Maestro

by Matilda Martel

  Maestro

  Matilda Martel

  Copyright © 2020 by Matilda Martel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only. It must not be sold, shared, or given away.

  For my mother who introduced me to all the great maestros and for all my crazy aunts

  Contents

  1. Marek

  2. Aria

  3. Marek

  4. Aria

  5. Marek

  6. Aria

  7. Marek

  8. Aria

  9. Marek

  10. Aria

  11. Marek

  12. Aria

  13. Marek

  14. Aria

  15. Marek

  16. Aria

  17. Marek

  18. Aria

  19. Marek

  20. Epilogue- Two Years Later

  About the Author

  Also by Matilda Martel

  Chapter 1

  Marek

  Music is my life. It’s my only love. It feeds my soul. It breaks my heart and then awakens my spirit. This is the way it’s always been for me. Since I was a boy, I’ve chased the perfect tune. The perfect note. I’ve come close but it forever escapes me. I am not a Mozart. I was not born with natural ability. Every morning I practice. Before I shower or eat, I practice maintaining my skill.

  For thirty-five years, since I was seven-years-old, I’ve fought and sacrificed, practiced ritually. The piano is unforgiving. The violin is vindictive. I live in a constant battle to improve, perfect and on good days, compose.

  But my muse has abandoned me.

  If she was ever real, she has moved on to another. No doubt, I’ve disappointed her with my mediocrity. It’s been six months since I’ve been struck by a rhythm that builds a melody and transforms into music fit for public consumption. And after all this time, I fear she’s left me for good.

  At 10:00am, I travel to work. It isn’t far and on good days I can walk from my brownstone to Lincoln Center. Today was not a good day. The sound of thunder shook me awake in the middle of the night and the rains have yet to cease. Except for missing my walk, I don’t mind. The weather matches my mood. Perhaps, I have a Polish disposition after all.

  With summer approaching, I need to get through our busiest season before I finally have a few months off to devote to composition. I’m not sure I can stomach our yearly parade of visiting prima donnas but the visiting maestros will provide a few weeks of rest. I love my job but I love music more. Even the most beautiful overtures lose their sparkle when you’re forced to dissect them to their bones, night after night, to ensure everyone begins and ends at precisely the right moment.

  No wonder I can’t write anything. My senses are dulled and bored to death.

  I march into the center, determined to reach my office before someone approaches and frustrates me with needless questions. Typically, it comes from all sides. Diego, my principal violinist, the concertmaster who makes my job a teensy bit easier by leading the pre-rehearsal in my absence, generally accosts me the moment I enter the building. Every morning, my assistant, Bernice, hits me with a barrage of notes from musicians ratting out their peers. Most of the time, these nuisances go away with the wave of my hand or slamming the door in their face, but today is different. Today, Duncan Young, the CEO of the Philharmonic greets me the moment I step into the building. That’s never a good sign.

  “Marek, I need a favor.” He joins me as I walk.

  “Apparently. What do you need?” His presence this early is jarring, but I can’t allow him to detect a hint of anxiety on my part. I don’t need him believing he has any real power over me. They need me far more than I need them.

  “Diego informed me you don’t plan to attend the Charity Music Gala at Columbia tonight.” He stammers, expecting a violent reply. I fear my temper has a mind of its own.

  I nod. “You heard correctly.”

  “Two of the orchestras largest benefactors are hosting the gala. I’m going. The entire board is going. You need to go.” His smile fades when my annoyance turns into a visible scowl.

  “Duncan, I have work. I’ll be in rehearsal until 5:00 and I won’t have the energy to schmooze. Besides, that event is black tie and I have nothing ready.” I bark as I storm away.

  He follows and continues. “I’ll send someone to your place to have your tux cleaned. Please, they asked for you personally. No one gives a shit about talking to executives. They want to mingle with the Maestro. One hour. Stay for one hour and I’ll find a way to smuggle you out.” He gives me a ridiculous thumbs up.

  “That’s what you always say. And while you help yourself to hors d’oeuvres and champagne, I pretend to be titillated by the most boring members of the New York Social Registry.” I frown and swing open my door.

  “Listen, normally you’d be correct. But Edgar Romero is in town visiting his daughter. You know how much money he gives us. He’s far less interesting than the high society sycophants. At least, they have gossip. My suffering will be far greater.” Despite my hostile expression, Duncan offers a childish grin.

  “One hour, damn you. You better come find me or I’m sneaking out.” I shake my head and slump in my chair. “This cuts into my evening practice.”

  He nods and paces across my cramped office. “I’ll work on a plan with Diego for your quick departure and he’ll help you take some of the heat.”

  “Fine. Fine. Get out of my office. I need to make some calls before rehearsal begins.” I pivot my chair and search my bag for my phone.

  A knock interrupts us.

  “Maestro, you asked me to fetch you early today.” Bernice hands me the schedule and waits for Duncan to depart. “Everyone is assembled. Two new violinists begin today.”

  I clench my fists and growl. I’d forgotten about the damn violinists.

  “Goddamn it, Duncan! You’ve made me late! Get my tux cleaned and I’ll be there. Bernice, please book a car for me tonight. I’m going to a fucking gala.” I groan and jog to the auditorium.

  Chapter 2

  Aria

  Lying in bed, I close my eyes and listen to the beat of my heart. There is a rhythm in everything. When I find it, I smile and do what I always do. I think of music. My mother’s music. It’s been fifteen years since she left me. She didn't leave by choice. It was her time. I was so young, I’ve forgotten the sound of her voice, but I remember her music.

  I can still hear my parents practicing, their joined melodies, the crisp vibration of their strings humming in the late hours when I should’ve been asleep. After all these years, the memory of their music still fills me with an unspeakable love that radiates through my heart and into my own strings. I want to play as good as them. Although some say I do, I’m not sure what I hear matches what I remember.

  With a heavy heart, I close my eyes once more and try to picture my mother’s face. All I see is her photograph. The same photograph I carry in my case and talk to before I play. Both my parents played the cello. They were virtuosos. Artists. They made their cello sing the most beautiful music. I'm often told it was from the heavens.

  When my mother passed, my father put his cello down and never played again. The pain was too great. The blow too severe. Since she passed, he’s distanced himself from everything that reminds him of her, including me.

  He’s a complicated man. No one who knew him before my mother’s death recognizes the man he is today. His life was my mother and music. Now he has neither and chooses to surround himself with the business
he inherited from my grandfather---the business he once swore he’d never lead. Soon after my mother’s death, when he realized he couldn’t stomach living in the same space with a carbon copy of his Anna, he left me in the care of my Aunt Isabel, my mother’s only sister. Under her supervision, I’ve studied music since I was old enough to hold a bow. My life has been nothing but music. The moment I revealed my affinity and talent, Isabel directed maestros, virtuosos in piano, cello and violin to mold me into the person she was certain my mother should have become had she lived.

  Music is in the Segovia blood.

  Father doesn’t know. He approved piano lessons, but he has no idea I still play. He can’t fathom I carry the love of music deep in my soul the way she did, the way I’m sure he still does but will never admit. Why else does he surround himself with musicians and help fund orchestras? Why would he choose to torture himself?

  I spoke to him about Juilliard, but he wouldn’t listen. Music is an impractical profession. It killed my mother. Sometimes I wonder if he’d like to say, “You killed your mother.”

  She died coming home to surprise me for my fourth birthday. They’d missed Easter. They’d missed fireworks on the Fourth of July. She promised herself she wouldn’t miss my birthday. On their way home from the airport another car ran a red light. My mother died on impact. My father and their taxi driver were unscathed. I still think he wishes he’d gone with her that night.

  Music as a profession is out of the question. Instead of Juilliard, he chose Columbia and business as my major. I’ll take over his company, my grandfather’s company---the same one he never wanted. And one day I’ll store my cello for good, the way he did.

  Just not yet. It’s too painful to let go so soon.

  I don’t want to think about ugly things right now. Finals are over and summer is here. I’ll have three months of freedom to do as I wish. For me, that’s time to practice and play. That doesn’t sound like fun to most people, but music is what I love. It’s never been a chore.

  But first, there is duty and obligation.

  Daddy is in town and he expects to see me at a charity gala his foundation is hosting tonight. The Columbia Music Department organizes it every year and although he refused to allow me to major in music, I found a way to double minor in English and Music Composition. I’ll need to be careful not to act too chummy with the music professors. They’re my biggest fans. Some have tried to persuade me to audition for the university orchestra, but it’s a waste of time. I’ll never convince my father to let me play. The least he knows about my playing, the better. Until I’m able to support myself, I can’t go against his wishes.

  I glance at the clock and realize I'm behind schedule. If I hustle, I can get a few hours of practice before my salon appointment. I hop in the shower, wash up and rush back into my bedroom to change. I yank a pair of jean shorts out of the closet and wrestle them on. Next, I wiggle into a black t-shirt and step into a pair of flip flops. Standard summer attire. I fasten my hair in a ponytail, dab a bit of makeup on my face, and head out the door carrying a twenty-five-pound cello.

  It’s a good thing I have a stylist dressing me for tonight. If it were up to me, I’d bedazzle some shorts and dress them up with heels. Daddy left instructions for me to dress my age. I’m nineteen. I dress like a nineteen-year-old girl. I can’t help it if I look sixteen.

  What does it matter? No one ever notices me.

  Chapter 3

  Marek

  I linger in a quiet corner until someone takes notice and escorts me further in. These events are all the same. They either suck the life out of you or leave you shell-shocked from mingling with the most boring people in Manhattan. The hall is packed with preening high society ilk who don their jewels and pretend they give a damn about art, music and philanthropy.

  They don’t. They only pretend because it’s what’s expected of them. They’re carrying on traditions started by their parents and their parents before them, contributing to the Philharmonic, the Metropolitan Opera and the art museums because it’s part of the finer things in life. Most can’t carry a tune or tickle the ivories, but they rave about the latest everything. The latest play, opera, overture, and exhibition as they try to one-up one another throughout the evening.

  Every few steps I take, someone greets me with a few words, a smile and praise for my latest work. I don’t want to make conversation, but when you suffer for your art, you covet these sycophantic indulgences and then wave them off, as if your genius requires little to no effort. Little do they know the well has run dry.

  “Maestro! How wonderful of you to come!” A familiar woman greets me. I offer my hand, but she swoops in for a kiss on the cheek. It’s an occupational hazard.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I cringe when her fingers trail flirtatiously along my abdomen. She’s a lovely fair-haired woman, but not only is she not my type, I know for a fact, she’s married.

  “Some of the girls are heading out early for a drink. Join us.” She winks and reaches for my hand. She misses and I pretend to hear Diego call me over.

  “Sorry, I need to check in with my concertmaster. It could be important. Maybe some other time.” I make a beeline to the other side of the room.

  I’m frazzled. I’m not watching where I’m going. My stride is quick, and my arms swing carelessly by my sides. In my foolish haste, I accidentally clip an innocent bystander’s shoulder with my elbow and almost knock her off her feet. It’s inexcusably reckless. Her small glass leaves her hand and soars into the air.

  “Oh my God!” A soft squeak exits her pouty lips and she jumps back in her heels. I catch her arm to keep her from falling but punch spills between us, splashing against her naked legs.

  “Forgive me.” I grab a cloth napkin from a passing attendant and fall to my knees. As if I was born yesterday and completely inept of proper etiquette, I proceed to dab the liquid dripping from her knees to her ankles. It begins begins innocently, but she has prettiest pair legs I’ve seen in ages. Mesmerized and apparently out of my mind, I continue stroking until the napkin reaches her thighs and she protests with a high-pitched yelp.

  “Jesus, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just trying to contain the problem.” I hand her the napkin and she hobbles to a nearby chair, wiping her legs as she goes.

  I follow her, flushed, sweaty and wringing my hands like a guilty man. “Can I grab you a wet towel?” I’m mortified. She’s a beautiful girl and I’ve offended her.

  She shakes her head. “I’m fine. I wanted an excuse to leave. Thank you for this.” She winks and gives me a sweet smile. I’m surprised when my heart skips a beat. She’s too young for me. She must be a student. I might be old enough to be her father.

  “Lucky you.” I glance at my watch. “If I wasn’t stuck here for another thirty minutes, I’d give you a ride.” I freeze. What am I saying? I contemplate this ill-conceived flirtation and continue as if my mind didn’t conclude it was a bad idea. “What’s your name?”

  She chuckles. “Your audience awaits, Maestro.” She points and draws my attentions to a group of women standing a few feet behind me. When I turn, she stands and tucks her small evening bag under her arm.

  “Wait a minute. What’s your name?” I take a step to follow, but she shakes her head and offers a disconcerting gaze. “I’m nobody. Enjoy your evening.”

  Before my mind can fully process the most overt rejection I’ve experienced in years, someone winds their arm around my elbow and a shrill voice sings my praises.

  “Maestro, you must tell us about your latest symphony. We hear it debuts in July.”

  Chapter 4

  Aria

  What a strange encounter. He isn’t what I imagined. I’ve watched him perform, but this is the first time I’ve been this close. Of all the photos I’ve seen, none do him justice. His dark hair is peppered with gray at his temples, but his face looks much younger than a man in his early forties.

  His broad chest
sits inconspicuously between two thick arms and his impressive height masked the long, muscular torso that chafed against his dress shirt when he knelt to dab my calves. Such a beautiful man. So regal and mysterious, at least until his fingers strayed to my inner thighs. Thank goodness I stopped him before anyone noticed.

  I didn’t lie. In his world, I am nobody. I’m a business student with no hopes of joining the ranks of the great classical musicians. I’ll never be an artist like my mother. But just this once, I didn’t want to be judged by my father. I didn’t want to be seen as Edgar Romero’s spoiled teenage daughter. Maybe, he thought I was a Music student. You never know. The room was filled with Music students. It was nice to mingle among them and pretend.

  What’s the harm? I play too. Some say I’m pretty good.

  I know I’m being silly. But for a few moments, the great Maestro Misiak set his deep blue eyes on mine, gave me his best come hither look and flirted with the notion of taking me home. Am I exaggerating? It felt salacious at the time. No, he’s too old for me. Surely, he wasn’t coming on to me. He must be Daddy’s age. That doesn’t sound right. That feels dirty. And kind of hot. What’s wrong with me?

  Well one thing is certain, he’s much dreamier than Mr. Romero. I don’t know how that stuffy man swept my beautiful mother off her feet. The Maestro commands attention. Every woman in that hall, student, professor, socialite, married, single, young and old, undressed him with their eyes. How could they not? Six feet five inches of Eastern European deliciousness wrapped tightly in an Armani tuxedo bubbling with raw talent. The man is a god. I’ve followed his career for years. He’s a talented man. An exceptional musician. And yet the only thing I wanted to ask him is his brand of cologne. He smelled heavenly.