Concerto in Chroma Major

  Copyright © 2018 Naomi Tajedler

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-66-5 (trade)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-67-2 (ebook)

  Published by Interlude Press

  http://interludepress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Book and Cover Design by CB Messer

  Base Photography for Cover © depositphotos.com/vkraskouski/cherju/jentara/tommasolizzul/masterlu

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Interlude Press, New York

  This book is dedicated to the loving and aching memory of Alain Aaron Abraham Tajszeydler, who instilled in me a love for music before I could even draw my first breath, who taught me that learning is a never-ending process.

  Every passing day makes your absence more present.

  The piano keys are black and white but they sound like a million colors in your mind.

  —Maria Cristina Mena

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Ch 1

  Ch 2

  Ch 3

  Ch 4

  Ch 5

  Ch 6

  Ch 7

  Ch 8

  Ch 9

  Ch 10

  Ch 11

  Ch 12

  Ch 13

  Ch 14

  Ch 15

  Ch 16

  Ch 17

  Ch 18

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  The characters in the story are human, with their flaws and imperfections, but they grow and learn—as we all do.

  At the beginning of the story, a main romantic lead is someone who has been so completely sheltered from the “real world,” that she talks without thinking and seems insensitive. The whole point of the story is to show that she, like all of us, can learn and grow to become the best version of herself.

  Her biphobia is something that I, a bisexual Jewish woman, have experienced ever since I came out, and I wanted to show that it happens and can be changed through love and patience.

  While this story is a contemporary romance first and foremost, it contains some elements that could be disturbing for readers.

  These elements include:

  Biphobia, fatphobia, insensitivity, miscommunication, graphic sex scenes, intrusive thoughts, and anxiety; prior to the story but mentioned—homophobia.

  (www.interludepress.com/content-warnings)

  Because this story involves citizens of the world, several languages are used. A glossary is available at the end of the book.

  Prologue

  F Major

  Persian Green, Turquoise, and Spots of Marigold

  Chin in her million-dollar-insured hands, Halina Piotrowski must admit it: She has grown bored with her wandering life, with never settling down, with not having a home, with not even keeping track of where her manager has booked her. Just for once, Halina would appreciate the chance to explore the city where she performs. She doesn’t think it’s that unreasonable to want to know where she is and what makes the city, beyond its airport, fancy hotel, and concert hall. It takes her a moment to remember which American city is hosting her now.

  “Psiakrew!”

  She slams her fists against the piano keys and swears; the Polish consonants are sharp under her breath. The discordant notes echo through the empty auditorium and sharpen her frustration. They also bring to a sudden halt her assistant, who has been droning a recitation of her program for the next days. With a question in their eyes, Ari cocks their head. Halina waves at them to go on.

  Ari Fowler is more than her assistant. They’re her best friend, and she trusts them with her life, quite literally on a daily basis.

  “Rehearsal with the orchestra at three, followed by an interview with The Guardian and a light dinner. Do you prefer to eat alone or—” Ari goes back to their bullet points. Their long frame is stretched against the grand piano.

  Halina jumps into the window of opportunity. “No.”

  “No? No dinner?”

  “No dinner for me,” Halina clarifies. She stands and gathers the sheet music strewn over the lid of the piano. “I want to walk around the city, get some fresh air.”

  Ari closes the notebook. “Is there something you need me to do?”

  Halina shakes her head. “I want to… Ari, I need to do more than just perform.”

  “You do more than just perform,” Ari replies softly as they put their hand on her elbow to make her face them. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  Halina shrugs off their hand and puts on her leather jacket. Its wide collar shields her face, giving her time to consider the offer, and she furtively glances at Ari.

  Ari Fowler has been her constant companion for the last five years. Their carefully designed, androgynous style is a recent development; the sharp angles of the outfit they wear do wonders for their figure as it highlights their narrow waist and the curves of their hips. Their bangs—this month a platinum blond—and minimalist color theme match the severe set of their face and age them just enough to give them authority.

  “Only if you lighten up a bit,” Halina finally replies.

  “I’ll get changed before we go to the symphony hall.” Ari’s face is illuminated by a rare smile.

  They’re smiling now, a treacherous voice whispers in the back of Halina’s mind, until they leave for someone better, someone who will be nicer to them and is more talented than you…

  Halina wills the venom out of her head with a roll of her shoulders and a quick wince. It has been three years; her mother shouldn’t have such a presence, such power over her and her thoughts.

  “We can go to the Space Needle and the library, the one with the yellow stairs, and we’ll eat some teriyaki salmon. Let me find a good place…”

  “We have to get a coffee at the original Starbucks,” Halina adds, silencing the voice of doubt to try to enjoy the present.

  Ari graces her with a judgmental expression. Halina is tempted to take a picture and make it Ari’s profile picture in her contacts list. She’s tempted, but her sense of self-preservation is stronger.

  “Duh.” Ari returns their attention to their phone. “And some motherfucking doughnuts.”

  “And some motherfucking doughnuts,” Halina repeats with a snort of laughter. Ari’s rare curses are one treat she has learned to enjoy.

  “But first, rehearsal and the interview; there’s no way around it.”

  “No, indeed,” Halina whispers as she drops onto the piano bench. Her fingers tap a gentle, bittersweet melody against the fallboard—Mark Knopfler’s tribute to Seattle suits her just fine.

  “Halina, are you…” Ari’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle. “Are you okay?”

  Halina closes her eyes as she rests her forehead against the cool, varnished wood. Her fingers are still on the keys. “I think I’m tired of this, Ari.”

  “This?”

  “All of this: the travels, the hotels, the uncertainty of the tomorrows. I—I need to stop moving for a while.”

  Ari stays silent behind her. Halina can practically hear their mind’s cogs turning at full speed, making a l
ist of pros and cons.

  “On it. I’ll call Bhasin and ask him to find more permanent engagements.”

  Ari Fowler and Saral Bhasin—her very own dynamic duo. What change her life has been through since they entered it! Now she hopes they’ll be able to help her regain balance.

  Ch 1

  C Major

  Reds and Chartreuse

  The metallic structure stands before them, an alien ziggurat in the middle of Parisian suburbs. On one side, its sharp angles contrast with the 1970s buildings in the background. The other side, curvier and more complex, is still under construction. Metallic elements glint in the August morning. Whichever sides she chooses to look at, Alexandra Graff has to crane her neck to get a good view.

  She was quite fond of the former Philharmonie, all wood, velvet, and history. This new building has none of the previous incarnation’s aesthetic or appeal. That assessment will stay within the confines of her mind, though. The people in power have spent a crazy amount of money, millions upon millions, on this project, and adding the Philharmonie to her résumé would be fantastic. Voicing her opinion would only put her big break in jeopardy.

  All her work, since she arrived in Paris and opened her studio, building its reputation from the ground up, has led to this opportunity. It’s not her success alone, naturally. The studio has thrived because of her talent and her partner’s creativity. And Leo can’t seem to hide his glee any more than Alexandra can. They stand at the bottom of the metal and stone ramp leading to the entrance of the Philharmonie. The photobooks in his hands limit Leo’s natural exuberance; he would clap his hands if he could.

  “Showtime, bud.”

  Leo straightens and squares his shoulders as they walk along the ramp up to the construction site where Paris’s new concert hall will open soon.

  “The freakin’ Philharmonie,” Leo says under his breath for perhaps the hundredth time since two days ago, when they got the appointment for their meeting. “Our work is going to be exhibited in the freakin’ Philharmonie.”

  “Hold your horses.” Alexandra walks faster to match his speed despite their height difference. “It’s not a done deal yet. Can you imagine how many artists must be competing for this?”

  “Ay, carissima, don’t be so negative,” Leo retorts, bumping into her. “Our work speaks for itself. It’s brilliant, and everybody worth their salt will have to admit it.” He pauses, and a cocky grin stretches his lips. “And we come highly recommended, don’t we?”

  Not too long ago, his smile and the russet quality of his voice would have turned Alexandra’s legs to jelly and made her accept anything he said. Those days are over, and Mr. Neri doesn’t have the same influence on her, but she can still appreciate the calm his presence grants her.

  “Indeed, we do,” she replies with a new spring in her step as the entrance to the strange structure comes into view. “I never imagined my glassblowing master would suggest my name for a job of this magnitude.”

  Leo barks a laugh, and the sound echoes against the stone and the metal. It evokes swirls of copper at the forefront of Alexandra’s synesthetic mind. “Pretty sure your apprenticeship left an impression in Sue-Ji’s bed too—must have helped jog her memory.”

  Alexandra elbows him. He misses a step but manages not to drop the portfolio. “Do you imply I fucked my way to where I am?” She squints at him, tongue sharp and ready to lash out. “’Cause the last time I checked, I didn’t sleep with any of our patrons to seal any deal.”

  “Neither did I,” Leo replies, his most angelic mask on. “Not implying anything, boss.”

  “Right, because we are professional.” She softens as she refocuses on the task ahead. “And I prefer to believe Sue-Ji’s recommendation is based on the quality of my work rather than on my sexual prowess.”

  Leo’s brown eyes seem to darken. “Once this is over, you want to remind me of that or…?”

  “Psh, be serious.”

  Leo shrugs off her rejection. “Certo. That’s our contact?”

  Alexandra sees a woman at the entrance of the building. Her short white hair and pantsuit match the building and contrast with the rich brown of her skin.

  “I told you they were allergic to colors,” Leo whispers, and Alexandra takes a deep breath to control her laugh before she introduces herself.

  “Madame Loupan, I suppose?” Alexandra says.

  The woman shakes her hand. “Mademoiselle Graff, Monsieur Neri, bienvenus.”

  “I’d shake your hand, signora,” Leo says, “but mine are a bit full.”

  “So it seems,” Mme. Loupan replies with a raised eyebrow as she surveys the stack in his hands. “Color me curious.”

  Alexandra is very careful not to glance at Leo, lest they both start giggling at the executive director’s choice of words. “These are our portfolios, to show you what we achieved in the past and what we propose in general, based on the information you sent us.” She falls into step with the director as they enter the shell of the structure. “Adjustments might be necessary, but we are always flexible; it all depends on the budget.”

  Michèle Loupan takes three helmets from a metal basket and hands one to each of them. “Mademoiselle Yong was adamant you were precisely the answer to our quest.” She guides them to a series of naked rooms of white curvy walls where two men wait for them. “Hence this hastily scheduled interview. The floor is yours.”

  The two men introduce themselves as Monsieur Padirac and Monsieur Rochard, members of the board of directors for the Philharmonie and in charge of relationships with patrons and sponsors.

  Alexandra opens the largest portfolio. As Leo slowly turns the pages, she points out the finer details. “As you can see, we specialize in creating stained glass for pre-existing spaces and blending them into their environments.” Her voice is more confident as she presents her creations. “Our patterns are abstract. They highlight the lines of the architecture that will surround the panels. I believe we could create an ensemble of stained glass panels to match the Philharmonie’s energy and versatility.” She pauses, keeping a firm rein on her words before they can tumble out of her mouth. “Through the different colors and thicknesses of the glass and the use of a variety of widths of lead, we give light a physicality to inhabit the room it’s presented in.”

  “What about windows not exposed to natural light?” Padirac asks. His high voice grates on Alexandra’s nerves. She blinks to remove the sharp greens and yellows his voice brings to her mind.

  “How do you mean?” she asks.

  Loupan glares at Padirac, a confirmation that Alexandra is not the only one irritated by his interruption. Padirac shrinks into himself and mutters an apology.

  “Our first foyer is the room where the chosen work will stand. It will be completely closed off from the outside,” Loupan says, “which means the art will have to be self-sufficient, lighting-wise.”

  “Given this room’s arrangement, I assume the foyer is somewhere else,” Leo intervenes, his head tilted to the curved, floor-to-ceiling windows. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation in the foyer itself?”

  “Indeed, Monsieur Neri,” Rochard replies. His baritone booms in the empty space in the form of deep sapphire blue spheres through which paple pink lines appear. “But it’s undergoing construction as we speak. We’ll have to use the architectural model to show you what we expect from you. Monsieur Padirac, if you don’t mind helping me?”

  “Not at all, Monsieur Rochard.” Padirac rushes out of the room.

  While they wait for him to return, Alexandra lets the sounds around them come to the forefront of her mind. The echo of the construction appears as green ripples across the fluidity of the beltway noises on the canvas of her mind. The clangs of metal become orange lines raining over it, crisscrossing and splitting the space. The footsteps on cement that echo against the bare walls turn into ephemeral white and gold c
ircles.

  Alexandra tries to picture the finished building. Do the plans include rich materials to make this colossus of cement and wood more comfortable and approachable? Will it remain bare and minimalist, composed of raw materials the audience will be able to ignore to focus on the music and nothing else?

  As if cued by her inner questions, Rochard and Padirac return with a squeaky trolley bearing a model. Designed as a man-made hill, the building is divided into offices, small concert rooms, and the big auditorium. While the auditorium seating curves around the stage, some balcony seats appear almost to hang in the air, as if clouds or satellites. The design is more poetic than Alexandra would have guessed from the building’s exterior.

  “Here,” Loupan points, and they all come closer to study the miniature room. “Within the folds of the roof, right above the stage.”

  In one swift move, Alexandra takes off her jacket and pulls her notebook from her pocket. She holds it up for Loupan’s authorization to sketch the room and the position of the installation they may be commissioned to create for the only spot left blank in the detailed model.

  Padirac had a point; the space cannot welcome windows. It can host decorative pieces, though, perhaps a folding screen. Leo comes to her side to point out some of the differences in shape and shadows created by the architecture, elements they will need to take into account if they do get the contract.

  “What we want is a work of art to fill the whole wall.” Loupan’s eyes dart between the model and Alexandra’s notebook. “A bold, spectacular piece. A work with the strength to complement Monsieur Novel’s vision for the Philharmonie without being overshadowed by it.”

  Alexandra and Leo nod as she writes this down.

  “How could we illuminate it?” Leo mumbles.

  “What about LED lighting?” Alexandra whispers back.

  “It will be easy to incorporate that into the structure, even if we have to do it within the frame,” Leo agrees. “Economic, consistent light throughout and green energy. We’ll have to experiment a little to secure the wires to the structure, but it’s perfectly manageable.”