The Concert Pianist by Conrad Williams

few minutes, bustling in, getting adjusted to the space, the sense of occasion, the view of a lone piano on the stage.
    His hands were sweaty and freezing cold. He dabbed them with a hanky and stared at the upright and seconds later was groping for the volumes in his case, suddenly convinced that all those notes would fly out of his mind if he didn’t have a look at the score for the millionth time. He sat going over it, like an actor whispering lines backstage.
    Going on to the platform was like dying. No one went with you.
    The stage manager knocked on the door and peeped in.
    Philip’s head cleared as he stood. His hands felt clammy. One had at least to seem confident.
    He got himself ready while the stage manager stood outside, walkie-talkie in hand. He had the thin lips of a men’s-store shop assistant and smiled economically as Philip emerged. He spoke to the auditorium usherettes and to lights, coordinating the final count-down as they went along the corridor and across to the stage door. Philip touched his bow tie and fiddled with his cuffs as he walked, squeezing the hanky in his pocket to dry his palms. They came up to the curtain slowly, waiting for the all-clear. His heart beat faster at the familiar noise of the audience - a muffled din - beyond the curtain. One could tell from the weight of sound that the auditorium was packed. He inhaled deeply against the final crisis of nerves. Suddenly the house lights lowered, and the aery swell of a thousand voices sank in layers to a respectful murmur. They were ready for him.
    He stared at the curtain.
    The stage manager took up position, hand at the curtain’s edge, all set to pull back.
    It condensed inside him.
    â€˜Doors closed. OK, thank you. Ready, sir?’
    He pulled the hanky from his pocket, dabbed his forehead.
    He was giddy, not feeling good. Not the right feeling.
    God, he thought.
    The stage manager nodded in confirmation, he nodded back.
    The curtain opened for him and he strode across the threshold, into another dimension, the roof of the hall zooming up, the rear stalls rising way back, and as he strode up the ramp into the spotlight haze he could see a multitude of hands rising to greet him, and he could hear the crackle of applause beginning on the right and rippling across the auditorium sideways, like a wave, rebounding and redoubling into a barrage of acclamation as he reached the edge of the stage. He saw the instrument standing there like an Andalusian bull, rollers glinting, keyboard shining.
    The greeting increased in volume, reaching its enthusiastic maximum as he came centre stage, an outburst of sound, almost violently partisan, and as he turned towards the rising tiers of faces, going all the way to the back of the hall, he sensed the presence of friends, a congregation of fans, an audience very consciously devoted to the sight of him, his live presence. He looked at them all, heart pounding, temples throbbing, and bowed gravely, hand on a corner of the piano. He saw smiling faces, familiar faces, all staring back at him, and still they kept on, frantically clapping, determined to bathe him in a long and demonstrative approbation, and he bowed again, to the right, to the left, to the centre, and nodded in acknowledgement, and felt the din abate, a sudden drop, a steep decline, the spasm over, tension returning, the gap of a few moments in which he would sit down and adjust the stool, and they would watch in readiness, and the noise of welcome would taper to a hush.
    He stepped back, turned to face the instrument, found himself sinking on the stool, flicking his tails, placing his juddering foot by the pedal, taking his hanky from his pocket, clenching it again. There were muffled coughs and throat-clearings to his right.
    He looked at the white keys, felt the attention of the audience as a searing heat on the side of his face, sensed the moment coming at last. He stared swimmingly at the Steinway logo on the keyboard lid