Vienna, From the Seats · The Long Way Down to Morning · Pulse Beat
She went back to the hall in Vienna as a member of the audience. Mira had bought the tickets, and the two of them sat in the dress circle with a paper bag of sweets, watching a nineteen-year-old from…
She went back to the hall in Vienna as a member of the audience.
Mira had bought the tickets, and the two of them sat in the dress circle with a paper bag of sweets, watching a nineteen-year-old from Seoul play the Sibelius with a fire that made the whole house lean forward. Anika, at twenty-eight, with a hand that did not always obey and a bow that no longer apologised, found that her chest ached with an unbearable gladness.
"You could have been down there," Mira whispered.
"No."
"You don't think..."
"I think I would not have been this," said Anika. She held up the left hand in the dark, flexed it, let it fall. "I'd have gone on playing with my jaw clenched, and I'd have missed everything else. The bridge. The listening year. Meenu." She smiled. "Mr D'Souza. My mother's tiffin."
Mira took her hand. They sat like that through the slow movement, while a girl on the stage played as if she were not afraid, and when the applause came, enormous, standing, Anika clapped until her palms stung, and did not once think that should have been me.