As he sat hunched on that weary stool cushion, the only place where one could sit backstage, he feverishly flipped through the pages of the score. He looked over every notation, every phrase, every pedal mark, every fingering. Beethoven’s spirit seemed as if it was gazing down upon him.

“So much hard work, so many sleepless nights,” he thought.

“yet still my heart is pounding so fast that I feel like I’m on the verge of fainting. I’ve been preparing for this very audition for what feels like an eternity. All that extra time I wasted watching films, reading, writing sloppy poetry, going out… god, I’m such an idiot. I should’ve used that time to practice. Those leaps in the second movement still scold me. Why didn’t I practice harder? I would’ve never been worrying about this page if I had just put in more time.”

Frantically littering his mind, his worries seemed unbearable. Why did it have to be him? He could have stayed home, or been doing anything else. It could have been any other pianist, it makes no sense for it to be him. The sweat from his palms trickled onto the page, the wet spots obscuring the notes.

“Oh, my, I’m sure I’m going to have some sort of memory slip in this passage, it’s so hard to memorize these things. It’s like trying to memorize the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle or all the words in a poem!” He cried out in quiet despair.

“I get so childish when a performance comes knocking at my door. If I ended up playing horribly at one of my recitals, it wouldn’t make a difference. The audience would simply come and go and I wouldn’t have to worry about it. But this, this is what I feel like I have been preparing for! I wonder why I even began to consider applying to conservatories despite the wishes of my parents!”

His legs quivered like they were being punished by the winter wind. At any moment, they would announce number twenty-three, and so that would be his time. He took four deep breaths. He tried to remember why he loved that Beethoven sonata, why he chose to play it, and how magical it sounded when he first heard it. He was a boy of only 9, not interested in any sort of music, but as the pianist played the first few notes of the sonata, it seemed like the elderly concert hall flourished into a paradise.

“That other pianist… he must’ve been feeling the same way I’m feeling now.” He uttered under his breath, chuckling.

“Look at me, turning the tables. I get so anxious because of stuff like this, I can’t help it. I’m nervous, perhaps even that is an understatement, but I’m nervous about something precious: I am making music. Whether it’s for the child who will be hearing this piece for the first time, or for the old man who sits near the entrance, my playing could be the last that man will ever hear. Oh, if only one could worry about these things more often”. He said with a tearful laugh.

As his racing thoughts gradually halted, he started to calm himself.

“Number twenty-three, Richard Kates, you’re up,” said the voice across the hall.

He buttoned his shirt and left the sheet music on the stool, marching onto the stage. The lights high up in the sky illuminated his trail. And so he bowed to his audience, sat down on the bench, and rung the first notes of the sonata.