Giano sat behind the dark velvet curtains once again, just as he had so many times before. He liked this point in the performance. He could hear the crowd slowly gathering together just yards away from him. Shuffling the brochures, whispering to each other trying to impress one another with their knowledge of his work; though he knew, not a single one of them truly understood It. They could hear, but they could not feel; as one who can smell a feast, but not eat it. No matter however, he knew It. Now was not the time to worry about things such as this, it was almost that time.
He stood up and slowly walked out onto the stage. He maintained his image, wearing the classic black and white vestments as tradition demanded of him. The black cape-like garment ending as a lizard’s tongue. Giano understood how little these things mattered to It, however, his expenses told him otherwise. After all, there was no harm in the show was there? As long as the focus of his work relied on the singular It, his performance existed to peak and maintain their interest. But how few understood. Now was certainly not the time to dwell on such intricacies. After all, he was providing an experience. He was providing happiness for those who had little. Or maybe they were only here for sophistication’s sake… Nonetheless, he would do his work as he had deemed he should. It was not the fault of his audience that he focused on It so much. They were here for a show and Giano Jotello was being paid to give it to them.
Finally, with a simple (yet surprisingly well practiced and intricately thought out) flourish of the curtails, he sat on the bench. Even to this day he had not overcome the sight of that which was before him. The white contrasted with black. The sleek look of the thing itself, it was something truly beautiful. But a sham of a creation compared to that which he was about to display. If ever an audience had been quiet before, the overarching silence was as a clamor compared to the hushed surrounding. Surely such silence and respect would never again come over a crowd of individuals until the second coming of the Christ.
Then his fingers lightly touched the keys of the piano. Not yet depressing them, he waiting (for just a moment), with a practiced hesitation which only a true master of showmanship could foreknow. And just before the audience grew impatient with his sloth-like process, he began. He would start slow. Every note brought about with such delicate intricacy as the average man could not comprehend to produce. The inextricable beauty of his compilation was almost angelic in its properties. But he waited here for only a moment. Soon his left hand moved from a simple repeating C, to a chord. At the same time, his right hand would begin to make use of eighth notes instead of the original quartered ones. Very soon his slow melody has become more complex.
The audience bought that which he had sold to them with ease. He led them on a rope from simple beauty, to a much more complex emotion. Even in this state of mind, they did not understand. For Giano, each note held its own story. If he only had the time, he would contemplate that note for its whole value. Absorb its emotion to understand It all the more. Then, he would deeply think of that one, then that one, then the next. And so on and so forth he would move until he knew each one intimately. Only then could he understand It as he wished. But no matter, the music reverberated through his being nonetheless. In it was contained majesty, love, mystery, but he could only portray the bare surface of these to those outside. If only they understood!
Just then he transitioned once again. This time he moved from the peak of the song, the moment in which his whole skill was displayed, down to the saddest piece he had ever penned. Its utter simplicity did not shadow the effect in the slightest. As if by use of remote control, the crowd was moved to tears on his command. The men and women alike reduced to a blubbering mess. But for what reason? Most of the women cried simply because they saw the same action performed by the societal elites. And the men, they wept to impress to women nearest them. They did not even have the vaguest recognition of It, but Giano did.
And so he played. Even if the only true audience in the amphitheater was himself, he played for the most captivated group he had yet seen. His heart taken captive by its own creation. His feelings so intense that he felt no real need to show them externally through tears or contorted expression. Rather he allowed his soul recompense through an internal rejoice only found in that beautiful, life-encapsulating wholeness he found only when he played his music. Giano once said that he could almost hear a melodious sound in that moment when he first met Him and that his work was merely a project of reconstruction of the most perfect harmony even he had ever known.
However, now was not the occasion in which to think of such things. Now was the time to focus. Time, once again, had flown by as only it could when he sat at the bench and the night had dwindled without giving him even the quietest warning. As he approached the finale, perfection was necessary. Were he to jar even one false note at this crucial time, he would lose his wonderful, (paying) crowd. He owed them something much more. Maybe he owed it to them to teach what It was…
Of all times, places and dates now was not the correct one to dwell. So, with once again practiced detail, he slowly quieted the song. All the while slowing the tempo. Reducing the complexity. He wound himself down to the end, and touched the last note with such an airy lightness as nothing else could project with vaguest utterance. And so he sat. He waited for the moment which he knew was to come. He counted the seconds. (Seven to be exact, just as he had projected.) Then started to turn towards the audience, his audience, as they burst into thunderous applause. He gracefully rose to his feet and bowed before them. Once, twice and then a third time, making sure to look certain individuals in the eye as he did so. Then slowly walked off the stage.
Tomorrow he would perform again, to another audience which would laugh and cry. They would eat out of the palm of his hand, but would not begin to understand It. No matter the melody, no matter the tempo or perfection of playing style he could not make them know It. Never feel, only hear. Never taste, only smell. As he sat pondering these things, he heard a faint rustling. His curiosity aroused, and any distraction a blessing, he turned and peered out into the darkness expecting to see some distinguished gentlemen wishing to speak, but saw something he did not expect. There stood a small and filthy boy in the center of the room.
Giano slowly crept over to the boy, who looked no older than the age of ten and appeared frozen as a deer in the view of a car’s headlights. He asked the boy what it was that he wanted and the boy told him of his love of Giano’s music. The boy was inspired and wished only to be like him some day. And so, without a word, Giano walked him over to the piano and began to teach. Time passed as the dreamlike state continued, for neither wished to leave. They stayed and dwelled in the music, an inexplicable love born into each of them. Into the early hours of the following day they played. Finally, the boy found it necessary to depart (likely to avoid a stiffer beating) and the two said their farewells. But just before the boy left, Giano noticed something, the fire in his eyes. It was the same as in his. In all of his years, through all of his careful contemplation and expertise not one had understood. Through a few simple hours of melodic ramblings, the boy had grown to understand It. He could taste It. He could feel It.
Few would understand why Giano cancelled the next day’s show; none would comprehend why the next two months were made void of his performances. That is, none except for Giano himself. People looked down on him with contempt as they learned of him becoming a lowly piano teacher to children, when he could have accomplished so much. But Giano did not care about such opinions, for before he had only instilled the vaguest curiosities in his listeners. Now, with the investment of his life into others, with his willingness to sacrifice and love, others began to fully understand the Passion.
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