by Brianna Hale
“I expect he didn’t want to make you nervous, and in any case you’ve got lovely manners. I doubt for a second he believes you would do anything to embarrass him or yourself.”
Mr. Goldstein apparently does or he wouldn’t have told me all these rules. Or perhaps he just thought it was best I know. “When did he tell you all this?”
“He didn’t. Some is just orchestra etiquette and with Mr. Valmary you work things out, and quite quickly if you know what’s good for you.”
“What does he do if you break the rules?”
He just raises his eyebrows in a don’t ask expression.
“But Laszlo’s so nice.”
Mr. Goldstein gives a choking sort of laugh. “Nice. Oh. Well. He’ll never shout or bully or do anything cruel but people have been known to leave his rehearsals in tears. Or fired.”
There must be an alarmed look on my face as my tutor adds, “Don’t worry, he won’t fire you. You’re a guest soloist, not one of his orchestra. Besides, he’s very indulgent with you. If any of the ensemble knew he played Saint-Saëns with you while you were both in your pajamas they’d drop down dead.”
I don’t want him to be indulgent with me, I want to feel very grown up and professional so I think carefully over the rules as the Northern Line train plunges through the tunnels. When we pull into Euston I say to Laszlo, “People in the orchestra call you maestro, don’t they? Do I call you maestro?” Maestro means “master” in Italian and it’s a term of respect musicians use when addressing the very best conductors.
“No, as you’re a guest soloist you can call me Mr. Valmary, and I’ll call you Miss Laurent.”
Laszlo call me Miss Laurent? How funny. “Why do you have so many rules for your orchestra? Mr. Goldstein told me about them.”
“Lots of conductors have rules. Or rather, etiquette.”
“But why do you?”
He stands aside for someone who wants to get out at the next station. “How we behave while we play shows how much respect we have for the music and the people who composed it. Not all orchestras are so structured but we are because we play the most respected pieces by the best composers, in one of the most beautiful concert halls in the world.”
“And then the audience feels safe coming to hear you because they see how much you respect the music?”
Laszlo thinks about this for a moment. “Yes, that’s a very good way to put it.”
“Why were people so upset when you took over as conductor?”
He looks at me in surprise. “You remember that?”
“Of course. It was the very first thing I learned about you.”
I see the ghost of a smile. “Some people in the music community thought I was going to challenge the established order of things. That I was too young to know what I was doing and that I wouldn’t show the music respect. It’s true I like to try new things and interpret things my way. A conductor always has their own vision they want to impart. But I always, always respect the composers, and the music. That to me is the most important thing.”
“Not what people in the music community think?”
The ghost of a smile again. “You can’t control what people think, only what you do. Do what you set out to do, and do it well, and nothing else matters.”
I brought some schoolwork at Laszlo’s suggestion as the rehearsal will go on all morning and I won’t be needed until the end. I sit to one side and take out my history textbook but it lays unopened on my lap. I’m too interested in the orchestra and the things Laszlo says to them as they rehearse. They’re playing Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov and he keeps stopping during the movements to ask some sections to be louder, some faster, some musicians to play slightly differently. He doesn’t do rude things like shout or click his fingers at someone or moan, “No, no, no, not like that,” as some of my conductors do. Laszlo’s very calm and thorough, and soon the music coming off the orchestra is exactly what he wants it to be.
Before I know it he’s looking over at me. “Miss Laurent, we’re ready for you now.”
My heart starts to pound in my ears and I collect my bow and cello, which I tuned at the beginning with everyone else. Some of the musicians smile at me as I take my place, particularly the harpist and the violinist I practiced with. There are so many of them, nearly a hundred, and they’re mostly strangers.
But Laszlo’s not a stranger. Laszlo is Laszlo, and once I’m sitting down in front of the other cellists I’m very close to him. There’s a warm look in his eyes and I recall what Mr. Goldstein said, that Laszlo’s very indulgent with me. But I don’t feel spoiled. In fact quite the opposite. It’s like my tutor said, Laszlo never told me a list of rules, he just behaves or talks in a certain way and I find myself responding. And I like that about him. I like that very much.
Sitting here surrounded by the order that he’s put in place and upholds I feel very safe. He won’t let anyone tell me I’m too silly or young to be here, or talk over my playing or call me names. If I make a mistake no one will laugh at me, because he’s there. I smile up at him and he gives me the ghost of a wink.
When I’m settled and my bow is poised I look at his hands. He brings them to resting position, forearms parallel to the floor, palms raised and fingers bent, and the baton is held lightly in his fingers. The baton is because it’s such a big orchestra and it helps the people at the back see what he’s doing. He raises his arms slowly and brings them down just as slowly, showing the orchestra what tempo he wants. The harp starts to play and the rest of the string section joins in, measured and gentle. All around us the rest of the orchestra is hushed. I wait for my cue, keeping Laszlo’s hands in my peripheral vision, and then I start to play.
For a few bars I’m too nervous to become lost in the music, but then there’s just the poignant strains of my cello and the swell of the strings all around me, and Laszlo. He’s told me that the gestures he makes while he’s conducting reinforce what the composer has written on the sheet music and remind the ensemble of what he’s asked for during rehearsals.
When we get to the end and the sound of my cello fades away he smiles at me, and I like that because he hasn’t smiled at anyone else the whole rehearsal. I’ve been watching.
All right, maybe I’m a little bit indulged.
I wonder if he’s going to adjust my playing but there are only directions for the orchestra. “Beautiful, Miss Laurent. Once more? Violas, a little softer from twenty-eight to thirty-four, please.”
When we’ve finished the piece a second time the rehearsal ends. I wait to one side with my cello as the rest of the orchestra put their instruments away or stand about talking. A few of the musicians are talking to Laszlo.
Finally we leave, and Laszlo suggests we go to Covent Garden for a late lunch. As we’re walking over the cobbles I say, “Are you sure my playing was all right? You didn’t have any corrections for me.”
He looks down at me in surprise. “Solo pieces are a collaboration between the soloist and the conductor. You bring your own vision for the piece and I interpret it for the rest of the orchestra so that your playing sounds its very best.”
“How do you know my vision? I never said anything.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve heard you play The Swan so many times. You don’t need to tell me because I know what it means to you.”
My vision for the piece. He’s arranged his whole orchestra—well, the strings anyway—around my vision for the piece. It’s such a lovely thing for him to have done and I don’t know what to say.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asks.
Trying to convey just how wonderful I found the whole experience I say emphatically, “It was so nice. I’ve never felt like that during any rehearsals or even practice, that I was within something so beautiful and that everything around me was flowing like water. Your orchestra is wonderful.”
“Thank you, Isabeau. I think so, too.”
I take a deep breath. “You’re a really wonderful conductor, Laszlo. It was a bit
scary at first, but I felt very safe with you there.”
He looks down at me, and then puts an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me briefly. His voice is husky when he says, “Thank you, sweetheart. That means a lot to me.”
The night I’m to perform comes around quickly. There are two soloists visiting the Mayhew and playing with Laszlo’s orchestra, a violinist and a pianist, and I’m to come on at the end.
I watch the orchestra from the wings wearing my pink dress. Mostly I watch Laszlo, who looks very handsome and dramatic in his tuxedo. I love seeing him wind up to a crescendo, the movements of his arms getting bigger and his hair flying about. The pianist plays with the orchestra first, and then there’s a break, and then the violinist. And then there’s me.
The applause goes on for a long time when the violinist finishes and there’s a lot of shouting and cheering. Laszlo takes his bow with the violinist and then comes off stage and approaches me. “Are you ready?” he asks in whisper.
I nod, gripping my cello tightly. He watches the audience for a moment, waiting for them to settle, and then we walk out together. The applause erupts immediately and it’s so loud. The lights are so bright that I can barely see the audience sitting in the dark, but I think that might be a good thing. I stand beside Laszlo with butterflies rioting in my belly.
He smiles at me and turns to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, over the years it’s been my pleasure to introduce for you many world-class soloists at the Mayhew, and tonight is no exception. But this is the first time I’ve had the honor of presenting a soloist’s debut. Miss Isabeau Laurent is an award-winning cellist with the North London Youth Orchestra, a soloist of great talent, and my protégé.”
The applause erupts again and so do my nerves as we take our places, but when I look up and see Laszlo just a few feet away I feel better. Nothing bad can happen as long as he’s there.
Laszlo never speaks to musicians except his concertmaster while he’s on stage but he looks at me expectantly and I nod when I’m ready. Once the strings start and I play the first note everything falls away. I don’t see my mother again, but I feel her, and I’m playing for her.
When the piece ends and the last long note from my cello fades I find I have to open my eyes because at some point I’ve closed them, and the world comes rushing back in a storm of applause. All around me a sea of bows are tapping in unison, the string section’s version of clapping, and Laszlo has his hand out to help me up. We take bows, and then the two other soloists are there as well and there’s so much applause that I feel bewildered by it all. Laszlo’s looking closely at the first few rows, a smile on his face. Finally we’re able to get off stage and the soloists and the ensemble are congratulating me and telling me how well I played and I’m trying to say you too and thank you to everyone.
Finally it’s just Laszlo, looking pleased, his hair rumpled from pushing his fingers through it. “Isabeau, that was so beautiful you made some people cry.”
So that’s what he was looking at during the bows. “Did I make you cry?” I tease, because I’m elated now it’s over. I know I didn’t make him cry because I saw his face at the end and he was only smiling.
Laszlo puts his hand over his heart. “You made me cry in here. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”
He hugs me, and his familiar sweet peppercorn scent envelops me. How long, I wonder, hugging him back fiercely, until he falls in love with me and asks me to marry him? It’s taking so long to grow up. I love him so much already.
Chapter Six
Isabeau
Now
I’m on Laszlo’s street ten minutes before the appointed time but I don’t go to the front door and knock. Not yet. Instead I stand by a garden wall a few doors down, stomping my feet in the cold.
This was my neighborhood for ten years and it’s more familiar to me than any other part of London. I was happy all the time here. Frustrated some days, yes, by school or by my fingers if they wouldn’t coax the sound I wanted from my cello. Some days I was sick, and some days I missed Laszlo if he had to go to away to perform. But those were only minor blips, and the thread of my days was always one of happiness.
Every day except that last one.
When I was younger it was so simple. I loved Laszlo, and once I’d grown up he’d fall in love with me, too. I never considered that he might not feel the same way about me. That he couldn’t feel the same. Other people seemed to assume that I thought of him as a father but to me he was my protector, teacher and friend, and the most important person in the world. We never told each other we loved each other but if I had I would have meant it in the romantic sense. That I was in love with him.
I don’t know if I still love him. I don’t know what he thinks about that night or what he thinks about me now. I do know why he wants to see me at the house: so he can ask me why I came to the Mayhew out of the blue and why I auditioned when I wasn’t there to audition. Why I asked for a place in the orchestra when I know nothing about the tour. I’ve lain awake most of the night thinking about how I will answer these questions. We may quarrel again like the night of my eighteenth birthday only this time the rift will be permanent. I’m frightened that I’ll lose Laszlo forever.
Yesterday I wanted to play for him so he’d understand how I feel. When I opened my eyes and saw that his fingers were moving to the piano part of Vocalise I felt a longing for him so great that it was almost unbearable. A longing to make music with him again. I could see from his normally so shuttered face that he missed that, too, and it was like a lance had impaled me through the chest. I miss his clever hands. The sound of his voice. Opening my eyes from a solo to see the warmth in his eyes.
But this is not about what I miss. This is about what I need, and I need his help. I want to be a soloist but for that I need vision. Authenticity. Inspiration. My sense of who I am as a cellist has been devastated and I need Laszlo as my mentor again. To feel the peace and happiness that comes from his strong and subtle presence. His strictness and high expectations of me.
I’ve played in many ensembles over the last few years but no conductor makes me feel like Laszlo makes me feel. Safe. Happy. Protected. And other things, things that I barely understood before I left his house. Things that I was just starting to discover about myself.
During the three years away from Laszlo I learned about music, exploring unfamiliar styles of performing and playing. I discovered that there’s peace to be found in walking alone through the beautiful university grounds at Durham and hearing music float out of open windows and choral singing echoing from within the cathedral. I learned that going to bed with someone when your heart’s not in it is one of the loneliest experiences you can ever have.
I discovered that it’s unwise to look to anyone else for your happiness. I tried to find my own happiness, in all the ways, but the memory of Laszlo was everywhere. His voice, his direction unexpectedly filled my fantasies. Playing well and imagining that he was listening to me would make me slick and restless. Recalling the sound of his voice as he’d corrected something in my playing or told me I’d done well would, with the help of my fingers, bring me to orgasm. I knew some of this while I was living with him. That I was attracted to his authority, his confidence, and that pleasing him made me feel so very good in unexpected ways. But I didn’t know how much I craved that all the time until I lost him. I didn’t know then how important it was to my music.
I glance at my watch: three minutes to eleven. I’m not asking him to love me, touch me, take me to bed. What I want goes deeper than that. I have to speak it aloud for him because this is one thing that music won’t be able to tell him.
I want what only Laszlo can give me. I want to be his protégé again.
I check my watch again: one minute to eleven. I peel myself away from the wall and head toward his door. It’s time.
Chapter Seven
Laszlo
Now
I see Isabeau at the end of my street ten minutes before our app
ointed time, huddled close to a wall, the lower part of her face swathed in a thick knitted scarf. One gloved hand is holding her cello case and the other is wrapped around a shoulder bag that will be filled with sheet music. She’s shaking despite her heavy winter coat because her legs are clad only in tights and there are black court shoes on her feet. She’s dressed for the stage, not a freezing London street. Every now and then she glances at her wristwatch. At one minute to eleven she straightens and walks up the street. The bell rings at exactly eleven.
When I open the door I see from her pale, tight face that she’s nervous. No. Terrified. Of me? It was the same when I said her name yesterday and she turned toward me, and I hate it because she’s never been afraid of me. I want to reach out to her, reassure her, but there’s too much distance between us even though she’s only two feet away.
Her chin lifts and she says in a clear voice, “Hello, Laszlo.”
I take her up to the studio where she gets out her cello and begins to tune it. We should talk, but it’s wonderful seeing her in this space again, sitting behind her cello. Her bloodless fingers slip on the strings and I step forward automatically and take her small hand between mine, as I’ve done in the past. Warming her fingers. She looks up at me with those clear green eyes that have haunted me since that night.
Tell her you’re sorry. For everything. Even the things she doesn’t know about.
I clear my throat and release her. “Bach’s Sixth. Do you have the sheet music?” She doesn’t so I find the cello part for her and place it on the music stand.
She plays excellently. Her technique, her pace. This is one of the symphonies I want the ensemble to perform on tour and there’s not much time to rehearse so it’s important everyone can play it. “The second movement—”
