He begins to unfold it.
“What are you doing?” She jumps up, trying to grab it back.
He lifts it above his head, taking it out of her reach. People stare in their direction, but Benja does not seem to care. Aris stops trying to take the bird back. The curious eyes make her feel uneasy.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says and leads Benja out of the room.
They find a quiet corner behind a column.
“We have to get to the message,” Benja says and begins to unfold it.
“I hope you know how to put it back together,” says Aris.
“Do you know that the Japanese believed if one folded a thousand origami cranes, one’s wish would come true?”
“I just want the one back,” she says, “Do you know how insane this is? Getting a message in a folded bird from a mysterious group?”
“You have no idea. I’ve been looking for them forever.”
He continues to unfold the crane. His hands tremble as he reveals each fold as if undressing a new lover.
“There. I think that’s it.” Benja lowers the blue paper so Aris can see.
The inside is blank.
Benja’s crestfallen face stops Aris from saying anything more.
Chapter Seven
Aris enters the stately auditorium of Carnegie Hall. Her gaze travels up to the impossibly high ceiling. The ivory walls. The gilded carved details on the columns. It comes to rest on the shiny black grand piano sitting in the middle of the stage.
Most of the audience is already seated. It’s a full house. She pulls up the end of her long black dress—slinky with a bow that ties around her neck. The buttery material against her skin makes her feel like she is wearing nothing but a layer of lotion. Lucy chose this for her. The proclivity tests do not fail.
Her red stilettos step on the matching carpet that lines the magnificent space. She admires the builders of this concert hall. The red velvet seats, the Italian Renaissance–inspired proscenium arch, the carved balcony facade—all replicas of the real Carnegie Hall that perished when Manhattan was obliterated.
Aris squeezes past people sitting in the second row to her seat in the middle. When she bought it a week and a half ago, it was the only seat available. Metis is more popular than she thought. She wonders how many entertainment points she has left. She imagines a life of scrimping on leisure over the next few months and blames a weak moment of impulsiveness.
The lights dim around her. The stage blazes in blinding luminescence. A man walks rigid-backed to the piano and bows. His black hair reminds Aris of anthracite. It contrasts against his skin. It’s pale—not the paleness of a sickly person, but like ivory yellowed with age. The dazzling lights from above illuminate him, making him appear to glow.
A knot of concentration etches between his brows. His face shows focused intensity. He sits. Silence. Aris hears her breathing in her ears.
The first note hits. The pianist’s hands fly along the keys like a practiced eagle swooping in for a kill. Fast. So fast that the movement of his fingers seems a blur. The sound reverberates in her chest. She wants to lift off her seat and grips the armrests to root herself.
So, this is why.
A different song. And another. One transitions to the next seamlessly like the continuum of the horizon. Song after song, he pounds away at the keys. They follow his command like soldiers their general. A single drop of sweat touches his temple. He plays tirelessly. Ceaselessly. His hands glide along the keys, completely able to exist separate from each other.
His music incites a terrifying image inside her—one inspired by the wreckage of the Last War she shares with the children. Orange sky. Broken-down bridges. Mangled cars, their metal melted as if made of butter. Black columns of smoke rise into the air like charred trees. She smells the indescribable odor of hair burning. It’s choking her.
Her breath comes up short. The rhythm pulses in her veins. His music pulls her like gravity and winds her so tightly she feels like a spring readying to leap. Beads of sweat travel down her spine. They gather at the small of her back. She feels like she’s drowning.
She wants to get up and run, but she cannot. She is held down by his powerful hands. Mesmerized. Tranquilized. Her eyes lock onto his face as it contorts in a manic trance.
A word comes to her. Madness. This is what psychologists mean when they say there is a fine line between madness and genius.
The notes transition. A familiar tune. The one she asked Lucy to wake her with each morning since she first heard it.
Luce.
She sighs and leans back in her seat. The spring inside her unwinds. The rhythm of the song slows down her pulse. She closes her eyes.
Bright lights filter in through thin curtains. The sounds of waves in the background. Sweat drips down her back. A warm hand runs along her side. If only she could sleep here forever.
Successive, piercing beeps puncture the serenity of the concert hall, bouncing off the walls and startling her. Her watch! Aris fumbles for it, cursing herself for forgetting to mute it.
“I NEED YOU,” says the message.
She looks up and meets the eyes of the pianist. She mouths an apology. It hangs in the air like a speck of dust. There is no forgiveness in his face—only the shocked expression of someone who has witnessed an unspeakable crime. He stares at her, making her feel as if she has committed the greatest of sins. His pale face turns a shade paler, then it floods pink. She feels blood rushing into her own face and sinks into the chair.
Geez. I said sorry.
Abruptly the music stops, leaving the song unfinished. The last note hangs in the air and tapers into a deafening silence that fills the great hall. Without ceremony or explanation, the pianist gets up and walks off stage.
The hall erupts in
