Washed Up with a Broken Heart in Rock Hall

by Peter Svenson

  Fortunately, he just sold another short piece, entitled “An Insider’s Rock Hall,” to a biweekly publication mostly filled with ads. The pay isn’t great, but it promises to lead to other assignments. He is worried, though, that if readers knew how short a time he has lived here, they might question his expertise. At any rate, for the first time in weeks, he’s got a little spending money.

  Coincidentally, he has received an invitation to a recital at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. The daughter of an old college pal is giving a performance as part of her degree requirement in voice. How Budge got on her mailing list, he doesn’t know, but he hastily accepts this perfect excuse for a getaway. The invitation also mentions that family and friends will be getting together at a restaurant for a late supper after the recital. He looks forward to joining them.

  On the appointed day, then, he aims the trusty Corolla away from Rock Hall.

  How exhilarating it is to be leaving this place! A big city fix—hallelujah! Eagerly, I drive toward the four-laners—Routes 301 and 896, then I-95. The more traffic, the merrier! Exhaust fumes, numbing blankness of corporate scenery—no problem! Aggressive drivers, tailgaters, rubberneckers, bottlenecks, construction delays—no problem! After two hours on the road, the spires of Philadelphia welcome me like beckoning saints. Hey Ben, whassup? I work my way toward Locust Street and Rittenhouse Square, luck out with parking, greet these folks I haven’t seen in years.

  In the recital hall, the proud father and his entourage are seated early, allowing plenty of time for gabbing and catching up. Budge’s old pal accepts his singlehood with nary a raised eyebrow, causing him to wonder if the fellow knew all along that his marriage wouldn’t last.

  Do people from your past understand you better, because they’ve seen what makes you tick long before your chickens came home to roost, so to speak? It’s a plausible theory.

  The house lights dim and the accompanist walks onstage, taking a bow and seating herself at the nine-foot grand piano. She is a tiny, intense young woman in a black pantsuit with long curly black hair that shines in the spotlight. Then the vocalist enters, bowing thrice to the swelling applause.

  Wow! The years have turned the skanky teenager I remember into a strapping young soprano. Exquisitely coiffured and gowned, she exudes the stage presence of a pro. As the first chords are struck, she lilts into a program of 19th-century German leider. I’m immediately impressed by her dynamism and range …

  It’s a long recital, note perfect insofar as his ears can tell and received with a standing ovation. Cameras flash, there is an encore, bouquets are proffered. After the applause dies away, Budge approaches the stage with the others to give his personal congratulations, but the young soprano is quite surrounded by well-wishers. Alternately, he walks over to the accompanist and introduces himself.

  Her name is Nadia Valarian and she’s got the most intelligent eyes I’ve ever looked into—black pools of sheer brainpower, that’s what they are. Close up, she’s even more diminutive than from a distance—just a slip of a youngster, a tightly wound coil of pianistic energy with old-world manners and English-as-a-second-language charm. I tell her she did an outstanding job (in truth, I often found myself listening closer to her than to the vocalist). Flattered by my words—and perhaps grateful for my attention—she’s responsive and friendly.

  Since nobody else is monopolizing her at the moment, Budge has Nadia all to himself, and he wastes no time peppering her with questions and more compliments. It turns out, she is from Kyrgyzstan; her family immigrated here five years ago. Her mother is a violinist and her father is a composer. She started piano lessons in Toshkent, Kyrgyzstan’s capital city, when she was four years old.

  Under the sponsorship of relatives in Philadelphia, the family gradually adapted to the crazy quilt culture of the United States—she smiles knowingly as she recounts this. Her musical education and performance schedule are continuing uninterrupted. Her mother now has steady work in pit orchestras and her father is beginning to get film scores. She has a younger sister, too, who is gifted on the clarinet.

  It dawns on me that I’m conversing with a child prodigy. When I ask where she has performed, she mentions cities like St. Petersburg, Vienna, Berlin, Helsinki. Two years ago she gave a concert in New York City—Carnegie Hall, as a matter of fact.

  My line of questioning turns oafish. Quickly, I’ve gone beyond my depth, struggling to sound knowledgeable, but mainly flabbergasted in the presence of musical genius. She fields my queries with amused interest. I can’t help becoming deferential. She is the unheralded star of the evening; she’s the one who should be receiving the bouquets.

  Later, at the restaurant, Budge excuses himself from his contemporaries to sit beside Nadia at the students’ table. At first he feels a little out of place; he knows how patronizing it is to act youthful—and dorky to act old—but the high-spirited wine-guzzling young musicians don’t seem to mind his presence. Nadia joins in the mirth, but she also sets herself apart. Clearly, she is curious about him and not the least bit shy with her own questions.

  I tell her I’m an author, and that I used to play piano for relaxation, but I wasn’t very good. I also tell her where I stand, so to speak, in the aftermath of a failed marriage, but I realize right away that she can’t relate to a word of it. My predicament is beyond her experience—divorce is not a word in her vocabulary. To her, marriage means her parents’ marriage, a taken-for-granted rock on which her career is being built.

  Nevertheless, she manifests a real empathy for my creativity. For her tender years—she’s nineteen!—she understands self-discipline. In Toshkent, she was educated at a conservatory for gifted children, where she practiced six hours every day, a regimen she still adheres to (tonight’s accompaniment was a favor for a friend, not part of her regular concert preparation). Here in the United States, she has had the good fortune to be chosen as a Steinway Artist, which means that she’ll appear in endorsements for the renowned piano maker in exchange for having a factory technician on hand at her performances. Six months ago, she signed with a topnotch management agency. They’ve already given her a stage name: Nadi Valor.

  Nadia (she prefers her original name) tells Budge that her first CD is out, a recording of J.S. Bach’s “Goldberg Variations.” Actually, she recorded it five years earlier when she first came to the United States. It is the signature piece of her repertoire—the piece she performed in Carnegie Hall—and her critical acclaim rests on it, which greatly impresses Budge, for he has heard of its reputation as one of Bach’s most technically challenging compositions.

  An idea strikes him: would she consider an exchange? He’ll send her his most recent book if she’ll send him the CD. She responds enthusiastically.

  “That would be splendid, Mr. Moss!”

  Momentarily, his troubles seem far away. The pain in his broken heart recedes like the din in the restaurant. Basking in wine-hued warmth, he is captivated by this petite dark-haired, dark-eyed prodigy who hardly touches a thing on her plate but manages to down several glassfuls of chardonnay. Despite their age difference, they’re on the same wavelength. Budge feels both protective and romantic. He could sit by her side for hours, years if necessary.

  It occurs to me that we may hold the key to each other’s future. She’ll eventually have to break away from her parents, and at that point I could step in as husband-manager. Surely, gentlemen of a certain age are preferred bridegrooms in the old country. I’ll abide by whatever custom is necessary to ask for her hand in marriage. As a sophisticated and still vigorous—not to mention native born—American male, I’d be invaluable to her from both a personal and business standpoint. I could attend to her every need (see that she gets a restful night’s sleep, is sexually satisfied, eats properly, is gowned to her best advantage, gets plenty of practice time, has intellectual companionship, etc.) and also ensure that her tours go smoothly. I’d clinch performance deals on her behalf, pave the way for her fame, wait in the stage wings while
she plays, vend her CDs afterwards.

  The more I think about it, I’m convinced that I’m exactly right for her. As for my own career—well, I’ve had my time in the limelight. She’s a rising star; she’ll benefit from my experience. As lover-mentor, I’ll defer to her superior talent, while recasting myself as her helpmate in every sense of the word.

  The question is—as the hour grows late and the restaurant empties—should I tell her all this now, or wait?

  Wisely, Budge decides not to overwhelm her with so huge a plan. He’ll need to put the wheels in motion gradually. As they’re getting up to leave, he makes the first declaration of what he hopes will be many.

  “I’d love to attend one of your concerts,” he says unctuously.

  “It would be an honor for me to have you attend,” she replies in that stiff foreign way of putting words together. “And then there’s the matter of our artistic exchange, too.”

  He is thrilled that she hasn’t forgotten. She asks for his e-mail and mailing addresses, jots them on a paper napkin, jots her own and tears them off. He finds the very act of dividing the napkin symbolic—a private pact implying they are two halves of a whole.

  Driving back to Rock Hall that evening, Budge is in exalted spirits. The following morning, he sends an e-mail.

  Nadia, I really enjoyed sitting beside you at the restaurant last night. It has been a long time since I’ve spoken with anyone about music on the level we did. You strike me as an unusually gifted and dedicated person.

  Please accept my sincere good wishes. I look forward to seeing you in a solo performance soon.

  He keeps it short and sweet—no point in rushing things, no point in making her nervous. He reminds himself that he is communicating with a person one-third his age. A week later, he gets his reply.

  Greetings, Mr. Moss:

  I hope you are in good health. Please accept my apologies for not replying to your e-mail letter sooner, for I have been exhaustively busy with exams and auditions all week long.

  It was also my pleasure to make your acquaintance in Philadelphia.

  With true wishes for your continued good health. Nadia V.

  Budge taps the reply button.

  Dear Nadia

  I was looking up Kyrgyzstan in the local library’s world atlas the other day. Like a typical citizen of the United States, I know next to nothing about your country. Perhaps you could teach me more. And Nadia, you don’t have to put a V after your name—you are the only Nadia I know. Also, please call me Budge—“Mr. Moss” sounds too formal. Despite our age difference, I feel we have quite a lot in common. With every best regard,

  Budge doesn’t specify what he has in common with a 19-year old musical prodigy from Kyrgyzstan. He feels he can’t mention their intertwined destiny yet—a rara avis of her ilk is bound to be skittish and elusive. A careful communicator, he will drop hints without dropping bombshells. Obviously, she is not quite up to speed with respect to their joint future. Nor is she a quick replier; in this second instance, she doesn’t get back to him for nine days.

  Greetings Budge,

  I wish you good health and apology. The Curtis office of financial assistance now occupies all of my time. It is annoying to spend so many hours in this line of pursuit, which leaves me bereft of practice and rest. By my reckoning, artistic development should trump any application for financial assistance. In short spare time, then, I am working on the selection and refreshment of several pieces for fall performances (Budapest and Prague in October). For now, I leave you in good health.

  So she needs money! All young artists starve, and some older ones too. Emboldened by this kinship, Budge feels compelled to mention his own straightened circumstances. He wants to make sure that she doesn’t mistake him for a sugar daddy—not now at least. Later on, of course, after they’re united, what is his will be hers—and vice versa.

  Hi Nadia,

  I know all about the hassles of applying for financial aid, scholarships, grants, etc. The process is extremely time-consuming and frustrating, so I am in full sympathy with you. I trust you’ll soon be back on your more directed path.

  That’s great news about concerts in Budapest and Prague this fall. I wish I could travel to them, but I, too, have limited resources at the moment. To say I’m broke would be an overstatement, but I do have to watch every dollar I spend.

  Here’s hoping we both have financial success in the future!

  Days pass with no reply, then her CD of the Goldberg Variations arrives. Budge devotes several minutes to marveling at her strong slanted handwriting before ripping open the mailer. On the CD box, Nadia’s photograph, taken at the time of recording (when she was fourteen) smiles at him beguilingly, her apple-cheeked youthfulness accentuated by glistening black hair and eyebrows. “To Budge Moss, Let there always be Bach,” she scrawled along the margin, and below it, her seven syllable name in full.

  Acknowledging the arrival and his first listening, Budge can barely contain his newfound infatuation.

  Dear Nadia,

  I just wanted to thank you for the CD which arrived this morning. I played it immediately, of course, and was just “bowled over” by your talent! Your interpretation is marvelous—and what a marvelous piece of music it is!

  Thanks so much for sending it. I trust the book will arrive at your home soon.

  Penny-pincher that he is, he sent the book by media mail—it may not arrive for another ten days. He writes her again, effusing over her artistry and apologizing for not sending the book more expediently. He writes two more missives of praise and appreciation—he is playing her CD on a more or less constant basis now—and only hopes she doesn’t think he stiffed her in the exchange.

  At long length, she acknowledges receiving his book, for which she duly thanks him, although she tells him that she cannot possibly begin to read it. Right now she is just too busy; it might be a year or more before she can get to it.

  A year or more? Budge’s authorial pride is deeply wounded. The paperback happened to be his last free copy from the publisher. He had been saving it as a special gift for someone who would really get a kick out of reading it and knowing him. In Nadia, he thought he’d found the perfect recipient.

  I realize her time is severely proscribed by practicing and everything else, but when people tell me they’re too busy to read, it annoys the dickens out of me, and I make no exceptions. Anybody who’s met me knows I write. Wouldn’t Nadia want to know firsthand what kind of stuff I write? Even if she only read the first chapter—and reported back to me that she did—I’d be mollified. Here I sit playing her Goldberg Variations over and over, attuned to her every nuance of interpretive artistry, and what do I get in return? A raincheck on mutual admiration, wasted postage.

  September bustles along with incrementally cooler days and plenty of rain. The e-mail correspondence continues sporadically—on Nadia’s side, that is, for Budge’s replies are dependably prompt. She tells him a bit about her course work at Curtis, yet manages to reveal almost nothing about her personal life. Budge, on the other hand, is quite specific with his observations and impressions. He has gotten on the Library of Congress website to learn more about Kyrgyzstanian culture and history. He has tracked down well-known recordings of the Goldberg Variations—in particular, Glenn Gould’s idiosyncratic renditions from the 1950s—so he can compare them with hers (he never fails to tell Nadia he likes hers better). He reads what the music critics have to say. He studies CD liner notes and listeners’ reports on Amazon.com. He visits the Curtis Institute website. And he recounts everything he learns in his e-mail’s.

  What I’m trying to show is that I’m interested in her. I’m flat-out interested in her life and career and perspective. Okay, so she’s still a teenager and I’m at retirement age—it doesn’t alter the fact that we could be perfect for each other. A contemporary Heloise and Abelard, joined for business purposes as well as pleasure.

  Concerned over her lack of response, Budge develops a plan. He wil
l travel to Philadelphia and offer to take her to lunch and the Art Museum afterward. College students, as a rule, won’t turn down a free meal—and surely, she can appreciate great art. He’ll let her pick the date and time. He’ll downplay the whole scenario, present the idea to her casually, as if it doesn’t matter whether or not he ever sees her again.

  Hi N,

  Hey, I’ll be passing through Philly one of these days soon, and I thought it would be neat for us to get together—lunch at that same restaurant and later the Art Museum. Care to join me? No problem if you can’t.

  He’s eager to see how the pianistic prodigy will react. Lunch should remind her what an interesting guy he is, and the hallowed ambiance of the museum should make her realize that age is no barrier. If need be, he can tutor her on the spot; he knows some art history. Then, at a judicious moment—perhaps as they stand before the emotionally charged Eakinses—he will ask her outright what she thinks of the husband-manager plan. If he can work up the nerve, that is.

  Greetings, Budge:

  I would welcome your visit to Philadelphia in the near future, but the only time I am available would be next Tuesday.

  Lunch sounds agreeable—my morning practice ends at noon—but I will not be able to go to the museum with you, as I have additional tutelage (in music theory) starting at 2 o’clock.

  If this accords with your plans, I will see you, then, a few minutes after twelve at the restaurant.

  It has been six weeks. Will they recognize each other? He wishes his memory of her was more precise (her jejune photograph on the CD isn’t much help). Recollection of her comes in fragments. Her voice had a slightly nasal quality to it, as if her best sounds were meant to emanate from her fingertips. She had small hands and small feet. And her hair—how could he forget its moussed cascade?

  As for the museum, well, maybe another time. Her schedule is full, which is perfectly understandable. She may be intimidated by the thought of viewing art with so worldly a person as himself. He could always tour the collection alone after lunch.