The pianist sits between the audience and his instrument, his body askew as the piano reaches out to the back of the stage. His back is straight and his hair a thick white crown on a balding head. Black-rimmed glasses frame his half-closed eyes.
His monochrome body sways from the hips, rigid, like a metronome, and the audience is aware he knows something they do not.
No one sees his feet press on the pedals, but they do.
The pianist’s hands – pale, nimble, long-fingered hands – dance on and above the black and white keys. The sounds they make resonate in the auditorium and captivate the audience.
But these are not the only pair of hands.
In the mirror inside the piano lid, above the keys, are two more. Two ghostly, white, body-less appendages that prance and hop-scotch in tandem with the ones opposite them.
But they are not the same hands.
No one knows that it is not the pianist’s hands, but these disconnected, armless, floating hands that control him and not the other way around.
These empty hands control everyone in the concert hall.
The pianist knows this and does nothing to stop it.