Free Concerto to the Memory of an Angel by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt

the music, the way its spiritual dimension could make the listener a better person. His elbow moved with ease, his forehead was smooth, he embodied philosophy in a cantilena.
    Chris fixed his gaze on his feet, annoyed. He had never played the piano to such perfection. Should he give it up? At the age of nineteen he already had a collection of medals, prizes, and certificates of excellence, and he was something of an ace at competitions, dealing easily with the sort of traps set for virtuosos, from Liszt to Rachmaninov; but now, confronted with this miracle called Axel, he realized that if he had a certain number of victories to his name it was because he had a rage in him, and was a hard worker. Chris knew only that which can be learned, whereas Axel knew that which cannot be learned. On a soloist’s platform it is not enough to play correctly, one must also play with feeling; naturally Axel played with feeling, whereas Chris had only ever attained excellence through study, reflection, and imitation.
    He shivered, despite the fact that the sun, on this island in Thailand, had driven the temperature to over thirty-five degrees. His shivering reflected his impatience: if only Axel would hurry up and stop inflicting this splendor upon him, and let the competition continue.
    The workshop, entitled “Music and Sports in Winter,” provided students from conservatories—gifted amateurs or future professionals—with an opportunity to combine leisure and physical activity with the advanced study of their instrument. Each of them had a private lesson with a professor for two hours a day, then met as a group for ensemble practice and sports. They could enjoy sailing, deep-sea diving, cycling, and running, and to mark the end of their stay, a rally was going to be held. The first prize was a week with the Berlin Philharmonic, one of the world’s top orchestras.
    Axel started on the second movement. Chris had always found this passage to be somewhat disparate, the composition not as strong, and he delighted in the thought that Axel might stumble, break the spell, and bore the audience. His hopes were in vain; Axel gave each note its color of indignation, rebellion, and fury, restoring shape and meaning to the piece. In the first movement Alban Berg’s concerto evokes an “angel”—the dead child—but in the second, it describes the parents’ sorrow.
    â€œUnbelievable! He’s better than any of the recommended recordings.”
    How could this twenty-year old boy surpass artists like Ferras, Grumiaux, Menuhin, Perlman, and Stern?
    The concerto came to a sublime close, the tip of the bow evoking a chorale by Bach, delivering the last-minute conviction that there is a reason for everything, even tragedy—an astonishing profession of faith for a modernist composer, but one which Axel managed to make as convincing as it was moving.
    The audience applauded wildly, as did the members of the orchestra, tapping against their music stands. The young Australian musician was embarrassed, for he thought he had been self-effacing, in the service of Alban Berg alone, and he could not understand why they were applauding him; he was a mere performer. So he acknowledged them, awkwardly, but even his awkwardness had something graceful about it.
    Chris rose to his feet to applaud along with his neighbors, and he bit his lip as he looked around him: this violinist had even managed to arouse the enthusiasm of an ignorant public—bathers, beach attendants, locals—for a dodecaphonic piece of music! By the third curtain call, Chris was beginning to find Axel’s exploit unbearable, so he slipped through the excited crowd, leaving the concert hall that had been hastily set up among the palm trees, and headed for his tent.
    On his way he ran into Paul Brown, the gentleman from New York who organized these international sessions.
    â€œWell, did my little Cortot enjoy the concert?”
    Paul Brown