Marriage Named Hatred Chapter 16
From that night on, Theodore became a regular in the rehearsal hall.
He did not come every day, but he showed up two or three times a week.
He did not come every day, but he showed up two or three times a week.
Sometimes Annelise practiced until late at night, and he would suddenly appear—just like that day—and accompany her through a run-through on the piano.
Sometimes she got stuck on a passage; he would listen quietly at her side, wait for her to stop, and then demonstrate another way to handle it on the piano.
Theodore did not talk much, and he never pried into her private life.
Only occasionally after practice, he would hand her a cup of hot tea, or ask whether she wanted to go get a late-night bite together.
The place he took her to was a small café that stayed open twenty-four hours.
The proprietress knew him, and each time she gave them an extra cookie.
One night, Annelise suddenly asked Theodore, “How long have you been in Paris?”
“Six years.” Theodore took a sip of coffee. “I went to the conservatory, and then I stayed and joined the orchestra.”
“You never thought about going back?”
He thought for a moment. “I went back. Later I realized this place suited me better.”
She did not ask why, and he did not explain.
That day she was not in good form; no matter how she played, it all felt wrong.
She practiced the same piece for two hours, growing more and more irritable.
In the end she set the instrument down, leaned back in her chair, and stared blankly at the ceiling.
Theodore stood up from the piano, walked over to her, and handed her a cup of hot tea.
She did not drink it; she held it in her palms and felt the warmth seeping from the cup.
“You know,” Theodore suddenly said, his tone perfectly casual, as if he were remarking that the weather was nice, “before competitions, I always used to hit the same wrong note. The more nervous I got, the more I missed it; the more I missed it, the more nervous I got—a vicious cycle.”
Annelise turned her head and did not interrupt him.
“Then one time my teacher told me that the note itself was not wrong—I just wanted too badly to play it ‘right.'” He smiled. “He said music was not about ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ it was about whether you had something to say. If you did, it did not matter if you played a few notes wrong.”
“Life was the same way.”
Annelise froze.
Annelise froze.
It was the first time anyone had told her she was allowed to be imperfect.
Her parents had never said anything like that to her, and the person she had once loved certainly had not.
Perhaps she had been too stubbornly trapped in the gloom of the past.
She lowered her head and looked at the teacup in her hands, her eyes stinging.
“Thank you.”
Theodore did not say anything; he only stood up and walked back to the piano.
“Want to try again?”
The music started up. This time, she did not fixate on the note she had played wrong.
Day by day, Annelise slowly began to adapt to life in Paris.
Speaking a foreign language came more naturally to her, and people in the orchestra began to recognize her.
Most of the time they still only exchanged nods, but at least someone would greet her before rehearsal, and someone would ask during breaks whether she wanted to get coffee together.
That day after rehearsal ended, the director set down his baton again and, for the first time, called her by name.
“Anna.”
Annelise’s heart tightened; she thought she was going to be criticized again.
But the director looked at her, nodded, and teased her in a relaxed tone: “I’m starting to envy your talent.”
The entire rehearsal hall went quiet for a beat, and then someone began to applaud softly.
The girl playing viola beside her smiled and whispered, “I told you you could do it.”
Annelise stood there, stunned, suddenly shy, not knowing what to say.
The director had already started assigning the next piece, and everyone lowered their heads to flip through their scores.
She stood there, feeling as though she were standing somewhere very high up, with sunlight pouring down, warm and gentle.
She wanted to smile, but as she smiled, her eyes reddened.
She lowered her head and quickly wiped the corner of her eye with her sleeve, then lifted her instrument and kept playing.
On the way back that night, Annelise walked alone along the streets of Paris.
It was very cold, but it was not raining, and the streetlights stretched her shadow long.
She remembered that moment just now—the director’s approval, her colleagues’ smiles, that feeling of being accepted.
It was not because she relied on anyone, not because she clung to anyone, not because it had been handed to her as charity.
It was her.
Her own effort, her own persistence, her own sound.
She stopped beneath a streetlamp, looked at her shadow, and suddenly smiled.
“Miriam,” she said softly, “did you see that?”
No one answered.
The wind blew in from the corner of the street; it was a little cold, but she did not feel cold.
She kept walking forward, into the night, into the depths of the city.
In the distance, a bell tower struck eleven.
A new day was about to begin.