M
Maestro Vivaldi was deaf. He had not heard a note in twenty years. Yet, he was composing his masterpiece.
The orchestra assembled. They raised their instruments. Vivaldi raised his baton.
Downbeat.
The violinists drew their bows, but they didn't touch the strings. The drummers struck the air inches above the skins. The trumpeters blew without buzzing their lips.
The audience was confused. They strained to hear.
But then, they felt it. The rhythm of the movement. The tension of the held breath. The sheer, overwhelming emotion of silence shared by a thousand people.
Vivaldi wasn't conducting sound. He was conducting anticipation. He was conducting the space between the notes.
A woman in the front row began to weep. She felt the sadness of the silent cello more deeply than any melody. A man felt the triumph of the air-drums.
When Vivaldi lowered his baton, the silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full. It was heavy.
The applause was deafening. And for the first time in twenty years, Vivaldi heard it.