Prologue
Running through the marble hallway and past the replica of Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne, he frowned as he noticed something off about the sculpture. Daphne’s left foot was centimeters too high… but this was no time to wander.
Bolting into the classroom door, he looked, panting, at the clock at the back of the room: 8:06. Theodore was late again.
“Mr. I-swear-I’ll-be-on-time-tomorrow, go take a seat,” the teacher grumbled.
Theodore shuffled between the rows of desks, almost tripping on a stray backpack. He felt his classmates’ stares and chuckles as he passed but kept his eyes fixed on the veined marble floor.
He threw his bag next to his table and dropped into the chair. What was this class about? Numbers and triangles scribbled in white chalk littered the board. Algebra? No, they had seen that last week. Trigonometry? It certainly was possible. He carefully sunk behind his peers and stared at the crystal chandelier hanging from the mural. Filled with meticulously crafted copies of paintings from the Renaissance to Baroque periods, Impressionism to Post-Impressionism, this over-decorated ceiling is a proud work of this academy. Mona Lisa’s ring finger was moved slightly to the left, he thought. The Water Lily Pond is missing one lily on the far right side of the canvas. He also noticed that most artworks from Van Gogh had minor differences from the original. Above the blackboard at the front of the room were the golden-framed portraits of the five founders, elegantly overlooking the distracted class of students. Bit by bit, his eyelids fluttered close…
He woke up to the irritated face of the professor.
“Mr. Theodore. Are you still with us?”
“Yes, yes. Sorry, sir.”
“So? Can you tell us how we can calculate the tangent here?”
He pointed at one of the many triangles on the board behind him. Theodore stared at it blankly. The tangent? How long had he been asleep?
“I’m sorry, sir. I-I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t,” the teacher sighed. “Please pay more attention.”
As the teacher walked back to the front of the class, Theodore yawned after trying to breathe in.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a small stack of notes. He took the one at the top of the stack and read it under his breath.
My dearest Theo,
I hope your exam goes well today. I have left lunch for you in the fridge.
Love,
Mom
He moved the note to the bottom of the stack and read the next one.
Theo,
Thanks for the sketch. It was beautiful. I particularly loved the roses. Are they the ones from the garden?
Maybe you could draw the lilies next?
Have a nice day at school today!
Love,
Mom
His hand trembled as he took out another card. When the teacher looked in his direction, he paused and pretended to write on his notepad. But the whole time, the other hand stayed beneath the desk, clasping the stack of his mother’s notes tightly. It almost felt like he was holding her hand.
Heading towards the music practice rooms in the other building, he grabbed a box of apple juice on his way. He passed the violin, cello, and flute practice rooms and stopped before the door that bore the sign ‘Piano Practice Room’. The room had a tall wooden door and multiple glass windows. As sunlight carpeted the wooden floor golden, he spotted the sketch of Claude Debussy, marginally displaced from its previous position. And in the center of the room, a boy sat at the piano, his back facing the door.
Theodore sat down and listened.
The boy’s fingers were gliding across the black and white keys. The piece painted a scenery into the mind, a beautiful landscape filled with emotions. Then, it suddenly stopped.
“Schubert’s Piano Sonata in G major,” the boy said without turning around. “They often say the softer and slower pieces are harder to master, and they’re not wrong. Simply playing the notes won’t suffice; you have to understand them.”
“Well, I certainly don’t understand music as well as you do.”
“I know you’re all for the arts. What do you want to talk to me about?”
“I think they’re back. Things are just… peculiar.”
“Yeah, that concert I will have this Sunday is making me pretty nervous. By the way, no food or drinks in the practice rooms,” he said while frowning at the apple juice.
“Stop getting distracted. I’m talking about them.”
“Slow down, Picasso. Them? As in the Commanders?”
“Yes. Who else?”
The boy stared at him and laughed. “No, it can’t be. They aren’t due in a few decades.”
“It’s not impossible, though, is it?”
“And how do you prepare for a disaster like that?”
“We need to find the other three, fast.”
Closing the door behind him and putting his hands in his pockets, Theodore kept thinking about Liszt’s somewhat deformed right eyebrow on the third canvas from the right.
The box of apple juice was gone.
