Ben Bradmore Presents Her Last Recital - A Tense Page-Turning Thriller

But Robert had nothing new to say. He’d already painted a true picture of Hattie as a promising pianist who stayed out of trouble. Yes, she could be disorganised, disengaged, sullen, but she wasn’t the sort to get involved with the wrong crowd. It was hard to imagine what the wrong crowd would even look like at the academy – students who practised their scales for five hours a day instead of six? Students who thought Beethoven was overrated?...

It was the tricky alternating-octaves passage of "Rondo Alla Turca," which made Hattie cringe at her small hands. She could still play it better than anyone else her age, and better than most pianists in the country, but now she was more aware than ever that her finger-stretching hadn’t helped enough. The piece just didn’t shine. As she waited for Robert to deliver his criticism – which she was beginning to think might actually be deserved after all – she found herself pulling on the ends of her fingers, making the bones click in ways they just weren’t supposed to. “This fingering is all over the place,” said Robert, shaking his head. Hattie waited for the sound of sniggers behind her, but none came. Back at school, everyone had laughed whenever Mr Henderson talked about fingering in keyboard club, but the academy wasn’t a place where people laughed much at all. “I don’t like the octaves,” whispered Hattie. “You can’t like or dislike octaves. They simply exist. You might as well say you don’t like the number eight, or sharps, or flats.” Hattie balled her hands into fists. The tips of her fingers were hurting worse than ever, but that didn’t stop her from clenching in rage. Why did he talk to her like this? Why did he have to belittle everything she said like she was a stupid kid? She was one of the most talented young musicians in the country, probably the most, but all she got for that was punishment and scorn. She was so busy being angry that she barely noticed Robert sitting next to her on the piano stool. Suddenly there was music playing as he blasted through the fast-octave section on the piano, his arms stretched across her but not touching her. His playing was technically accurate, but Hattie knew it wouldn’t make waves on the concert circuit. He played like a teacher, not a pianist. But that didn’t stop him raising his eyebrows once he’d finished the passage, waiting for her to admit that she hadn’t managed to play it like he did. When she said nothing, the applause from the students seated behind her covered the silence. She knew it was mainly girls clapping. They always clapped Robert, because the awkward boys their own age who attended the academy were nothing to clap about. Finally, after another rant – this time about her posture - the session finished and it was someone else’s turn to get torn to shreds. Hattie slunk back to take her place in the semi-circle, relieved to no longer have a piano stool beneath her. She spent the rest of the morning staring at the floor. But even with her eyes averted, she felt Robert’s piercing gaze from across the room.

~~~

Sometimes excellence can become a burden, specially for young teens who have become sufficienly efficient on their chosen instrument to be selected to attend an exclusive academy where they would receive personal attention and support toward moving forward in their skill levels, perhaps sufficient to be chosen to play in a major orchestra... or, even as a premier soloist...

Hattie, our main character was the youngest student to come to the academy. Her parents had supported her love of the piano since she had first started picking out songs... Indeed, her talent had been such that she had already been invited to travel all over the world and had gained a wonderful reputation.

However, here at the academy, where all types of communcation were forbidden... where their parents were not permitted to visit except for scheduled concerts, and where competition was purposely developed as small groups were taught by one tutor to which all compliments and criticisms were heard by all. It was a dismal sort of school environment where the joy of music, their love and passion, was reduced to boredom, tedious repetition, and a feeling that you could just not succeed no matter how your tried...

Hattie had become so tight--frustrated that she had lost the ability which had garnered her such praise. Discussions on fingering occurred often and Hattie became so insecure that she started pulling on her fingers privately, trying to get the ability to handle the octaves that occurred in many classical selections. A concert was coming up and she hoped to select a piece on which she could excel... Practice, practice, practice was demanded constantly once the date was actually scheduled... Her parents had been invited and she was anxiously looking forward to seeing them, having had their support and praise since her early years.

But she had been assigned Mozart’s Fantasia in d minor rather than the Mozart selection she had hoped to play... The schedule had been finalized and the control and demand on each student had heighten to a point that each student barely had time to breathe or sleep...and... finally the day was there and they moved to the location of the recital where each student would be given the opportunity to play on the actual instrument they would be using in the concert. Finally Hattie was called to the recital room...

Everyone took it in turns to go and practise alone on the grand piano in the centre of the stage, so that they’d be familiar with the key weightings and the tone. When it was Hattie’s turn to leave the dressing room, she sensed Robert moving to follow her. But then someone asked him a question and his pursuit was stopped. She was relieved to reach the stage alone. It was just her and the dim pre-performance lighting. She could see the shadowy forms of the seats stretching away into the inky black, where only the emergency lights of the entrances and exits rooted her in reality. Breathing deeply, she started the slow, atmospheric climb of the opening bars of Fantasia in d minor. The stage seemed to warp and bend as she transitioned into the dissonant chords that followed, the lights winking at her as she reached the descending bassline, then the trill, then the playful climbing harmonies in the left hand. When she launched into the fast and frenzied scales that signalled a radical change of pace, she felt as though she was lifting steadily off the ground. It was all she could do to keep control of the intricate fingering as she emerged into the slower, dreamy passage that mirrored the start of the piece. Her fingers sang and screamed in a mixture of ecstasy and pain, thanking and berating her for the ritual stretching. At the end of the piece, the silence was life-affirming. She drank in the absence of applause, the absence of chairs thumping, the absence of Robert stern and motionless in the front row. This was what playing was all about. It was about another world altogether, a world barely connected to this one but mirroring all the love and hurt of life. And every time she stretched her fingers, she was reaching closer to that other world and drifting further out of this one. A nagging fear told her this habit was unhealthy, that she was harming herself inside and out, but was it really any more harmful than the pressures of the academy? Hattie let out a long breath. The performance she’d just delivered was the real recital. She promised herself she’d remember the silence, and cling to it when the noise of the academy and Robert made her tremble. Then a thought struck her. If she’d just given the real performance, the one that really counted, then why did she have to perform later? What if she didn’t play the recital at all? What if, during the shadowy intimacy of her playing just now, the emergency lights had been beckoning her to find a way out? A strange tingling sensation spread through her limbs. There were bubbles in her stomach. Her ankles twitched with the urge to make her stand up. For a moment, she felt sick. This urge to move was all wrong. She was supposed to stay seated at the piano almost every hour of every day, and the idea of voluntarily moving away from it scared her. But it was happening. She couldn’t control it. Even the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up now, urging the rest of her body to follow. Slowly, steadily, her heart pounding and her skin prickling with sweat, Hattie rose from the piano stool, pulled her dress up above her knees, and made her way towards the exit.

~~~

And no further music was heard...

Hattie was gone... We learn later that she walked out away from the academy facility... somebody else saw a truck, but had not seen it near Hattie... A complete search was organized, students were returned to their own rooms...finally, the police were called in...

He knew this was the moment something awful had started. This was day one. Disappearance day. In all the confusion, only one thing was clear: He had to get her back.

The major part of this book will be the suspense, the mystery, the questions of whether she is alive or dead... The author has created an intricately enmeshed thriller that will pull readers on to the next page, exploring exactly what happened to Hattie...

Did she run away from the pressure? Was she kidnapped? Did she have an accident somewhere where there is no way to call for help? As everybody is interviewed that day, the pollice worked to narrow down who could have been involved... And, then, a break occurred when a social media poster shared her personal thoughts, which wound up moving the investigation toward a specific person... Only to later have her admit when she was called in with her mother to talk about her providing official testimony at court, that she had lied...

Back to square one? Yes and No, because at that point, readers are not quite sure of anything, including whether a crime had occurred. Let's be truthful, this author had us guessing up to very close to the end of the book! So much so that there is no way I can say more... Especially when you've been talking about classical music that is hundreds of year old... Well, I could only think of one way to move it forward... to turn the beat around!

Enjoy this one!

GABixlerReviews