"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Except the Music" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

played was Top Forty Classical--"acceptable" excerpts from Bach or Mozart or Beethoven, rarely the
entire works, and never works by "difficult" composers like Schoenberg or Stravinsky.

Europe still loved its classical music, but it also loved its classical musicians, preferring anyone with a
European pedigree to an upstart American.

Max was able to make his living touring and playing music--his CD sales were down, but not as far down
as some of those former superstars--but the changes bothered him. Once, he would have toured the
major concert halls in Portland and Seattle. Now, he made the rounds of the music festivals, and
augmented his visits with performances with the remaining reputable orchestras.
Max stopped outside the performing arts center. He had a key--the only one granted to the performers
beside the one given to Otto. Max walked around to the back door, and let himself inside.

He had lied to the groupie: he didn't have a real curfew. The guest cottage where he was staying this time
had a detached entrance, and a private drive. He could come and go as he pleased. The couple who
owned the place probably did keep track of him, but he didn't care. On this trip, at least, he didn't have
to answer to anyone.

The performing arts center was dark. It smelled of greasepaint and dry air mingled with a hint of wood
and old sweat. He loved that mixture--the smell of an empty theater, no matter what city he was in, no
matter the size of the theater.

He wound his way through the curtain pulls and the old flats that lined the backstage area. The piano sat
on the stage, covered in a cloth.

He crossed the stage, pushed the bench back, and sat, hands resting on the keyboard cover. After a
moment, he took off the cloth, and uncovered the keyboard. He rested his fingers on the keys, but didn't
depress them, simply sitting there for a moment, in the dark and silent auditorium, and closed his eyes.

He belonged here. Not on a stage, but with a piano. It was the only place he felt alive. The groupies, the
concerts, the strangely worshipful perks of fame, none of them made him feel complete as these moments
alone did.

He sighed once. It had been a mistake to go off with the woman, but then, he'd been making a lot of
mistakes like that lately. The divorce--his second--had left him vulnerable and even more lonely than
usual. He hadn't spent a lot of time with his wife--that had been one of the issues--but he had called her
every night, shared the day's events, and he had felt intimacy in that. His wife hadn't.

His fingers came down hard on the keys, and he found himself playing Grieg's "Piano Concerto in A
Minor," with the great crashing chord in the beginning that ran down the scale like a wave breaking
against the shore. He'd always thought the piece appropriate to the coast, but the festival had never
played it.

And he wasn't playing it now because of the sea. He was playing it because the piece helped him
vent--the loud passages weren't angry, but they were dramatic, and he was feeling dramatic.

A woman who called death her hobby.

A woman who had pursued him with the single-mindedness of one possessed.