The Protégé

by Brianna Hale

  I wake early in the morning and look out onto the street. There are only houses on Laszlo’s street, no shops, but there are people walking past in coats and hats, the women in high heeled shoes. They’re not the sort of people I’m used to seeing but they might like music, too. Everyone likes music, don’t they?

  Laszlo’s big house is hushed as I carry my cello carefully downstairs and prop the front door open with an umbrella so that I can get back in again. I’ll have to ask him for a key so that I can always get back in.

  Down on the corner I set up my instrument and start to play. I don’t know any of the names of the pieces. My mother taught me these songs and I think of them as the one with the nah-na-nah part or the one that gets really fast at the end. Every now and then I mix all the pieces I know together and come up with a new song, and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.

  There aren’t as many people walking by here as there are on the main street near home and most of them frown at me. A few give me coins. I’m lost in playing the nah-na-nah piece when I hear a sharp voice behind me.

  “Isabeau. What are you doing out here?”

  When I open my eyes I see Laszlo towering over me, and he’s frowning like the other people. Maybe I was wrong and people in this part of London don’t like music. Maybe I’ve upset everyone. I rub the back of the bow against my jeans, uncertain.

  He kneels down before me, his frown disappearing. “It’s all right. I was just worried because I didn’t know where you were. Why are you busking? You can play in the house. I like hearing you play.”

  I believe him, and I didn’t come outside because I thought my cello would bother him. But I don’t know how to tell him why I did come outside, not when there are only three coins in my cello case.

  “You can tell me. I won’t be angry.”

  “For the money. In case there isn’t enough. So you don’t sell my cello.”

  He looks pained. “Oh, sweetheart. I would never, ever do that. No one’s going to take your cello away from you. Not me, and not anyone else. I won’t let them.”

  I look at the three pathetic silver coins and I know that they’re nowhere near enough to pay for music lessons or a place to live or even the dinner we ate last night. “I don’t understand why you would do that for me.”

  “Because you love music like I love music. One day people will be very moved when they hear you play and knowing that I helped with that will make me very happy.”

  “Is this what a conductor does?”

  He thinks for a moment. “Yes, in a way. Like in a piece of music, I’m here to see that everything unfolds as it’s supposed to. That’s my job. You play the very best you can, in a way that makes you happy. That’s your job. You’re not to worry about anything. The worrying is my job, too.”

  “Doesn’t worrying keep you awake at night?”

  He smiles. I like his face so much when he smiles. His canines are pointed and he should look strange with teeth like that but he just looks interesting.

  “No, I like it. It’s not worry to me.” He looks at me holding my instrument and frowns. “But I do think you need a second cello, for now. One that you can play sitting down, like a real cellist, and get your arm around properly. Would you like that?”

  I stare at him. Two cellos. Who could possibly ever possess two whole cellos all to themselves? Even Laszlo who lives in music only has one piano. But the idea of a cello that’s my size sounds exciting.

  “I would still keep this one?”

  “Of course. This is a beautiful cello for a grown up young lady to play on and it will be waiting for you when you’re ready to play it.”

  We go back inside and I try to give him the money I got from playing. It’s only thirty-five pence but I want him to have it.

  He shakes his head. “You keep it. I conducted a symphony two nights ago and they gave me some money.”

  “How much did you get?”

  He smiles his pointed smile. “Thirty pence.”

  “Don’t be silly, Laszlo! How much really?”

  “All right, you got me. It was only twenty pence.”

  Later after breakfast he takes me into town to a music shop and Laszlo and the salesperson discuss half-size versus three-quarter cellos and something called playability. I try a few of the cellos and settle on one that’s not quite as tall as I am and makes sounds that I like when I play it. Laszlo finally stops talking and stands with his arms folded and just listens to me.

  I finish the one that gets loud at the end and smile because it was so much fun to play on this cello. I didn’t need stretch my arm so much to get the longest notes.

  “Is that the one, Isabeau?” Laszlo asks me, and I nod. I like this one.

  The salesperson looks at me with her eyebrows raised as she rings up the purchase on the till. “Quite something, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s quite something.”

  The pride in Laszlo’s voice makes me smile again. He sounds even better than a cello.

  As we’re walking home I remember the umbrella I stuck in the front door. “Laszlo, can I please have a key to the house?”

  “Why would you need a key?”

  I look at him in astonishment. “So I can get back in, of course. If I go out.”

  “What would you go out for?”

  “School. Milk. I don’t know. I’ve had a key for the last year.”

  “I noticed that. Sweetheart, it’s not safe for you to come and go like that. I’ll be here to take you to school and collect you, and if I’m not then I’ll make sure someone I trust is. And if we need milk, I’ll get it.” He thinks for a moment. “And you’ll have to come with me for that because it’s not safe for you to be alone at home, either.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re eight.”

  “Oh, Laszlo. You’re so strict.”

  He laughs. “Am I? Well, maybe I’ve had some practice. There are a lot of people in my orchestra.”

  “How many?”

  “Nearly a hundred.”

  A hundred. That’s so many people, and so much music.

  He looks at me thoughtfully. “Do you mind going to a new school? You’ll have to transfer to the local one.”

  I shrug. “They probably won’t care much about my cello there, either.”

  “No, probably not. But there are a few good high schools in London that care very much about all sorts of instruments. That’s a thought. There are probably waiting lists as long as my arm. I’ll have to call around my contacts, get recommendations. You’ll need a cello tutor…”

  He trails off, abstracted, and I watch his face, wondering if he minds all this thinking about high schools and waiting lists and having me with him every time he gets milk, but he doesn’t seem irritated. In fact as we stand at a set of lights I can hear him humming under his breath.

  Back at home he helps me unpack the new instrument, and I find myself looking at Mum’s, hoping it doesn’t feel left out.

  Laszlo notices. “If you ever want to play this one, just because, I want you to feel like you can, all right?”

  I nod, but I know I’m not going to play it until I’m older. A beautiful cello for a grown up young lady to play on, Laszlo called it. I’ll play it again soon. I’ll grow into it, and it will be here, waiting for me.

  Chapter Five

  Isabeau

  Then

  Laszlo puts a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you, Laszlo,” I say, before attacking my breakfast. At my elbow are a dozen cards from tutors and youth orchestra people and Laszlo’s musician friends who come to the house, some of them proclaiming Fourteen today!

  Laszlo flicks through a score while we’re eating, his fingers absent-mindedly tapping the pages to a melody only he can hear. I sneak looks around the kitchen, trying to find my birthday present. He always gives me my present at breakfast but there’s nothing next to my plate or on the kitchen bench. />
  When we’re finished eating I help him clean up, and then I can’t bear it any longer. “Please can I have my birthday present now?”

  He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Your birthday present? But you’ve had it already.”

  “I have not! Don’t fib!”

  Laszlo seems puzzled as he looks around the kitchen but I can see the ghost of a smile on his lips. “That’s very strange. I could have sworn… Why don’t you go and look in your room? Maybe it’s there.”

  I race upstairs and see my cello propped up against the wall with a pink ribbon tied around the neck. My first cello. My mother’s cello. I hear Laszlo come up the stairs behind me and turn breathlessly to him.

  “Do you really think I’m tall enough—big enough—good enough—” I break off, running my fingers down the glossy wood, in an agony of excitement and doubt.

  “If you want to, Isabeau. It’s always been your cello to play whenever you like.”

  Yes, I want to play it now. I touch the strings which have been silent for six years but my hands feel shaky and clammy. “Will you tune it for me? I feel all funny.”

  He sits on my bed with the cello between his knees and I watch as he twists the tuning pegs at the top of the neck and plays scales until the notes are just right. I’ve seen him do this with dozens of different instruments over the years though he only ever plays music on the piano. He hands the cello back to me and I take his place. What to play first?

  I know. The Swan.

  I didn’t know what it was called when Laszlo put on a recording of The Carnival of the Animals when I first came to live with him. I listened to all the unfamiliar tracks, liking Royal March of the Lion and Fossils the best, but then The Swan started and I sat bolt upright, exclaiming, “My mother used to play this. My mother was going to teach me this but then…” And I broke off before I could say it, but Laszlo knew. She was going to teach me this but then she died. He’s since taught me to play the piece, accompanying me on the piano and now I know it by heart. We play it together sometimes just because.

  I put the bow to the strings and begin, the notes plaintive and slow like the composer asks for on the sheet music. Normally when I play this piece I imagine a beautiful white swan gliding on a lake, but this time I see someone with a cello.

  Halfway through a huge well of emotion opens up inside me and I burst into tears, my bow arm dropping to my side.

  Laszlo kneels down before me. “Isabeau, what’s wrong?

  “I can see my mother,” I manage in a thick whisper, tears dropping into my lap.

  Laszlo gets up and sits beside me on the bed, hugging me to him, not saying anything. I close my eyes and lean into him, holding onto the memory of my mother playing this piece on this cello. There are so many feelings in music and I’m starting to notice them more and more. A piece isn’t just pretty or interesting or a challenge anymore. I can feel anger in the music, or happiness, or love. The Swan has so much love in it, but so much loss, too. It feels like my mother but she’s very far away where I can’t reach her.

  When the tears stop I wipe my face and reach for my bow, determined to play the whole thing, but Laszlo touches my arm.

  “Do you want to see your father?”

  I twist the bow in my hands, not looking at him. He asks me this about twice every year, usually around my birthday and then again at Christmas. I feel so conflicted because when I remember my father I remember two men. How he was before my mother died and he had the accident, and how he was after. The man he was after frightened me and I don’t think I want to see that man. Last year Laszlo explained to me why he was different. That he was in a lot of pain that would never go away and he was using very strong medicine to help with it. When I asked him why dad’s medicine would be brought round to the house by people that scared me he looked furious for a moment and then took a deep breath and told me that sometimes people prescribe themselves medicine when they feel like they can’t cope.

  “Not yet, Laszlo. Thank you.”

  “All right, sweetheart. Happy birthday.”

  He listens to me play for a minute and then heads for the stairs, but before he disappears he stops in the doorway and says, “Oh, I forgot—your real birthday present is in the music room.”

  My real present? I follow him out of the room and see that there’s a large box sitting on the piano done up in ribbon the same color as the ribbon that was tied around my cello. When he gets it down and passes it to me I see the name Lou Lou on the box in gold embossing. Lou Lou is a boutique in town that sells very fancy dresses. We walk past it on the way to the Mayhew and I always look and see what’s in the front window. I open the box and hunt through the tissue paper to find a pale pink satin dress. The neckline and straps have ruffles and the skirt is very long and very full. I hold it up against myself, marveling at how pretty it is.

  Laszlo watches me thoughtfully. “The shop assistant said that the dusky pink color would go with your hair. I wasn’t sure at first, a redhead in a pink dress. But I think she was right. It’s a lovely color for you.”

  I stroke the heavy pink satin, loving how it spills like water over my hands but feeling perplexed at the same time. “It’s so beautiful, thank you. But…”

  He raises his eyebrows. “But what?”

  “But where am I going to wear it? I only go to school and cello lessons.”

  Laszlo strokes a thumb and forefinger over his chin. “Hmm. That is a good question. It’s such a lovely dress that a lot of people should see you in it, and on a special occasion. A very special occasion. Maybe…your professional debut?”

  I stare at him. I’ve already performed in lots of shows and competitions and with several youth orchestras but they’ve never been called debuts or required satin dresses. “Where? What debut? How?”

  He smiles, showing his pointed canines. “With my orchestra. At the Mayhew.”

  His orchestra. Perform with his orchestra. He’s never even let me come to one of their rehearsals as he says they’re kept strictly professional. I’ve seen his orchestra perform several times while he conducts and they’re formidable. Laszlo always wears black tie and tails and he’s terribly formidable as well. The orchestra is huge and the audience is enormous. I suddenly feel very small and quiet, like a mouse squeaking in a church.

  “You think I’m good enough to perform at the Mayhew with your orchestra?”

  “I do. On your mother’s cello, if you like. A solo with the orchestra behind you.”

  A solo. Sit at the front of the orchestra and have my name in the program. Be announced and walk onto the stage with Laszlo. That’s why he chose a dress in such a lovely vivid color, so that I would be seen. Soloists always stand out and the women especially because they wear beautiful evening gowns. I imagine myself sitting at the front of Laszlo’s orchestra, close to him, playing my mother’s cello, and feel breathless with excitement.

  “What would I play?”

  “What would you like to play?” He explains that a short piece would be best, something orchestral but that has a prominent cello solo throughout. Most importantly it should be something that I love to play.

  I barely need to think about it. “I’d like to play The Swan, please.”

  Laszlo takes my hand and squeezes it. “Good girl. I thought you might.”

  We do what Laszlo calls some sectional rehearsals in his music room. When I first came to live with him he told me it was called the rehearsal studio, but to me it will always be the music room. I’ve said music room to him so many times that he’s started calling it that, too. I hear him correcting himself on the telephone sometimes. We’ll use my music room—I mean, my rehearsal studio. He leaves the door open when he’s rehearsing with his musicians and the sounds permeate every room. When the entire violin section comes around the house is filled with drama and heartbreak. I keep out of the way because I know how seriously Laszlo takes rehearsals, but I also want to listen so I sit just out of sight on the landing above, hearing th
em play and Laszlo giving directions. Less bow on the string. Make your diminuendo later. Always polite, but firm, and they do exactly as he asks.

  Just the harpist and one of the violinists come to the house to help me practice before the proper rehearsal. I’ve played the piece many times with Laszlo while he accompanies me on the piano and I love the piece that way, but it’s beautiful with the harp and violin, too.

  On the day of the rehearsal we take the Tube from Belsize Park down to Leicester Square and walk from there to the Mayhew. Laszlo’s dressed in a suit jacket and shirt, but no tie, which is what I usually see him head off to rehearsals wearing, and I’ve put on a black pinafore dress with a white t-shirt underneath. It’s what I wear for performances. At rehearsals I usually wear jeans but Laszlo expects musicians to be smartly dressed at the Mayhew at all times. I know this because at my last lesson my cello tutor, Mr. Goldstein, finished our session with a list of rules that Laszlo has for his orchestra. As he enumerated them my eyes got bigger and bigger.

  No eating or drinking anything except water from bottles. No phones. No conspicuous yawning. No talking back to the conductor. No arguing with the conductor or questioning his intention or directions. No playing in between sections or when he’s called for a stop. No playing anyone else’s part just to see if you can. Don’t tune too loudly. Don’t tap your feet or whistle or hum. Don’t wear a lot of perfume or cologne. No chatting between movements and never, ever talk while he’s talking, even if he’s not talking to you.

  “And don’t be late. He hates that. But you’ll be going with him so that’s not something you need to worry about.”

  I had no idea Laszlo had so many rules. It’s more strict than school. Thank god I know because I might have embarrassed him horribly otherwise. I’m sure I’ve yawned at rehearsals with my other orchestras and we chat all the time and pass around snacks. Some people even swap instruments for fun when the conductor is helping someone else with their part. “Why didn’t he tell me all this himself?”