them before turning to Sunbutt. “Uh… Where is Moztrot?”
I couldn’t resist as popped out my head, “Meow!” Heads now turned to me as I smiled back at them. There were the gasps and screams I had been playing for. “Took all of you long enough,” I said as I crawled out and into the stunned group. “Do you know how long I have been waiting in there? Two minutes! It is quite a long time just for me to say hello, don’t you think? Couldn’t either of you just say ‘Here’s Moztrot,’ and leave it like that?”
A lime green stallion craned his head around, “Wait… You’re Moztrot?”
“Of course, who were you expecting? Salieri?” I laughed at my own joke.
“Huh?” he turned over to Celestia, “Your Highness, how do we know if this isn’t some look-alike?”
“That’s why I brought out this piano,” Celestia slowly walked down the stairs. “The Moztrot I know has a talent of taking the most simple, overplayed tune and improvising on it in beautiful ways. Perhaps one of you would try to give him something to work off of and see if it stays true to his style?” While skepticism was still plastered on their faces, the sea of ponies agreed that it might help convince them. “In fact, Moztrot, how many variations can you come up with this?” At the piano, she held up a hoof to play a simple if not bare tune that sounded like a child’s song from the cradle.
After listening to it, I tapped my chin, humming in thought. “Twelve,” I replied.
A mare that was holding one of the devices that flashed raised an eyebrow. “You just thought up twelve variations for ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ in three seconds?”
“Oh ye of little imagination,” I smirked, wanting to reach up and pinch her cheeks. “With something so basic, there are so many possibilities, just improvising on that is child’s play. Here, let me show you.” Practically hopping in front of that shiny, black piano with the name of the manufacturer in gold, and I set about the theme. I started off simple yet elegant with a few trills at every few notes or so.
But as expected, they all seem unimpressed.
“Are we seriously really here to hear some guy play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’?” muttered one.
“This has to be a prank,” I heard another say. “Celestia actually claiming that Moztrot is resurrected? I tell you this is a waste of time.”
Ah, but that was what I wanted to hear. The idea of the theme was to lower their guard on purpose, to think that what they are listening to is a pianist with the brain of a colt that has barely learned the piano. And just as it looked like they were about to leave, my first variation shattered their expectations completely. A cascade of sound from the higher register poured over them like water in a fountain. My right hoof twisted between the black and white keys as easily as breathing air while at the same time moving with the grace of a swan. Quick notes went in harmony with the slower, lower notes until the second I switched them. For a brief moment, I genially smiled for the first time in days. I was having fun, watching those reporters around me, some of them with jaws hanging loose.
Upon the third, the higher notes went bubbly upward like those tiny air pockets in champagne. They were so happy and carefree as they glided and bumped into each other, swirling and hurling along to the top. My hooves too were drunk with the flourishes of that sweet tasting sound. Upon the fourth variation, it was a minuet with my forehooves as they danced, getting tipsy whipsy litsy on the keyboard that I found it so funny that I failed to suppress my gasping laughter. The fifth was no better as they nearly tripped over one another on the notes, like my hooves’ vision was spinning and they just could barely see where they were stepping, yet they were still besottedly happy all the same.
Six was mostly the same idea as previous, only that the roles for both hooves were once again switched around. Variation seven, I admit, at that point, my daydreaming took over as I could imagine this piano spreading wings and flying around like an oversized swan. Its wings flapping, creating strong enough winds to blow down everything that isn’t nailed down while at the same time still having the elegance of the bird it was portraying.
Then… the eighth variation crept in. Sniffing, trying to hold back tears from the cold chords that were in its way. In my mind’s eye, I could have sworn that among my pain during that short bit, I could almost swear that I heard a foal crying. Almost as if… I heard the wails of Franz.
However, I shook my head and moved on to the ninth, to which I variated from soft bars to thunderous ones in which, to my amusement, gave everypony a jump when they weren’t expecting it. At the same time, I kept myself and the music in readiness for the moment until the tenth variation, when I showed those reporters a taste of my virtuosity as the theme jumped about like frogs in a pond, going from one note to another in quick succession. Eleven, I decided to slow it all down until it was like a memory. From the back of my mind, I saw the day that I first met the mare that became my wife. She, the sister of an opera singer that I’d had a fling with, and yet it was her younger sibling, Constanze, in whom I felt I had truly found my muse. The notes I played in that variation brought back a mere fraction of her.
Constanze… The mare that reignited my interest in the fugue and harmonies of Buch, that had a talent for the keyboard and her voice…That angelic voice that I will never hear again. For a moment, my hands got lost as they brought back the time when we were in a park when we really started to fall in love when she gave me a melody that was so beautiful that we just… knew. While she was neither ugly nor beautiful, she was the kind that I could live with, and to grow with until…
Just like that, I banished the dark thought from my mind with the final variation, which was a firework of my virtuosity. This time both hooves worked at the same speed to burst out the sound from the piano to unleash the fire and water that swirl, waltz, fall and rise together to the point that I was saying “Whee!” as if I was flying through the air. But alas, my fun had to come to an end. I fleshed out the final chord and turned to the group of reporters with a smile on my face.
They of course applauded, but the lime green stallion from earlier stepped forward. “As incredible as that was, I’m not exactly convinced that you’re Moztrot.”
I let my hoof fall upon the keyboard, letting out discordant keys. “Are you joking? Then what exactly would it take to convince you that I am who I say I am?”
He hummed in thought until he replied. “How about this, since I studied Moztrot in my music appreciation class back in college: if I gave you a piece of little-known information about the composer and if you tell me whether or not it was true, only then will I and probably the rest of us will take you seriously.”
Well, this ought to be easy enough. “Ask me anything.”
“True or False: the real Moztrot was such a genius that he managed to write down whatever it was in his head on the first try without any corrections at all.”
In confusion, I tilted my head, “That’s ridiculous. Of course, I’ve made mistakes in my writing. Sure, I have a good memory and all, but even I had to cross out a few bars when they didn’t agree with a piece as a whole.”
The room bore witness as that reporter’s confidence to expose me suddenly drooped at my words. Even the notebook and pencil he was holding almost hit the floor. “Oh Celestia…” he looked up to the princess in white, “He really is Moztrot, is he?”
“Why would I lie about a thing like this?” she questioned. And before I could blink, I was suddenly mobbed by the reporters, all asking questions at once. “Please! My little ponies!” she thankfully interrupted. “You all know the rules, one question at a time please.”
Thankfully they backed away little, notebooks at the ready. Celestia told me that it was entirely my call to pick out who would ask the questions to me. I pointed to a light blue pegasus mare, “Let me start with you.”
She pointed a hoof to herself, “Moi?”
My ears perked up: “Attendez, parlez-vous français? (Wait, do you speak Prench?)”
The mare looked surprised, “Vous aussi? (You too?)”
I giggled, “Oui bien sûr! Je jouais à Versailles quand j'étais adolescent. Cependant, je pense que vous avez une question, Mademoiselle? (Yes of course! I was playing at Versailles when I was a teenager. However, I think you have a question, Mademoiselle?)”
“Je fais, (I do,)” she said as she flipped her notebook to a particular page. “Je m'appelle Machine à écrire, je suis avec Evening Star. Monsieur Moztrot, maintenant qu'il est officiel que vous êtes revenus, quels sont vos plans pour l'avenir? (My name is Typewriter, I am with Evening Star. Mr. Moztrot, now that it is official that you have returned, what are your plans for the future?)”
“Eh bien, j'ai vraiment l'intention de composer plus de musique, si c'est ce que vous demandez. Après tout, je suis compositeur, c'est ce que je fais. Mais en attendant, j'ai aussi l'intention de voyager pour voir ce qui a changé et voir ce qui est devenu du paysage musical. De plus, je souhaite donner des concerts comme je l'ai toujours fait, donc il ne fait aucun doute que vous pourrez m'entendre jouer en public. (Well, I really intend to compose more music, if that's what you're asking. After all, I'm a composer, that's what I do. But in the meantime, I also intend to travel to see what has changed and see what has become of the musical landscape. In addition, I wish to give concerts as I have always done, so there is no doubt that you will be able to hear me play in public.) Next question.”
A forest of hooves sprouted up; this time I picked the lime green stallion. “Ink Word for the Canterlot Chronicle. Mr. Moztrot, are you going to stay here in our modern times or are you hoping to return to the eighth century?”
I folded my forehooves, “According to Celestia and Sunburst over there, I’m stranded here. They told me that there were no spells for me to get me back to where I came from, and even if they could, doing so would make a…” I turned to Beardy, “What was that word one of you used?”
“Paradox?” Sunburst asked.
“That’s it.” I nodded and returned to the reporter. “As I said, I’m stuck. Fortunately, Celestia has told me that after this, I will be given a new residence to live in so I can have space to compose and whatnot. Next question?” This time I chose a coffee colored stallion. “You sir?”
He held up his notebook in one hoof and inquired, “Parli anche istalliano? (Do you speak Istallion too?)”
“Puoi ringraziare mio padre per imparare la lingua. (You can thank my father for teaching me the language.)” I waved a hoof, “Hai una domanda, signore? (Do you have a question, sir?)”
“Parola Scritta, sono con il mio giornale, tempi veneziani. Sei a conoscenza del Rinascimento della musica classica che è stato avviato da Beethoven qualche anno fa - se sì, quali sono i tuoi pensieri per galvanizzare i giovani a questa musica? (Written Word, I am with my newspaper, Venetian Times. Are you aware of the Renaissance of classical music that was launched by Beethoven a few years ago - if yes, what are your thoughts to galvanize the young people to this music?)”
I shrugged, “Per essere onesti con te, signore, non so chi sia questo Beethoven. Comunque, come posso lamentarmi quando non mi sembra di essere fuori lavoro? Tuttavia, sono più che disposto ad ascoltare questa musica perché sono così in ritardo nel mio lavoro. (To be honest with you, sir, I do not know who this Beethoven is. Anyway, how can I complain when I do not seem to be out of work? However, I am more than willing to listen to this music since I'm so behind in my work.) So who's next?”
More hooves shot up, with many ponies pleading for answers.