“Five, four, three …”
On two, she lifts the instrument to her lips and straightens her shoulders.
On one, she takes a deep breath.
Silence falls and she begins, as she has so many times before. The perfectly formed notes rise and fall. The music ebbs and flows, swirls around the theatre, puts smiles on hundreds of upturned faces. When the last note fades, the audience rise to their feet. Applause fills the theatre. Whistles, cries of ‘Brava’ and ‘Encore’ echo from the roof.
The curtain drops, shielding her from her fans but doing little to muffle the noise. The applause continues. Hands clap, feet stamp, shaking the beautiful old building to its foundations. She needs to get up, move to the centre of the stage and prepare to take a bow, but her legs won’t cooperate. Trembling, she reaches out a hand, grasps the music stand and tries to pull herself up. But the stand tips towards her, forcing her back in her seat. She tries once more, but knows that without assistance she will still be sitting here when the curtain rises again.
“Let me help,” murmurs a familiar voice.
She allows his strong hand to support her as she pushes herself upright and, with small, careful steps, makes her way to the front of the stage. She can sense him hovering in the background, ready to help if required. Reliable as always.
Her reflection shimmers in the curtain’s silver lining as it rises, revealing the sea of expectant faces. When their idol appears, the volume becomes almost deafening. She lowers her head in acknowledgement, lifts the flute as if to suggest that it, not she, is responsible for the performance.
“Brava,” they cry. “Encore.”
Of course they want more. No matter how many times she declares this will be her final performance, they always demand more. But she no longer has a choice. No matter how many times they beg her, what ridiculous payment they offer, the doctor has made her promise. This must be her last performance.
The audiences, seated once more, fall silent. She decides to remain standing. After all she’s a flautist, not a cellist. A flautist stands in the centre of the stage, under the spotlight, the star, the centre of attention. She lifts the instrument to her lips, takes a deep breath, positions her fingers and begins, softly at first, then more strongly, each note clear and perfect, rising to the heavens. Tonight’s admirers will have something to remember.
The curtain descends for the last time. The applause fades, her fans reluctantly accept defeat and take their leave.
Alone in her dressing room, she takes the flute apart, cleans and wraps each section before replacing them in the velvet-lined leather case as she has so many times before and never will again.
The door opens.
“Ready?” He asks.
She nods, takes his hand, lets him help her to her feet and out into the corridor.
It’s over. Finished. Time to go home.
On two, she lifts the instrument to her lips and straightens her shoulders.
On one, she takes a deep breath.
Silence falls and she begins, as she has so many times before. The perfectly formed notes rise and fall. The music ebbs and flows, swirls around the theatre, puts smiles on hundreds of upturned faces. When the last note fades, the audience rise to their feet. Applause fills the theatre. Whistles, cries of ‘Brava’ and ‘Encore’ echo from the roof.
The curtain drops, shielding her from her fans but doing little to muffle the noise. The applause continues. Hands clap, feet stamp, shaking the beautiful old building to its foundations. She needs to get up, move to the centre of the stage and prepare to take a bow, but her legs won’t cooperate. Trembling, she reaches out a hand, grasps the music stand and tries to pull herself up. But the stand tips towards her, forcing her back in her seat. She tries once more, but knows that without assistance she will still be sitting here when the curtain rises again.
“Let me help,” murmurs a familiar voice.
She allows his strong hand to support her as she pushes herself upright and, with small, careful steps, makes her way to the front of the stage. She can sense him hovering in the background, ready to help if required. Reliable as always.
Her reflection shimmers in the curtain’s silver lining as it rises, revealing the sea of expectant faces. When their idol appears, the volume becomes almost deafening. She lowers her head in acknowledgement, lifts the flute as if to suggest that it, not she, is responsible for the performance.
“Brava,” they cry. “Encore.”
Of course they want more. No matter how many times she declares this will be her final performance, they always demand more. But she no longer has a choice. No matter how many times they beg her, what ridiculous payment they offer, the doctor has made her promise. This must be her last performance.
The audiences, seated once more, fall silent. She decides to remain standing. After all she’s a flautist, not a cellist. A flautist stands in the centre of the stage, under the spotlight, the star, the centre of attention. She lifts the instrument to her lips, takes a deep breath, positions her fingers and begins, softly at first, then more strongly, each note clear and perfect, rising to the heavens. Tonight’s admirers will have something to remember.
The curtain descends for the last time. The applause fades, her fans reluctantly accept defeat and take their leave.
Alone in her dressing room, she takes the flute apart, cleans and wraps each section before replacing them in the velvet-lined leather case as she has so many times before and never will again.
The door opens.
“Ready?” He asks.
She nods, takes his hand, lets him help her to her feet and out into the corridor.
It’s over. Finished. Time to go home.