Tremblay: A Faded Legend

The siberian husky cracked his neck, and ran his fingers along the ivory keys. Before him was a Steinway grand piano, perfectly tuned, in pristine condition. Even after six months of working at this restaurant, he still felt awe each night as he sat in front of this masterpiece of craftsmanship. Even his rich parents only trained him on a Yamaha.

As he stretched and flexed his fingers, warming them up for yet another performance, he glanced about the dining room that encircled him. Wealthy regulars in fine gowns, young women celebrating an upcoming wedding, businessmen discussing deals, couples enjoying a special date night. He still wasn’t used to performing for this kind of crowd. They were quiet, respectable, and dignified– the kind of people who would never in a million years recognize him, just the way he liked it.

His hands found their places, and with a smile on his face he played Clair de Lune, by Debussy. That was always a safe song to open with– a classic that pretty much anybody could enjoy.

As the Steinway sang each chord with perfect harmony, his mind took the husky back over thirty years into the past. He was only eight years old, he thought, when he learned this song, sitting on the bench in the parlor by his tutor. Tafari, his name was. He was a serval, and the picture of elegance. He never saw Tafari in anything but a full tuxedo, perfectly tailored to his thin body. That was so long ago. He had to be at least seventy by that point. 

With the closing notes, the husky murmured a hope of well wishes for that old cat. Quiet applause came from a couple of troubles, most obviously the little bachelorette party in the corner. He gave them a quick little bow, and turned back to his piano. Before he could play his next song, however– Mozart’s Fantasia in D Minor, to be specific– a couple interrupted him. Standing over him was a golden retriever, accompanied by her date, a nervous looking lion. 

“Excuse me,” she whispered giddily, a wide grin painting her face, “but I think I recognize you. You wouldn’t happen to be Nick Tremblay, would you? From The Dogs of War?”

Nick stared into her eyes. Hazel. She was the spitting image of Jamie. He struggled to speak.

“Yeah,” he conceded with a nod. “That would be me.”

“Oh my god!” She could barely keep herself quiet. “I used to be such a big fan of you guys! Bite Back is one of my favorite albums, like, basically ever.”

He forced an awkward smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“You look so different from back then! I mean, all the piercings were so iconic!”

“Too iconic. You can’t get a job in a place like this with a bunch of metal in your face. Besides, all my holes healed shut years ago.”

“I suppose that makes sense. I imagine they don’t let people wear piercings in prison.”

Nick glanced around, nervously making sure his coworkers couldn’t hear this conversation. “No, they don’t.”

“Y’know, I always thought that once you got out of prison you’d come back to the scene. I didn’t expect to see you just playing classical stuff at a restaurant– no offense, of course!”

“It’s fine,” he chuckled as he gave her a light tap on the shoulder. “Most people wouldn’t expect to see me here. For your information, though, Debussy was romantic, or impressionist, not classical. Debussy wasn’t even born yet during the classical period.”

“Oh, I didn’t know classical was a specific time period. That’s interesting.”

She had the exact same face Jamie had when he told her something new. The only difference between the two was that this girl was about fifteen older than Jamie was. 

“Well,” he said quietly, “we learn something new every day.”

“Why did you quit doing alt music, anyway?”

That was the question he always loathed to hear. There was no way to explain it, at least not in a way a fan would understand. 

“I try to distance myself from those days,” he answered as his eyes turned away from her. “It’s not the kind of thing you could understand.”

“I see.” They stood in an awkward silence.

“Look,” Nick sighed, “I’m glad you enjoyed my music enough to recognize me, but… I haven’t made a flashy return for a reason. I just want to live a quiet life. I’m sure it’s a fun rush to meet a musician you used to love in the flesh, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make this some big deal, you know? I don’t do autographs, or selfies, or shoutouts, or anything like that.”

“I get it,” she said as she bit her lip. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“No, no, you’re not a bother. I’m glad you like my music, and I hope you’ll enjoy the rest of your night here.”

“Of course, you’re an absolute legend! Thank you for talking with me!”

He gave the girl a quick fistbump, and the couple returned to their table. Nick couldn’t help but stare at her. She had brought all of his past flooding back to him.

Of course, the husky had to snap out of it at some point. He was at work, not playing for fun. His claws gently brushed over the keys once more, only now there was a pit in his stomach– a weight in his throat. He felt as if he could barely breathe.

Nick clenched his teeth together, and held his eyes shut. He knew this feeling. He knew it very well, even if it had been over a decade since he last felt it. A heavy breath wheezed from his maw. He could have sworn there was a scaly hand on his shoulder, and a gruff voice in his ear.

‘Hey man, you can do it. This is just another show.’

His body trembled as he adjusted his seating. It was hard to swallow. The whole restaurant had gone silent, he felt. It was as if every soul in the building had vanished, and left him in a cold, dark emptiness.

‘You gonna play or not, piano man?’ The clouded leopard said with a cocky huff as she slapped his back. ‘Get to it.’

His paws fell upon the keys, the strings within the Steinway whimpering the first notes of the Raindrop prelude, by Chopin. The song was elegant, and he played it just so. Through blurry vision, an aching head, and shallow breaths, his fingertips danced across the array of black and white, as if his body and his mind had become two wholly separate beings. He played with pure instinct.

‘There we go,’ the badger’s sultry voice hugged him from behind. ‘That’s the husky we know and love.’

Every quiet note lingered in the air, the Steinway’s grace emanating through every rise and fall. The cold air sent shivers up Nick’s spine as his thoughts drifted further and further from the keys, but his hands never erred. Each note was flawless, every press of the sustain pedal held for just the right amount of time. He felt like a corpse– and looked like one too– but he played that piano like a prodigy.

The boar punched his shoulder, just like he always did. ‘Hell yeah, dude, let’s keep it going. This ain’t slow forever. Blow ‘em away.’

The crescendo descended upon him, as his fingers tensed in preparation for a harsh battle against the keys, but his mind was far away. The keys yearned for hatred, yet all the siberian husky could manage was emptiness. The crescendo came and went, and instead of strength, he played nothing but weakness.

Then, the german shepherd’s callused fingers and razor sharp claws yanked his head up by his chin.

‘What the hell is wrong with you? What’s this pussy shit? Where’s your anger? Where’s your fucking rage?’

A tear rolled down his cheek as his best friend’s vice-like grip cut his soul. 

“It’s gone,” he whimpered, his hands pathetically waltzing around the chords. “It’s been gone a long time.”

‘Aren’t you a man? Don’t you still have a pair? Jesus, what happened to you? I thought you were some big, tough, fight-the-system, badass. I guess you’re nothing but a wimp after all.’

His playing slowed, and his voice cracked. “I miss you, Vera. I miss you so much.”

‘If you miss me,’ he heard the rockstar mutt scoff, ‘then prove it.’

Suddenly, her claws were gone. His bandmates faded away, and left him alone once again. His teeth clenched, and the fog of his mind began to clear. The second crescendo was fast approaching, and this time he would not disappoint.

As his mind and body had finally fused back together, he swallowed a deep breath, and rose from his bench. With all his might he slammed his hands onto the piano, beating the chords from out of this grand piano’s strings. For a brief moment, his rage had returned. No longer did he play by instinct. Now, he was like a feral animal fighting for its life, clawing at its pray for each and every scrap of meat on its bones. His fingers hammered on the keys, claws tearing the heartwrenching symphony out of the instrument as the Steinway wailed for mercy. 

Every eye in the dining room was focused on him, and him alone, but he paid them all no mind. Until this song was done, he would rip and tear at his quarry without care.

As the song descended to decrescendo, so too did his body fall back to his seat, but though his fingers became gentle, his jaw never unclenched. The quiet had returned again, as the elegance of Chopin’s Prelude, Opus 28, Number 15 gently blessed the air of Amourex. 

The patrons watched the once graceful husky pianist become unraveled and disheveled, his hair and suit soaked in feverish sweat as his wide, pale eyes darted across his instrument. 

As the husky tapped out the keys of the finale, his eyes turned to the sky. His mouth moved, but nobody heard his words. 

The final chords rang out, and the restaurant was still.

With a discordant screech, Nick Tremblay fell onto the keys, his head buried in his hands, and wept. He wouldn’t play more music that night. 

He couldn’t.