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

called Chris his little Cortot because Chris was a pianist, and French; for American academics Cortot was the quintessence of a French pianist.
    â€œAxel has made me discover a work that normally I’m not at all keen on!”
    â€œYou seem almost annoyed—do you feel pushed to the point you want to lay down your arms? It’s as if you were not at all pleased to find yourself liking Berg or admiring Axel.”
    â€œAdmiration is not my strong point. I prefer a challenge: competition and victory.”
    â€œI know. You two are opposites, you and Axel. One smiles, the other sweats. You’re a fighter, he’s Zen. You view life as a struggle, while Axel just goes along never imagining there could ever be the slightest danger.”
    Paul Brown eyed Chris closely. Nineteen years of age, dark eyes, a wild head of hair, all the pride of a pampered son. He had a solid, sturdy body and wore a pair of poet’s eyeglasses and a manly pointed beard, trimmed with scissors, as if he were seeking to be treated with all the respect owed to maturity.
    â€œAnd who’s right?” asked Chris.
    â€œI’m afraid you are.”
    â€œAh . . . ”
    â€œYes, I know I’m American for a reason, my little Cortot. Innocence and confidence are fine, but not much use in our world. Talent may be a prerequisite for starting off a career, but to get somewhere you have to have ambition and fierce determination. You have the right attitude.”
    â€œAh! And in your opinion, do I play better than Axel?”
    â€œI didn’t say that. No one will play better than Axel. On the other hand I imagine that you will have a greater career than he will.”
    There was a considerable amount of reservation in his remark, even condemnation, but Chris decided to retain only the compliment. Tapping himself on the forehead, Paul Brown cried out, amused, “Cain and Abel! If I were to rename the two of you, that’s what I’d suggest. Two brothers with completely opposite characteristics: Cain the tough guy, and Abel the gentle soul.”
    Delighted with himself, the American rounded his mouth and looked at Chris, waiting for his reaction. Chris merely shrugged his shoulders and called out, as he went on his way, “Let’s just keep to ‘little Cortot,’ if you don’t mind. And I hope the ‘little’ only refers to my age . . . ”
    Â 
    On the morning of the last Sunday Chris bounded out of bed impatiently, his hair standing upright on his head: to sleep was impossible, he needed action, he could feel his muscles itching for a confrontation.
    The night before, he had worried that he might miss the closing rally because his mother had informed him that he had an audition on Tuesday morning with some important Parisian program planners. The wise thing would have been to leave at once, the moment he got the news, because he had to reach the coast by boat, then make his way to Bangkok—four hours by road—before stewing for twelve hours on a long haul flight to go halfway round the globe; even supposing he did leave right away, he would never have time to recover from the jetlag in France. So Chris rejected the common sense solution, took another look at the timetables of the connections and managed, rather acrobatically, to justify his presence at the rally by proving that he could take the ferryboat on Sunday evening.
    Why put himself through so much stress? He wasn’t really interested in the prize, because for a pianist an entire week with an orchestra, even the Berlin Philharmonic, would not provide him with many opportunities to perform; no, it was because he was eager for combat, to challenge Axel and defeat him. He would not leave his Australian rival until he had proven that he was better; he wanted to make him bite the dust.
    At breakfast, he swung his leg over the bench and sat down opposite the violinist, who looked up at him.
    â€œHi, Chris,”