“’Bizarre’? What a fitting description to give yourself.”
Keats laughs to himself, shaking his head at Belgae’s conclusion.
“After all, I’m not the one entertaining a guest without actually making himself known. Seems clear to me that you like this mystery charade just as much as I do, if not more.”
And he does enjoy their annoying little play. It carves out a place in his life that isn’t tainted by the mundane pieces he’s had to fabricate his own opinions on for the last few years. Still, it isn’t as though he doesn’t write about Belgae– the most strident details of their meetings are thoughtfully translated to word in his personal journal. The skepticism in even his dullest pieces is slowly replaced by an engaged cleverness.
When he receives the letter, he has an inkling of what it is before even opening it. The sheer embellishment sets it apart from the white envelopes of bills or the taupe-orange of unedited manuscript.
It’s only upon opening that he knows how urgent the matter is. He smiles to himself. How utterly shortsighted of Belgae to send a notice for something the day of. Regardless, his fingers trace over the sweeping letters. He lifts the paper to his face to smell rich camphor, keeps the letter among personal articles in his desk drawer.
Keats rummages through his closet, finally picking a suit from the back– a tailored three-piece bought with the intention to have it serve in case of any conference or formal event.
He shows up at seven fifty-nine with unkempt hair and a single, cellophane-wrapped white rose in hand. His notebook and pen are heavy against his chest in the breast pocket of his jacket. Keats recognizes nobody in the small crowd, and feels no shame in taking a front row seat, his hands clasped idly together as he waits for a spectacle.
Part of Belgae doesn’t believe Keats will come, but the smaller part of him that hopes he does is much louder, much more dominant. The house isn’t quite packed until the doors close at 8PM proper, the crowd hushing as the lights disappear, a single spotlight illuminating the old piano on stage, empty as it sits.
There’s no nervousness, no anxiety, no pre-show jitters that Belgae feels; it’s been far too long since he’s ever felt those, and he doubts he ever will. There’s no murmur, no cough, nothing on the opposite side of the stage curtain, until he starts walking out. The hardwood floor gives only a minor echo to the heels of his shoes as he strides, head held high and back straight, a ghost in a memory. That brings about a quiet murmur that rolls through the crowd, most present having been skeptics that their host even existed, but all having heard the same story from previous attendees.
The bench is placed the proper distance from the piano, allowing Belgae to slide in effortlessly as his fingers pinch the tops of his gloves, tugging them free from each hand and letting them sit on the edge of the bench. The hush is deafening in the concert hall, before the old walls reverberate each keystroke effortlessly, even as they start small. The songs start out with an obvious pace, crescendoing as the night rolls on, and even though there’s an orchestra pit beneath, it remains empty; despite this, the final songs give the semblance of having accompanying instruments, and had anyone known any lesser, they would believe that the accompaniments were recordings.
But Belgae’s fingers continue to fly effortlessly over the old keys, eyes hardly having to follow from behind his porcelain mask. He feels so at home like this, that he almost loses himself until the final note trills into a fade, and he’s brought back to reality, standing and moving out from behind the bench, bowing, and vanishing behind the curtain as it closes to a roaring crowd of applause.
It’s only a minor shame that when they leave, they’ll have the memory of what they witnessed, and the emotion, and yet be wholly unable to put into words what was experienced.
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