The Protégé

by Brianna Hale

  She’s here. In my orchestra. Mine.

  But why she is here? Or, specifically, why is she free to join me on this tour? A cellist like her should be in great demand and yet she was able to accept the place just like that, as if she had no prior engagements. It doesn’t seem right.

  As soon as everyone’s settled I walk to the lectern and address the ensemble, thanking them for being on board with the tour at such short notice. “I want to run through five symphonies today. Not every note as there isn’t time, but the most complex and important sections. When we reach Singapore, our first destination, we’ll start practicing the pieces for later in the tour. Southeast Asia has diverse musical tastes so we need a diverse repertoire. As I’ve already said, this isn’t going to be a holiday.” I look slowly around the ensemble, driving my point home. “I know you’re all up to this. You’ve never let me down and I’m proud of you.”

  My eyes graze over Isabeau. She sitting very still and looking up at me, her bow laid across her lap. I feel warmth spread through my chest at the sight of her, more beautiful than ever, a glow in her cheeks that wasn’t there yesterday.

  “To the new faces in the ensemble, welcome, and thank you. Listen to your section leaders. Listen to me. Play your best. We’re happy to have you, and we couldn’t do this without you.”

  There’s a smattering of applause and the string sections tap their bows against their music stands, but I cut it short by announcing the first piece we’re practicing. I raise my baton while relaying the starting measure, and the music begins.

  As the strings swell I look to where Isabeau is sitting. She’s second cellist, not necessarily because she’s the second-best cellist—she’s the best—but because it’s my second cellist who’s on leave. That’s how orchestras work, the whole section doesn’t move up because one member is absent. The person filling in simply takes their place. It can make for interesting orchestra politics when the person filling in is much less experienced than the people sitting below them. Or much younger. Or both. I’ll have to keep an eye on the others because even though my orchestra are professionals that doesn’t mean they’re above cattiness and putdowns if their noses get out of joint. I glance over the other cellists, wondering if anyone is getting their nose out of joint over Isabeau. Orchestra tenure is long and most of the musicians have been around long enough to remember ten-year-old Isabeau coming backstage to see me after performances. Fourteen-year-old Isabeau performing her first solo with us. The fact that she’s inordinately talented won’t endear her to the cellists sitting below her and above her. The fact that she was—is, secretly—my protégé won’t either. Ensembles can catch even the slightest whiff of favoritism so I’ll have to be careful. Even so, if anyone upsets her they’ll answer to me and I will be merciless.

  She’s not really only my protégé, though, is she? She’s my sub. We just haven’t used that word. My eyes follow the curve of her cheek. Isabeau Laurent is my sub. How I love the way that sounds.

  We get though every section of the five symphonies I wanted us to cover and I’m clear about how I want the pieces played. Everyone has dutifully penciled in my instructions on their sheet music. One cello sounded in my ear over the other instruments in the orchestra, every note perfect.

  The rehearsal over I glance at Isabeau, and she’s packing up her cello and talking to her stand mate, Domenica, the section leader for the cellos. I’ve got more work to do and Isabeau will be going home. To Hayley’s flat, not my home.

  Our home.

  I want it to be ours again. While we’re on tour I’m going to ask her to move back in. I need her close to me, always. I was so happy living with her and I think she was, too.

  I want to see her alone right now but I don’t have a good excuse. She’s got all the information she needs about the tour and the rehearsal went beautifully.

  But I don’t care about need. I want to see her alone and the beautiful thing about it is there’s no reason why I shouldn’t. I’ve always been hungry for more of Isabeau and now I can have as much of her as I want.

  Feeling like Tchaikovsky’s wolf coming out of the dark forest, I put my baton away in its case and call, “Miss Laurent, can I see you in my office, please?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Isabeau

  Now

  My stomach clenches at the sound of Laszlo’s voice and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. I try to read his expression but it’s closed and inscrutable. As I pack up my cello I notice one of the viola players looking at me while talking to her stand mate. She’s a woman in her mid-forties and I can’t work out what she’s saying but I don’t like the unfriendly look in her eyes. Then she turns away, still talking, so maybe it was just coincidence she was looking at me.

  I carry my cello and handbag over to where Laszlo’s standing, intending to follow him to his office, but he takes the instrument from me as he always used to do after rehearsals. I look at the case in his strong grip, happy memories surging through me. There’s a soft expression in his eyes and I know he’s remembering, too.

  In his office he closes the door and sets the cello carefully down. I’ve always liked this room. I don’t know why as it’s an unlovely, windowless mess of sheet music, violin and cello strings, rosin and discarded bowties, but it feels like Laszlo, and it smells like Laszlo.

  “How did you find the rehearsal?” he asks.

  I stand with my back to the closed door, hands clasped in front of me. It felt good sitting in the second cello chair and Domenica was welcoming and explained patiently how and when she wanted me to turn the sheet music. We’re sharing a stand and as I’m sitting below her that job falls to me. Some musicians can be fussy about how and when it’s done. Her bowing was easy to follow, too, as she sets the left and right patterns for the whole section so we’re moving in unison. After Laszlo, Domenica is the second most important person in the orchestra for me.

  “Very good, thank you, Mr. Valmary.”

  His expression flickers darkly. “I want you to call me sir when we’re alone.”

  Heat flashes low in my belly. Sir. I’ve never heard anyone call him sir before. Is this something just for me? “Yes, sir.”

  Something glints in his hazel eyes. I see it in the split second before he turns away and reaches for his notebook. It’s like a flash of victory.

  He likes it when I call him sir.

  “I have something that I want to talk to you about. We discussed your career before you went to university and you said you wanted to become a soloist. You’re too good to be wasting your time in an orchestra.” He taps a long forefinger over his knuckle. “And yet, here you are. Now, if in your heart you don’t want to be a soloist anymore I understand. There’s nothing wrong with playing as part of an orchestra. But being my protégé means helping you with your career, and for that you have to tell me your goals. What do you want, Isabeau?”

  I wasn’t expecting this and I try and collect my thoughts. What do I want?

  I’ve hated every performance I’ve given these last three years. Every note I’ve played hasn’t sounded right to my ears. I’ve tried to ignore it because I haven’t known what else to do, but that’s not how you win the hearts of audiences. They can tell when you’re faking it.

  He comes and stands right in front of me, his eyes scouring my face for answers.

  “I don’t know,” I say, pulling at a button on my shirt. I look at what Hayley is doing and I’m envious, but at the same time that doesn’t seem quite right, either.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’re my protégé. I’m going to help you to figure what you want.”

  I gaze up at him, relief and gratitude pouring through me. Just you. I’m happiest when I’m with you.

  But there were things that I wanted before. Playing as a soloist was one of my keenest pleasures and I want that back. If Laszlo helps me find that pleasure again maybe my happiness will be complete.

  I look at the foot of empty space separating us. Almost.
>
  “Yes, sir.”

  For the merest fraction of a second I think his eyes drop to my mouth but then he’s looking at his notebook again. “Good girl. All right.” He frowns down at the pages and then clears his throat. “Is there anything you need to know about the tour? Do you have what you need?”

  His hand strokes down the creamy paper and I watch the path of his fingers, remembering my fantasy last night. Hayley said the dynamic between us is one of dominance and submission. What would Laszlo do if I submitted just a little bit more?

  I let my gratitude and deference fill my voice, to see what effect it has on him. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  His lips part, just for a second. Then his face clears. “Are you all right at Miss Chiswell’s? Are you sleeping well? It’s not uncomfortable or noisy, is it?”

  I’m still reveling in the effect I have on him—I have an effect on him, and it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen from him before—and it takes me a second to catch up with what he’s saying. “Oh, yes, it’s fine thanks.”

  Could I make him look at me like that again? What does he like about being called sir, exactly?

  He closes the notebook and folds it in his arms across his chest. “Your room at our home is still your room, Isabeau. Always.”

  Our home. Longing for that house fills me. The large, airy rooms. The sound of music cascading down the stairs. The feel of Laszlo all around me. I want to ask if I can go with him now, but this foot of space between us is not only a good idea because of our working relationship, but because of everything that happened before. We haven’t talked about that night and I don’t think I’m strong enough to be in those rooms with all those painful memories.

  Fumbling for the door I say goodbye, and he watches me go.

  That night I pack my meager belongings, which are eighty per cent black performance clothes, set my alarm for five am and get into bed. Our flight to Singapore is at eight twenty-five. It takes me a long time to fall asleep and then my alarm is going off what feels like two minutes later.

  I make a cup of tea and drink it in the shower, brush my hair and teeth and swipe some mascara over my lashes. The flight time is thirteen hours and airplanes are cold so I wear a pair of tight, stretchy trousers, lace-up knee boots and an oversize sweater, and throw a scarf into my hand luggage. I left my cello at the Mayhew with all the other instruments to be shipped so I feel oddly empty-handed when I get into a cab downstairs with only a small suitcase and a cabin bag.

  I see Laszlo at the gate, dressed in jeans and a dark sweater, looking comfortable and warm. I always liked him in winter best. I love the soft wool sweaters he wears and heavy dark coats, his long hair brushing his collar. His hard body beneath all that warm fabric. He nods at me across the sea of orchestra people and gives me the tiniest of smiles. I feel wistful, wondering how we’re going to be able to spend any time alone together with this busy schedule of travel, rehearsals and performances.

  I sit with my fellow string sections as we wait for our flight to be called and listen to them chat. I can’t see anyone from the brass or percussion sections so I guess they must be on a different flight.

  One of the viola players strikes up a conversation with me. “Is this your first time playing with an orchestra of this level?”

  I recognize her from rehearsal, the woman who was looking at me with an unpleasant expression on her face. She seems friendly enough now, though. “Yes, professionally. Though funnily enough I played with this orchestra when I was fourteen at the—”

  “Oh, I remember. Little Isabeau, the conductor’s ward. Landed on your feet, haven’t you? Second cello.” She’s still smiling, but suddenly it’s not a very nice smile.

  “Uh, yes, I suppose so?” I feel my face flush and I wish she’d go away. The cello section has been so welcoming to me and I didn’t think I was going to have to deal with any comments about my age and inexperience. I know this is a big step up for someone as young as I am but it’s also temporary.

  And I’m a good cello player. Confused; uninspired, perhaps; but technically good at least. I hope.

  “But of course,” she adds with a forced laugh, “you were always going to land on your feet, being Mr. Valmary’s ward.”

  Boarding is announced and the woman turns away, but the damage is done. I can’t look at anyone else as I carry my cabin bag onto the plane in silence. Maybe she said what everyone is thinking. Maybe she spoke the truth.

  The tour company has sprung for business class seats and the whole front part of the Airbus must be filled with musicians. I find my seat, 7B, and I’m so sunk in unhappy thoughts that it takes me a moment to realize that Laszlo is sitting in 7A.

  “Oh—Hello. Is this right? Is your assistant meant to be here or Marcus, or…?” I tail off because he’s looking at me with one brow raised, amused. Is this a coincidence or did he arrange for me to be next to him? He gets up and stows my cabin bag and we settle ourselves into the comfortable seats, and despite the fact that there are people all around us it feels cozy and private in these two seats.

  “Did you want to talk about my career or the tour or…?” I trail off, wondering why he arranged for me to be sitting next to him, because now I think about it I doubt it’s a coincidence.

  “No. I just like you close to me, Isabeau.”

  Butterflies riot in my belly, this time with pleasure. He’s never said anything like that before. A flight attendant offers us a tray of champagne and orange juice. I take a champagne without thinking and swallow a large gulp. “Oh. Are we allowed to drink on tour? Sir,” I add under my breath.

  Again that gleam in his eyes. He takes one himself and toasts me. A memory of a drinks reception at the Mayhew when I was sixteen comes back to me. Laszlo holding a glass of champagne, me sidling up to him. Can I have a sip, please? It looks so golden and pretty. Laszlo passing me the glass and saying sternly, Just one sip. Tasting the dry, ashy wine, and then sneezing because the bubbles tickled my nose. Laszlo smiling and taking the glass back. I wonder if he’s remembering that, too. Or if it’s just occurred to him that this is the first time we’re having a drink together.

  I remember the way he stood so close to me in his office yesterday. How he’s looking at me now. Properly looking at me. He’s not the same Laszlo as he used to be. The last year we lived together he seemed to be afraid to look at me. I remember how evasive he was when I tried to be affectionate to him. Did he know how I felt about him? Did it disgust him and he just couldn’t find a way to tell me?

  And now? His hazel eyes don’t slide away from my face any more. He’s looking at me with an intensity that makes my heart beat faster. Watching him conduct I always knew that Laszlo was an intense man but he’s never directed that intensity at me before.

  I take another sip of my champagne, pretending to be more at ease than I feel. “Well, this is civilized. Does the RLSO always travel this way?”

  “Preferably. I need you all well rested and limber when we get to our destination.”

  I smile to myself. I might have known that there’d be a practical reason for the expense.

  “When we land there’ll be time for a short sleep in the afternoon and then I’ll need you all at the concert hall by eight so we can rehearse.”

  This will be my first professional performance…well, ever, really. I’ve never been paid to play in an orchestra before. I think of Hayley and the progress she’s made with her orchestra and solo career. She’s only one year older than me but she’s years and years ahead. At twenty-one Laszlo was musical director of the Cambridge Symphony Orchestra. I’m so far behind it makes me feel sick. To distract myself I ask, “Are Singaporeans very passionate about classical music?”

  “Yes. The city has two concert halls and their own symphony orchestra since 1979. A very good one.”

  Suddenly I feel worse. It will be an educated, unforgiving audience, and I’ll be right at the front where they can see me. The champagne is making me feel dizzy and I put it down. “Do y
ou ever get nervous before you perform?”

  Laszlo studies my face. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I say quickly. “I just…I suppose nerves are good, really. They mean you play your best.”

  I’m saved from more questions as the flight attendants begin their safety instructions, and I turn to listen as if my life depends on it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Laszlo

  Then

  “Laszlo, today I heard the most beautiful piece of music and I knew I had to play it with you.”

  Isabeau hurries into the lounge still in her beret and coat and clutching some pages of sheet music. She hands me a piano part and at the top I see that it’s Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise, a very beautiful duet about five minutes long. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it performed by a piano and cello before. It could be quite lovely.

  When I look up I see that she’s taking off her beret and is shaking her hair out. It must be damp out as her hair’s hanging in long auburn curls. I force my eyes back down to the page. “Would you like to play it now?”

  “Yes please, Laszlo.”

  I smile to myself as I follow her up the stairs. She’s seventeen now but she’s always said it just that way since she was eight. Yes, please, Laszlo.

  Though neither of us have ever played the piece before we get through it easily enough, but we both know we can do better. As my hands ply the keys I watch her between glances at the sheet music. I vastly prefer conducting to performing but this is one of my favorite things to do, playing with Isabeau. When she was younger it was The Swan, of course, but when she was feeling lively we’d play The Royal March of the Lion, our instruments doing battle with each other to sound the most prideful, the most regal, but getting less and less stately toward to the end, louder and faster, my hands crashing through the chords and her bow whipping across her cello until we finished the piece in a mess of notes, tempos and laughter. When we performed the piece in the youth orchestra I could see the smile glimmering in her eyes at the memory every time. It made me smile, too. We’ve played Elgar. We’ve played Brahms. But nothing has felt like it has playing this Rachmaninoff piece and I don’t know why that should be. We get to the end a second time and Isabeau sits in silence for a few minutes, sunk in thought.