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Audition #28 - Prelude in E Minor (Hannibal)
A black-gloved finger worried the irksome splinter Erik had found under the railing of Box 5. The imperfection soured his mood considerably as he stood at that railing overlooking the stage of the City Opera House. He could pull the splinter from the underside of the railing, but it meant risking further harm to the wood finish. He could smooth it down again into the grain, but it would still be there. The best solution, he had decided, was to find some finish and revarnish this tiny spot. He was confident in his abilities to restore it to the perfection he demanded -- but for now, it infuriated him.
A minute more standing here, and he really would rip it out.
Erik lowered himself slowly into the plush red velvet behind him, one hand fisting on his knee. In the other hand was a single sheet of thick, creamy paper. On this paper, a program of times, names, and instruments or other talents. As the poorly-executed finish of the easiest aria out of Tosca finally died around him, blessed silence soothed his nerves. Into that silence, he let out a breath that he by habit kept as silent as the air around him. (He had learned, long ago, how to move and breathe and be as silent as possible -- and it was a skill he'd embedded so deeply that it was second nature now.)
The silence turned expectant. That hopeful, middle-aged City denizen stood with her face turned up toward his box, then swiveled toward the assistant who had been guiding her through the entire process. When Erik said nothing, did nothing, the assistant finally swept in and ushered her off the stage with gentle platitudes that she didn't deserve. For Erik's part, he dropped his head back for one brief moment and squinted at the brightly blazing chandelier over the orchestra pit. If that sow had sullied his stage for one minute more, it wouldn't have been platitudes that saw her off.
He'd already crossed out that sow's name from the list in his hand. Under that name with its heavy black line striking through it, came the next: a Dr. Hannibal Lecter, on piano. There were no other annotations, and Erik was forced to wonder if the man also knew the intricacies of the organ.
The applicants had been allowed to state their instrument of mastery, but Erik had personally chosen each piece for the applicant to perform. At his assistant's advice, the applicant had been advised at least two days in advance of the piece selected for them. The pieces were typically relatively simple -- but Erik had intention on focusing on the execution of those simple showcases, not simply on the ability to hit a note correctly.
Although... the sow hadn't even done that.
He scowled at his program. Chopin's Prelude in E minor, Op. 28, No. 4. A simple sheet read. The musicality was what made this piece. But given how today's auditions had gone so far, Erik had very little hope for the next applicant. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. The City Opera House manager settled back in his chair and braced himself for the worst.
A minute more standing here, and he really would rip it out.
Erik lowered himself slowly into the plush red velvet behind him, one hand fisting on his knee. In the other hand was a single sheet of thick, creamy paper. On this paper, a program of times, names, and instruments or other talents. As the poorly-executed finish of the easiest aria out of Tosca finally died around him, blessed silence soothed his nerves. Into that silence, he let out a breath that he by habit kept as silent as the air around him. (He had learned, long ago, how to move and breathe and be as silent as possible -- and it was a skill he'd embedded so deeply that it was second nature now.)
The silence turned expectant. That hopeful, middle-aged City denizen stood with her face turned up toward his box, then swiveled toward the assistant who had been guiding her through the entire process. When Erik said nothing, did nothing, the assistant finally swept in and ushered her off the stage with gentle platitudes that she didn't deserve. For Erik's part, he dropped his head back for one brief moment and squinted at the brightly blazing chandelier over the orchestra pit. If that sow had sullied his stage for one minute more, it wouldn't have been platitudes that saw her off.
He'd already crossed out that sow's name from the list in his hand. Under that name with its heavy black line striking through it, came the next: a Dr. Hannibal Lecter, on piano. There were no other annotations, and Erik was forced to wonder if the man also knew the intricacies of the organ.
The applicants had been allowed to state their instrument of mastery, but Erik had personally chosen each piece for the applicant to perform. At his assistant's advice, the applicant had been advised at least two days in advance of the piece selected for them. The pieces were typically relatively simple -- but Erik had intention on focusing on the execution of those simple showcases, not simply on the ability to hit a note correctly.
Although... the sow hadn't even done that.
He scowled at his program. Chopin's Prelude in E minor, Op. 28, No. 4. A simple sheet read. The musicality was what made this piece. But given how today's auditions had gone so far, Erik had very little hope for the next applicant. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. The City Opera House manager settled back in his chair and braced himself for the worst.