//------------------------------// // Chapter two: Applause // Story: Octavia’s Story // by Elkia Deerling //------------------------------// ‘Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!’ Every time he uttered that word he waved his hooves in the air as if he were worshipping some goddess of music. He even started clapping his hooves when nopony responded. I felt somepony bump me. It was the cellist next to me. ‘Our conductor sure is enthusiastic, isn’t he?’ I made a quick attempt to recall the cellist’s name, but gave up just as quickly. She wore a gorgeous blue dress, that much I remember. ‘Indeed he is.’ ‘I’ve never seen somepony so passionate about classical music, have you?’ the mare continued. Of course I could think of somepony—somepony who had been my only friend in my childhood years. I had learned many things from him, and not just about playing the cello. Yet I doubted whether he would realize that, wherever he might be. My eyes traveled to the ground and spotted my bow lying there. I must have dropped it at some point in my silent musing. When I raised my head again I noticed that the conductor was looking right at me. He brushed back his curly black mane before staring some more. ‘Especially the bass part of the piece was simply divine. It truly stole my heart.’ ‘Why thank you,’ said a stallion behind me, making a shallow bow during which he almost dropped his double bass. ‘I wasn’t necessarily talking about the double basses, more about the cellos.’ The conductor showed a slim smile, perfectly adorning his square jaw. There was no mistaking his clear articulation and intonation in his voice. I wished I hadn’t heard him saying that. Involuntarily, I scooted behind my cello, shrinking a bit. Luckily, his attention drifted away from me. I could regain my focus again. ‘Very good, everypony. The performance tomorrow will be memorable to the audience, to me, and to you surely as well. If you play like this, I guarantee you an applause that will last forever and ever. Mark my words!’ ‘Gee, he sure knows how to hype things up,’ said the mare in blue. I barely heard her. ‘Have a wonderful day, everypony. Rest and go to bed early, because my heart would break if I had to conduct this orchestra with only a single pony missing.’ Why was he looking at me again? Actually, I didn’t want to know. The bassists, violists, violinists, bassoonists, clarinetists, oboists, flutists, horn players, percussionists, and the rest of the orchestra collected its sheet music in a chorus of rustling paper. Already some members stood up and headed down the stage for the cloakroom. I couldn’t wait to join them. Was it just me, or did the temperature suddenly become unbearably hot? I grabbed my cello and descended the ornate wooden stairs as well. I was too late. The backstage exit was too narrow for all of us at once. A large traffic jam of musical instruments tried to squeeze through. To top it off, the bassists were going first, and it would take ages before they and their massive wooden double basses could finally leave. There was complaining everywhere. The bigger the instrument, the bigger the temperament, and that is no joke. Turning around, I briefly considered heading for the visitors’ exit, or maybe even the emergency exit? Alas, it wasn’t meant to happen that way. ‘I meant what I said, you know? You were truly astonishing.’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw him approach. Just let me wait in peace, I said to him in my head. Of course, I could never say such a thing to Fermata Con Spirito, Canterlot’s most renowned conductor. So instead I made a small bow. ‘Thank you. You are most kind.’ ‘Well, I find it easy to be kind to you, and I think my kindness suits you well,’ he said with a nod. What was that supposed to mean? I felt a strange churning in my stomach, and it was not hunger. I nodded back as politely as I could. Fermata smiled. ‘Only you know how to stand out in the crowd when you play a bass part, Octavia Melody.’ ‘I was not trying to stand out, to be honest. I am just a cellist.’ To that, he made a strange sound which was probably supposed to be comical. ‘Just a cellist? My dear, you are the cellist. You could carry everypony’s bass part on your back with ease.’ ‘That would be… uncomfortable.’ I forced a smile at my own stupid joke. Fermata seemed to like it, for he chuckled loudly. ‘If anypony would play as good as you, I wouldn’t mind to conduct a whole orchestra of Octavia’s.’ This was going a bit too far. The way he stared at me made my legs tremble like the strings of my cello. I almost dropped it from my weak hooves. Quickly I flashed a glance at the backstage door. It looked unobstructed by now. ‘You look nervous. Surely a pony with talent like you should have no need for that,’ Fermata said. ‘I… um… I should go. Yes, yes I should.’ I could barely utter a normal sentence at that point. Fermata did a step closer. ‘Why the hurry?’ I did a step back. ‘Because… because… um…’ ‘Ah, I see. You have to practice for your solo performance tomorrow.’ He slapped his forehead in a poorly disguised suggestion of surprise. ‘How could I possibly have forgotten that?’ Was I supposed to answer that question? ‘Cello solo performances are rare in the Canterlot Music Hall, or so I have heard.’ ‘Indeed they are.’ Fermata spoke as if I were a little filly who answered a question right in conservatory music theory class. ‘And that is why you will stand out even more! Lucky, lucky you!’ My cello scraped over the shiny wooden floor as I retreated. ‘Yes, lucky me,’ I managed to cram out of my mouth. ‘And lucky me as well. I will be watching, Octavia, and I will enjoy it twice as much as anypony else in the hall. You can count on that.’ The door came closer. ‘I will not disappoint you.’ Suddenly, his smile faded a little. ‘Actually, you are disappointing me a bit right now. Do you still need to practice so much? I bet you could sight-read every page of the piece.’ ‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’ ‘You shouldn’t be afraid. It’s alright.’ He edged closer. For a moment I imagined him breaking into a sprint to catch up with me. I forced my legs to obey. My cello felt as if it weighed a ton in my hooves. ‘What… what do you mean?’ ‘I would love to get to know the star of the Canterlot Philharmonic Orchestra better.’ His wide smile showed his perfect, pearl-white teeth. ‘Perhaps over a glass of fragrant Chardonnay?’ When he winked at me, I almost fainted. Quickly I threw my hoof around the doorknob, or else I would really have fallen down. Without another word I stepped through and closed the door behind me. It wasn’t the most polite thing to do, but it was the right thing to do, and the only thing I wanted to do. As quickly as I could I reached the dressing room, jammed my cello, my bow, and my sheet music in the case and left the building. * * Fermata had been right. the second after the last, furious chord bounced through the Canterlot music hall’s auditorium, everypony in the audience promptly stood up and clapped his or her hooves together in an almost endless applause. The wave of applause hit me harder than the forte-piano. All musicians were supposed to stand up and take a bow, but I felt the urge to keep sitting. The mare in blue next to me nudged me with her shoulder. ‘C’mon, Octy, you’re part of the family too!’ I found myself obey and made shallow half-bows. I didn’t know why I felt so nervous, yet at the same time I did. Next up was my solo performance, Etude in A flat major, Op. 25, No. 1, composed by the famous pianist Frédéric Clopin. Of course, my upcoming moment of truth was not at all the reason why I gripped my bow extra tight. Fermata turned around and hop-skip-jumped from his platform on the stage. He made a big, almost comical bow before he grabbed the microphone. The applause died away reluctantly. ‘Fillies and gentlecolts, it is an honor for me to personally announce to you a rising star in the heaven of string players…’ In the meantime, I descended the steps, cello and bow clutched in my hooves. I gulped hard more than once. Apparently, the memory of yesterday afternoon hadn’t faded thoroughly enough. ‘…And a silent celebrity in the world of cellists…’ Where did he get that from?! I could hardly breathe, and counted myself lucky I did not play a woodwind instrument. Fermata took a deep breath and called my name, pure passion resonating in his voice. ‘Miss Octavia Melody!’ He too, applauded as he stepped aside. I tried my best to forget the direction he was walking in and the location where he would be standing, watching and watching some more. Instead I focused on the area marked by the spotlights. I only half-succeeded in closing myself off from the sound of clapping hooves. Whom was the audience clapping for? I stood perfectly in the light of attention, positioned my cello in front of me. Back straight, deep breath, eyes closed, mind sharp. I was ready as I would ever be. The first few notes sounded a bit shaky, but I corrected myself quickly. There was no sheet music stand in front of me because I knew the piece by heart. It was the last piece Fortissimo and I had worked on years ago. He had arranged it as a duet for two cellos, but unfortunately I hadn’t been able to find it again when Father had confiscated every single piece of sheet music the poor cello teacher had ever composed or played together with me. As I reached the end of the first part, I felt a tear glide over my cheeks. Whispers resounded in front of me. The front row must have noticed the glimmer in the spotlight. It was a waking call for me. I had to control myself. Taking a deep breath, I repeated the first part in a fluent transition back to the beginning of Clopin’s etude. The notes waved through the Canterlot music hall in arpeggios as graceful and expressive as I could play them. The acoustics of the auditorium were fantastic, as I had noticed during the rehearsals. It was almost strange how uplifting the piece sounded, being composed in a major key. Even stranger was the contrast of this happy, rapid piece full of colorful crescendos reminding me of so sad a scene so long ago. The moment I played the few natural tones of the second part’s arpeggios, there was dead silence from the audience. Where they enthralled or shocked? Was I crying again? I opened my eyes just to see if the audience was still satisfied. That was a big mistake. Leaning gently against the stage, right in front of me, as close as he could possibly get, was Fermata. His hooves were folded together as if he were worshipping me. Of course he was. I could also see that he was listening to my breath, not to the notes I played; and that he was looking at my eyes, instead of my bow strokes. My heart skipped a beat. Every muscle in my body tensed. Disaster struck. With a loud PLOING! My C string snapped. I felt a pain lash through my cheek, and the warmth of a single blood drop dripping down. A rustle and a gasp went through the audience. Then mumbling. Any normal cellist—any normal pony—would have stopped, run off, and grab a handkerchief. But I wasn’t normal, and I had never been normal—not one single day in my life. Words from Father rushed through my head: Whatever happens, Daughter, never, ever, stop a performance! No matter if your cello breaks or you yourself break, keep on playing till the last note. So I improvised. I had to. The piece suddenly sounded a bit higher, due to the lack of my lowest-sounding string. I had no idea if this was going to work, and wished I had my sheet music in front of me. Especially the rapid sixteenth notes were a true pain to transpose from memory. The piece was about ninety percent sixteenth notes. Perhaps I skipped one or misplayed one in the desperate process. I cannot possibly remember. The whole performance was a blur fueled by pure survival instinct. Then something else happened. It went all by itself, as if I were possessed by the Phantom of the Opera. Without even realizing what I was doing before it was too late, I modulated. The last part of the piece I played not in A flat major, but in its enharmonic equal: F minor. I used the same notes, but with different intervals. It was neither what Clopin had intended when he wrote the piece, nor what Fortissimo had in mind when he arranged it. It was what I wanted to do—what my inner self wanted to do. For the first time in my music career—the first time in my life—I did my own thing, and followed my intuition. I did not care what the audience would think of the minor key. I wasn’t playing for them, for Clopin, for Fermata, for the Canterlot Philharmonic Orchestra, or even for the memory of Fortissimo. I was playing purely for myself. I began to tear up at the sorrowful tones. The complete atmosphere of the sounds changed from a gentle, welcome summer drizzle to a cold, uncomfortable autumn rain, as they cascaded through the auditorium. Even if I had the sheet music right in front of me, it would have been useless. I could see nothing through the haze clouding my eyes. ‘Miss Octavia, are you… alright?’ Hearing Fermata’s voice did not help. I must have looked like a savage with the blood, sweat, and tears on my face. I played on, twice as intense as before. There had been no accelerando sign anywhere in the piece, yet I played faster as if that weren’t true. Instead of softening in a decrescendo, I played louder in a furious crescendo. My bow almost screeched against the strings with the increasing pressure. It might have snapped in two if I had clutched it but a tad tighter. The last note came: a high F, the tonic of the key. I let it vibrate for as long as my bow allowed. Then it was done. Deathly silence reigned in the auditorium. I dropped my bow and wiped my eyes with the back of my hoof, so I could take a glance at the audience. I am not sure why I wanted that. Big eyes, gaping mouths, and silent wows everywhere. I waited for the verdict. One clap resounded, then another, and another. Within three seconds, the applause grew to an earthquake of sound. Ponies stood up and raised their hooves. Some even had the nerve to whistle, as if my performance had been some kind of rock concert. I bowed to the left, to the right, to the middle like a robot: stiff and lifeless. Fermata was already approaching me with a smile and outstretched hooves, ready for a hug. I dropped my cello and hurried off the stage. Not back to my place in the orchestra, but to the backstage door. It was over for me. Maybe forever.