The Little Sinfonietta has only a few concerts to go before embarking on their tour of the major cities and provinces. Later on, they plan to return and perform a few more concerts in the capital. The radio DJ announces the dates slowly, with a pause between each, which is to suggest he won’t be repeating them. Then he asks what the difference is between the young conductor of the Little Sinfonietta and all the other young conductors on the scene. The brilliant composer answers for him, saying it’s not only in the way he leads the orchestra, but in his manner of conducting, which has all the hallmarks of a great maestro, that sets him apart form the rest, and more besides, for he promises to one day surpass the great maestros as well. He illustrates his point by describing the way he conducts his No World Symphony. The DJ asks if after all the success, given their youth, there’s any time left to have some fun. The young conductor answers this time, saying everything’s a game, even this interview, and life itself. The girl thinks about abandoning this mantra once and for all, not because of an aversion to the idea motivating it, but because she wants to distance herself further from these so-called friends whom, lately, she’s come to detest. She doesn’t want anything she sees, hears, or even thinks about to remind her of their existence. A strange way to finally sever all association with them, she thinks, noting the contradiction in arriving at the resolution while listening to them being interviewed on the radio. The future is happening now, says the young conductor, and this is evident in the compositions of the brilliant composer. He then makes allowances for the ex-pianist turned writer. At this point, the listeners, and probably the whole world, are aware of her new obsession. It wouldn’t surprise him if she signed a contract with some major book publisher, he says, despite the fact she’s written nothing yet. Especially if her mother finally comes to terms with her change of vocation. The girl listens attentively. A moment of absurdity, she thinks. It’s as if she’s sitting there with them, or perhaps they know she’s listening. Doubt leads her to think it might be an old pre-recorded interview from before there was any malice between them. But she quickly dismisses this, since she doesn’t remember any such interview taking place. She looks at herself in the mirror. She’s so accustomed to her reflection it’s become invisible to her, although she still knows where her head is; what that head is thinking — that she doesn’t care what they say; that she should forget about them, and think again about the vigil in the Grand Central Station. A writer shouldn’t rely on inconsistent premises, she thinks, like her friends. Reality is different. If the young conductor really believes life’s a game, he should prove it or shut up about it — stop trumpeting it around like the latest fashion, trying to get noticed by inciting controversy. All the young conductor truly believes in is himself and his music. The girl still doesn’t understand why he complimented her on the radio. She’d like to see it as a belated act of recognition. And yet, his being a musician, and her being a writer, gives them very different conceptions of the world. This is a valid argument. And what about the brilliant composer? What does he think about? She sees the little guy, seated with the rest of the group around a large oval table, wearing headphones, perhaps perched on a chair with several cushions so he can see the interviewer. She laughs, imagining the DJ’s face moving swiftly between his script and the so-called brilliant kid, sitting on those cushions, swinging his legs above the floor, having to strain to reach the microphone. Nothing, the composer finally says, he believes in nothing because nothing’s worth believing in. He sits back in his chair. I’ve read somewhere that you can hear voices, says the interviewer to her replacement, the latest conquest. Is it true that you said they’re voices from another world? The girl can’t breathe. It’s if she just received a sucker punch to the stomach. The latest conquest says she was talking about voices that pronounce her name with a “ka.” She doesn’t know what this signifies yet, but she’s working on it. The girl can’t bear to continue listening, so she turns the radio off. Are they going to transform her replacement into a writer as well? Will they eventually cancel her performances too, and introduce her to another replacement, another impersonator, a plagiarist, an impostor? She dials the young conductor’s number. She notices her father’s pistol, half-hidden in one of the laptop case’s compartments, so she reaches in and grips it tightly, angrily. She should go to the church and declare herself perfectly healthy and ready to perform the
5 Pieces for piano. What they told the public is all lies. They canceled her performances out of their own personal interests. They really are all monsters, she thinks. They’ll go out of their way to wreck her career — not only as a pianist, but as a writer too — to rob her of a future. The line’s busy. She hangs up, breathing heavily, as if she’s just finished a long-distance run. She swears to give up her mantra at some point in the future, but not yet. Not while she still needs it. If something goes wrong, she repeats, it’s not that important, because it’s only part of a game. Everything’s a game. Life is only a game.