pianst

You're asking? M'bone joints used to itch each time it rained, oh, terrible, I couldn't stand it. Now with all the Herr's done, I dip in the tub and m'body comes out sixty years younger!

You see that, Czerny, Frau Ursula's life is never better! That's you, you made it happen!

Mrm... mm.

Here, take this! Fine wine, the finest, they love it all day in the Cliffy Patio. If you knew how long it took me to get it from that asshole running the cafe...

You're too kind, too kind. We're havin' supper right now, stay and have some, ja?

No need.

There was this whole party of people the other day, couldn't tell you where from, come 'in search of the place where the great composer Czerny was born'.

At that very same time I was drumming up customers with my accordion, and whoof, good day for the ol' fried sauerkraut stand. If I ever get business like that again, oh, you bet I'm there.

Right, you get on with it!

Mein Herr, what's the matter with you? Someone drops by, and he's here to housewarm you. You don't even say hello?

I was quite a hassle to him before, so it's just... a little awkward for me.

Hassle? Oh, that fight, you mean, the one you had.

*clears throat*.

Old news, old. You told him sorry, and you heard him, you were just caring too much, that's all. Him, he holds nothing against you.

That was...

I know, you're not too good with words. The whole Afterglow knows, ja? We know.

But I'll tell you what you do have, now. It's too much temper.

Fräulein Fanny, when she couldn't taste the food she ate? She didn't know up from down she was so sick, that's why she thought, gosh, they must be doing it to me on purpose. Then you come along and get carried away with it, why?

Scared the daylights out of me when you stormed up to his stand, never saw you so furious in all my life—

...My bad, my bad. Eat, go on, let's eat.

Ursula.

What is it, Mein Herr?

Would you say, if I went to that funeral, then more of that... business, that the Herr mentioned, would come in?

If I should show my weakness to the ones who don't give a shit about our fates, to let them scrutinize me, then would the Afterglow... have a few more houses with bathtubs, maybe?

Mein Herr...

No, this is wrong. This isn't how music should be. At least not my music.

But...

'Because I know neither I, nor my music, will make it out of our little Afterglow again.'

'Promise me. Don't end up like me. Do better than I did... okay?'

Mein Herr, where're you off to?

Gertrude.

The sooner I accept her invitation, the sooner I can start arranging <i>Morgen und Abend</i> for solo piano.

Time flies.

The previous Graf Strollo's funeral is already halfway through. The performance is set to begin.

Czerny lifts his head, looking into the distance. The lofty buildings of the Cliffy Patio enter his vision, yet in his mind's eye, he sees that afternoon with Fanny, passing by the Afterglow Hall again and again.

He gives an imperceptible bow to the crowd, seats himself, and begins to perform.

They had an Infected play for this funeral?

Obviously she's seizing on her brother's death for the chance to sell more records.

A piano solo? I highly doubt whether a single piano grants him enough to evoke both a flute and a cello's manners at once.

The musician's ears are sharp. He hears every ill-willed voice picking away at him, before the performance is even truly underway.

He bites at his tongue in regret, but it's too late to stop playing now.

He's already heard everything, but he needs to force himself not to hear anything.

The melody trickles through the grounds. The noise doesn't subside, and yet, it gradually begins to fade away from him.

Morgen und Abend.

From first light to last.

If a flute is clarity, light, expanse, like an unbounded sunrise atop the hill, then the piano's morning sun is addled by a shawl of mist.

Sunlight bathes the earth in equal measure, never dwindling for the parched, nor strengthening for the clouded.

The wisps of chill emanating from the first light feel almost ruthless.

...Bold arrangement.

I still don't think it's quite on the mark. Can you really call this morning sun? What could a morning sun like this possibly illuminate?

Perhaps nothing at all.

He's quite engrossed.

I'd posit it's the first he's ever performed for so much nobility. He'd do well to seize the chance.

But if you ask me, Strollo—and not the one flitting around the attendance, I mean the one in the coffin—he's had the short end of the stick.

The man spent so long living in his father's shadow, and he could barely come into power himself before illness whisked him right back out. To boot, an Infected playing at his funeral.

From first light to last.

A hammer can never shudder the listener's heartstrings as the bow does, stirring the doleful scarlet shadows of the setting sun.

And so, he chooses to perform the most ordinary afterglow one could know.

The sun is setting soon. It's time for us to go to sleep.

Hurried gasps. The scent of bed. That orange ceiling. The scattered stars glimpsed through deep blue curtains.

At its jet-black nadir, the night holds the departed close. The light still lingers. The musician, ignoring them all, performs that deep, shivering green where light and dark intertwine.

Violent yet tranquil, profound yet mundane. The most ordinary of forever partings.

Graf Strollo, you tragedy... *sigh*.

Timid, shrunken bastard. Laughed at his own words as if apologizing for everything he said, even after succeeding the title.

The last time I saw him, he gave me the wrong gift. I jeered at him to my heart's content... And now, damn it all, it's like he's still there, laughing along.

What drives me to do that, my god—

...Shh.

(Sniffs)

From first light to last.

The sun climbs up in its track, up to its apex, so high as to steal the breath from you. Then in gentle leisure it descends, until the murk of twilight, until it sinks into the earth.

In the face of the sun, we are insignificant, exposed, our wealth of emotion our greatest treasure, one amounting to so, so little.

If we could tarry just a little longer in this mortal coil, could we see the pain vanished, the wrinkles smoothed, the love we've lost made young by the dusk of rising east and dawn of setting west?

But we are no more than motes in the confines of time. In the end, we part.

A thorough and achingly open parting.

The final note disappears into the late rays' winds.

They blow it away from Vyseheim, to some place far beyond the eye, and only then do the whispers finally surface again.

Now these murmurings are solemn and restrained, interspersed with low sobs.

...You know who I'm reminded of? My uncle. A veteran who retired from the field, terrible temper. Never much humored me. And then eventually he became senile.

I visited him once before he passed. Just so happened to find him burning his things in the garden. The wind came and carried away all that paper ash, like grey snow falling into the sky.

Czerny, Czerny...

My god, there's nothing fair about a man's fate. How could he have been born here? How could he be an Infected?

You're quiet.

(Sniffs) I... *sigh*... what else can I say? What am I fit to say?

Once I'm home, once I've calmed down, I'll write a mild review. You know, that's highest praise coming from me. But for now—

(Takes a deep breath)

Let's talk about something else. Have you noticed Herr Ed? He's the most esteemed of the critics Dame Strollo invited here, but I haven't seen him at all.

Dame Strollo was just looking for him at the burial site.

Just? While Herr Czerny was playing?

Yes.

Czerny slowly lets out a very pent-up breath.

His ears are sharp. He's heard everything, the voices flummoxed by prejudice, yet shaken by art... by their own vulnerability.

He wipes the tears from his face, and incidentally catches sight of Gertrude.

Herr Ed, I count my blessings that you suffered no misfortune while lost in the Afterglow alleys.

The onus lies with me, that I had you so graciously lead me out, and miss Herr Czerny's performance in the process.

I wouldn't be so sure. Didn't we hear it, even from where we were? What beautiful music.

Gertrude forgets to hide her formality smile as she turns her head, forgets to switch to one of grief, and that is how she makes eye contact with Czerny.

Once she takes notice of how incongruous the musician's red eyes and her own expression are, only then does she realize she's made a huge mistake.

Would that she could take it back, she thinks, as she maintains the smile on her face, leaves the critic it was meant for behind, and quickly paces over to him.

As she expected, Czerny is also walking up to meet her.

What is Czerny doing? Striding right over to Dame Strollo? Not one acknowledgement for the audience?