tall clock tower, with the facade that looks like a castle. It’s bright red, in stark contrast to the darkening sky. People sit around it, all over the varied levels of seating in the open space, and loud laugher comes from the patios of restaurants around the perimeter. It’s a summer day in Italy. And my boyfriend’s being a wanker.
Dani’s already got her flute out, and she’s warming up. She overturns a knit cap for passersby and starts running through scales and arpeggios. Her fingers flit over the keys almost magically.
I put a new reed in my mouth to wet it. The tone won’t be great, but it’ll be good enough for this. I think I’ve learned to just play. Perform. Live it.
“This is going to be such a great shot,” Ajay says.
Dani’s quickly in performance mode. She takes a deep breath, raises the flute to her lips with the grace of a queen, and launches into the music. I’ve no doubt why she’s here. I’m rapt—I’ve never heard a flutist this good. It intimidates me, it makes me want to be better, it challenges me. I want to cheer when she finishes, but the clink of change in her hat does that for me.
“Count it,” I say. “I’m going to double that.”
I stick my tongue out as I fit the reed into my oboe. Ajay keeps recording. Pierce is watching. He seems embarrassed, and I wonder if it’s because Dani’s performance was on point, or something else. Is it me?
But when I play, those insecurities melt. I play my go-to audition piece, a staple of mine. Something I could play all night, all day, warmed up or not. My lips, fingers know what to do, and I pour all my energy into the piece.
I open my eyes to see the camera, and I smile. People are coming up to drop money in the hat—not much, but a few euros. Probably nowhere near what Dani got, but this is her element. She knows how to capture an audience like this in a way I can only hope to learn over time.
Pierce comes up, drops a euro in the hat, and turns to leave. No wink, no smile.
I don’t let it trip me up. I finish my piece with enthusiasm and emotion and everything I have. I killed it.
Ajay applauds, causing others in the crowd to do so as well. Most of them still ignore me, which does not offend me in the least. Since Ajay’s got footage of both of us, he leaves too, and I’m alone with Dani.
She plays another piece—aggressive, quick, but still melodic and powerful. Effortless. Her cheeks turn red, and I feel the vulnerability creep through her fingers. I’ve never heard the piece, but it’s contemporary and new, like nothing I’ve ever heard before. But I’ve felt this passion before. The pull of the melodic hook, the lightness in my body.
It’s her piece. It’s so distinctly Dani, light and airy, fast and articulate, sweet and serene. It captures mood like film scores should.
I want to counter with “Gabriel’s Oboe,” but she’s heard it. And I want to shock her. There’s a piece I worked on last year, and memorized, but I’ve never performed it. I run through the fingerings as she finishes up.
She plays the final cadence, and I go. My trills are sharp, the bright runs up the scale are impeccable, the phrases connecting them are off, but only enough to make Dani chuckle. I play the piece faster than I’ve ever done, closer to the tempo it was written (by someone who must really hate oboes). And when I’m done, I’m panting, and fall back to take a seat on the ground.
She laughs and joins me.
“You wrote that piece!” I say. “I could tell.”
“Because it was awful?”
“Because it was you. God, Dani, I’m so impressed.”
She lifts up the hat, and pokes through the change.
“We’ve got, like, twenty-five euro here,” she says. “We should make this a daily habit.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “That was fun.”
She looks at me, hard. “No, really. We can get a busking license or something—we could really make this work.”
I stare off in the distance, things clicking in my mind. If this was my main source of income, I would love my job. And it would be a great way to extend my time here. But I’d never make rent on that alone.
“Is it like that when you and Pierce play together?” she asks. “I mean, I’ve talked to him about it