However, despite the hostilities between two of the most important women in her life, Samantha had flourished in New York. She did well and made friends at the Anderson School. Her lessons with Mr. Kimmelbrod were matters of joy and profound importance to teacher and student alike. In fact, he had cut by half the number of students in his Juilliard studio in order to focus more of his limited energy and attention on her.
“You’re in for something very interesting,” Iris said. “Master classes offer a real window into what goes on between teacher and student.”
“So Samantha tells us,” Connie said.
“My father’s can be a little … well … idiosyncratic.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, you’ll see.”
Each member of the faculty led only a single master class, and it had caused some disgruntled rumblings when Mr. Kimmelbrod selected Samantha’s trio to play in his. However, his partiality to this young girl who was so new to the violin was a surprise only to those who had not yet heard her play. The world of music ran on favoritism; he had been the beneficiary and the bestower in the long course of his career. Teachers selected their students carefully, as they had themselves been selected, adding to the long pedagogical lineages of which they were so proud. In Prague Mr. Kimmelbrod had studied with a teacher who had been one of the last of Antonín Dvořák’s violin students before Dvořák had turned his attention full-time to composing. When he moved to New York, Mr. Kimmelbrod had studied with Louis Persinger, who was himself a student of the great Eugène Ysaÿe, who studied with Henri Vieuxtemps, who was a student of Charles de Bériot, who studied with Giovanni Battista Viotti, and on and on back through time. It was remarkable, Iris thought, to imagine the chain of connection between this young girl adopted from Cambodia and an eighteenth-century Italian virtuoso.
Connie said to Iris, “It’s awfully nice of Mr. Kimmelbrod to lend her his violin. I’ve never heard her play it before.”
In May, Iris had set herself the task of finding a new violin for Samantha. Over the course of the year the girl had blossomed, and the disparity between her burgeoning capabilities and those of the three-quarter-sized Gliga with which she was obliged to make do had become apparent, and painful, to Iris and her father. She was young still for a full-sized violin, but she had periodically been playing Mr. Kimmelbrod’s Guarneri, “keeping it warm” for him, as he put it, and with her long arms and fingers she had never seemed to struggle with the full-sized model.
And so, despite the fact that to pay for it she would need to dip into her retirement account, Iris went shopping for a violin. She hoped to find something like the 1885 Gemunder she and Daniel had given to Becca as a Bat Mitzvah present. Every time Iris thought of the Gemunder, the hurt and the anger that she had felt on learning that Becca had sold it, emotions that Becca’s death ought to have vitiated or rendered superfluous, returned afresh: had Becca not sold the Gemunder to invest in John’s sailboat, it would have been perfect for Samantha. Although if Becca had not sold the violin, had not abandoned her career, then Iris probably would never have found herself in the position of going into debt to buy Samantha Phelps a fiddle.
Iris asked Ernst Denkenbaum, the violin dealer to whom Mr. Kimmelbrod generally referred his students, to bring a selection of violins to Mr. Kimmelbrod’s apartment. One evening after supper, he presented them with three instruments, a 1951 Charles Voirey, an 1851 Honore Derazey, and a new Michel Eggimann. He arrayed his instruments on the coffee table, placing them just so. Mr. Kimmelbrod sat in an armchair, his three-legged cane within easy reach. He handed Samantha his own bow, which was worth far more than any of the three fiddles. “Go ahead,” he said. “Try them.”
Samantha picked up the Derazey and began warming up with a few arpeggios. She turned slightly away from where Denkenbaum and Iris sat on the couch, and faced Mr. Kimmelbrod. She began the allegro from Vivaldi’s Violin Concerto in A Minor. Mr. Kimmelbrod lifted his hand and motioned to her to stop.
“The tone is too big and powerful for you,” he said.
The dealer interjected, “Powerful, yes, but very vibrant, don’t you think? Lively.”
Mr. Kimmelbrod dismissed him with a curt shake of the head. “It’s not for her.”
“The Voirey?” Denkenbaum asked, picking up the second violin. Nearly as old as the violinist, he had known Mr. Kimmelbrod for decades, and while their enmity (born of a dispute over the cost of a 1946 Carl Becker Mr. Kimmelbrod had desired for one of his students) had never waned, their mutual respect was absolute.
“It’s very beautiful,” Mr. Kimmelbrod said. “I have always been partial to red varnish. That is why you brought it, yes?”
The dealer inclined his head.
Samantha exchanged the Derazey for the Voirey and played the same bit of the Vivaldi, then the triplet variation from the Trout Quintet. Mr. Kimmelbrod smiled. “It’s responsive,” he said.
“Very,” Samantha said.
“But, too dark, I think,” said Mr. Kimmelbrod.
“Shall we try the Eggimann?” Iris asked.
This time Samantha played a few measures of the Vivaldi, then some Bach, the adagio from the sonata she had performed the year before at the Fourth of July picnic.
“It’s very warm,” Mr. Kimmelbrod said, nodding. “Mature.”
The dealer said, “I am not surprised at your choice. You recognize the Dembovski in the Eggimann, of course.” To Iris he explained, “Eggimann builds on the Guarneri del Gesù model.”
“Does it remind you of your violin, Dad?” Iris said.
Mr. Kimmelbrod raised an eyebrow. “Hardly.”
The dealer said, “I have never before seen such workmanship and tone in a new instrument.”
Samantha stilled her bow. “It doesn’t feel right,” she said. “It doesn’t feel like the one.”
“No?” Mr. Kimmelbrod asked. “It sounded good to me.”
She shook her head. “It’s not right.”
“Well, then,” Mr. Kimmelbrod said. He turned to Denkenbaum. “What else can you offer us?”
Not bothering to conceal his irritation, Denkenbaum said, “As good as the Eggimann? Only one. An atelier Vuillaume, built to the model of the Paganini Cannon del Gesù. But that is of course beyond your price range. Your daughter told me to show you instruments in the ten-to-twenty-thousand-dollar range.”
“Are you sure about the Eggimann?” Iris asked Samantha.
The girl bit her lip. “I’m sorry.” She did not bother to claim to be happy with what she was now playing—they all knew she needed a new violin, and any of these would be in an entirely different class. But it was clear that she found none of the three choices compelling. Choosing a violin is like falling in love. While there is always the chance that one’s initial commitment will prove to be a mistake, it is impossible to go forward without that first wave of intense infatuation.
“Do you think I could try a few more? I could come to you, and then if I found one we could bring it to Mr. Kimmelbrod?” Samantha said.
“No,” Mr. Kimmelbrod said, suddenly. “There’s no need.”
Samantha looked momentarily crushed, and then nearly as quickly resigned.
He continued, “Why should we buy another instrument when we have one that needs playing? You will use the Dembovski.”
Iris was stunned. It had never crossed her mind that her father would allow Samantha to use his violin for more than just a single performance or an afternoon of practice. She never would have thought that he would lend such a valuable instrument to a twelve-year-old who had been playing for only two years, even if she was his own student. He had certainly never offered it to Becca. Iris felt a stab of envy on behalf of her daughter.
And so, ever since Denkenbaum’s fiddles had failed to stir her, Mr. Kimmelbrod had flouted the requirements of his insurers and allowed Samantha to play the Dembovski. She would be playing it tonight, in Mr. Kimmelbrod’s master class.
The Usherman students were boistero
us, goofy, breaking into song and then silencing one another with exaggerated hushes, like children trying, unsuccessfully, to behave for a room full of adults. They cheered wildly when the door behind the stage opened and the trio filed in. The three musicians were attired in the usual black: a young male Asian cellist wearing black Dockers and a black button-down shirt open at the neck; a redheaded pianist wearing a long black skirt, a skimpy black tank top, and a pair of incongruous white strappy sandals that she kicked off when she sat down at the piano; and Samantha. Before they came up to Maine, Iris had taken the girl shopping for concert attire, the first real performance clothes she had ever owned. They had spent a delightful afternoon picking through the bins and racks at Century 21 before heading uptown to Bloomingdale’s. Samantha was tall for her age, and slight, and almost everything she tried on looked beautiful on her. The elegant black dress she had finally chosen made her look five years older than her twelve years. It fit snugly at the waist, but had short fluttering sleeves that left her arms free.
“She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?” Connie whispered, loudly.
“She does,” Iris said.
“Thank you for the dress. It’s so pretty.”
“Shh!” Jane said, pointing to the stage, where the musicians had begun tuning their instruments.
This evening the trio was working on the first movement of Mozart’s Piano Trio in B flat. Mr. Kimmelbrod allowed them to play it through once. The ginger-haired pianist leaned forward, her lips pursed, like a sparrow pecking for seed. The cellist’s brow knotted and he winced whenever he had to play a high note. Samantha’s face, however, was serene. The only evidence of her exertion was a sheen of sweat on her forehead.
When they finished the movement, the students in the back of the hall roared their appreciation. Mr. Kimmelbrod, however, hushed the crowd with a flick of his wrist.
To the trio he said, “We should hear a little more music than what we just heard.”
Samantha lowered her violin to her lap and leaned forward, staring intently at him.
“Do you understand?” he asked her. “This is a late composition with many inflections. What is the meter?”
Samantha said, “Four-four.”
“That was not four-four,” Mr. Kimmelbrod said. “Play.”
They began again, but he stopped them almost immediately. “You see, already. Ta da dee da,” he sang. “Again, and this time remember Mozart is looking for a decrescendo on the final notes in the passage. You accented them.”
They resumed, and this time he allowed them to continue a bit longer before he said to Samantha, “How long was the last note?”
“A quarter note,” she said.
“You tied an extra sixteenth note to it. Try again.”
He stopped them after an instant. “No! Not ta dee da! Ta dee dada da da da!” he sang. “Mozart was very clear what he wanted to do with this piece. His notes are separate. You cheat on him. Again.”
Iris looked to make sure Connie was not disturbed by his criticism of her daughter. She looked awed, and perhaps a little confused. Jane, on the other hand, simply looked on impassively.
After a moment Mr. Kimmelbrod smiled at the pianist. “That’s very beautiful.” The girl flushed happily. He continued, “Very beautiful, yes. But of course it is not what Mozart wrote. Play for me what is written on the score, please.” Her face purpled and she bent to the keyboard.
“And you,” he said to Samantha. “Again you started loud. It does not need to be so loud.”
Iris had seen her father’s master classes countless times, and had always been amused by his vehemence. In his calm, cool way Mr. Kimmelbrod was always hard on his students. He never shouted like some teachers, but neither did he try to hide his displeasure. As his Parkinson’s had progressed he had grown ever more stern, as if he could compensate for the disappearance of his own abilities by honing those of his students. Iris had expected him to be critical of Samantha, but she found herself feeling protective of the girl. Couldn’t he hear how beautiful Samantha’s playing was? How precise? Mr. Kimmelbrod seemed to Iris to be unusually cantankerous, as if the students were inexplicably failing to provide him with something he was expecting.
In her seat next to Iris, Connie took a tissue out of her purse and began worrying it to shreds in her lap.
“Stop!” Mr. Kimmelbrod said to the players. “Listen to me. What we want here is a conversation, you understand?” He turned to the cellist. “She says ‘ta dee da,’ like she is saying ‘I like you.’” The audience laughed, and he continued, “Then you answer, ‘I like you very much,’ and she says, ‘I like you more.’ You reply, ‘I like you still more.’ You understand? A conversation. Again.”
This time as they played he conducted with one of his palsied hands. Over the music he said to Samantha, “More bow! Yes, yes. So much prettier.” Then he waved them to a stop.
“The sixteenths are too fast. Again.” They played through almost to the end before he stopped them. “Don’t be afraid of the crescendo,” he said. “It is as if you are saying, That was the story. That is what I have tried to say. Again.”
He stopped them after a few moments and leaned over and poked Samantha’s score. “You died too soon,” he said. “You see? Take it from here.”
As Mr. Kimmelbrod turned away from Samantha, his left foot seemed to freeze. He hovered in place for a moment, arms clamped to his sides, his face an expressionless mask. Then, with a near audible creaking of his ancient bones, he fell over to one side, his stiff body crashing to the ground like a wooden plank dropped from a great height.
Iris leaped to her feet and pushed through the crowd to her father’s side. She tried to kneel down next to him, but bodies pressed in from all sides.
“Give him air!” an authoritative voice ordered. “Move back.”
The crowd eased and as Iris bent over her father she saw Jane with one arm outstretched, pushing people back. With the other hand Jane held her cell phone to her ear, and spoke calmly into the phone.
“An ambulance,” Iris heard Jane say. “And an escort. Make it fast.”
II
Ruthie and Matt were driving swiftly up Red Hook Road on their way back to the hospital. Iris had sent them home early the night before, although she herself had refused to leave. She had not left Mr. Kimmelbrod’s side once in the three days since his fall.
Ruthie was behind the wheel and Matt sat in the passenger seat, leafing through a sheaf of papers. “Shit,” he said. “Even if I finish the next course by the end of the summer, I won’t have enough sea time to get the upgrade.”
Ruthie said, “Why do you need the upgrade? When you took the first captain’s course you said that the six-pack license was going to be enough.”
The course for Matt’s captain’s license had cost them $665, plus the cost of getting down to Boston and staying there for two long weekends, money neither of them had. It had been a struggle to make ends meet even after the library started paying Ruthie. She had taken holiday shifts at the Haverford’s and even, as her mother had predicted, earned a few hundred dollars after the first frost harvesting the tips of evergreen boughs and making Christmas wreaths. In addition to working at the yard and on the Rebecca, Matt had also made wreaths, and had managed to get hired at the UPS store over Christmas. But the Rebecca drank up their money faster than they could earn it, and they were perennially broke. In the end, Ruthie had let Matt put the money for the course on her credit card. A month later, at the cash register at the food co-op, Ruthie had been obliged to watch as the checkout clerk—a hostile vegan with a sallow face—snipped Ruthie’s credit card in half. With less than four dollars in her pocket, Ruthie had spent a humiliating ten minutes pouring bags of rice, black beans, flour, and quinoa back into the bulk bins.
“Yeah, uh, turns out they won’t give me the insurance unless I’ve got a minimum fifty-ton license.”
“But the boat doesn’t weigh anywhere near that.”
“It’s not about w
hat the boat weighs, it’s just a licensing requirement. Anyway, that’s the least of our problems. How the hell are we going to afford the insurance?”
“What was the quote?”
“I don’t even want to tell you.”
“Come on, Matt. What was the quote?”
“Thirteen thousand dollars.”
“What?” she said. “That’s insane.”
“It’s not really insane. I mean, think about it. We need a million-dollar liability policy. And the Caribbean is, like, prime hurricane zone. Do you know how many boats went down in Hurricane Ivan?”
“No.”
“A lot. It’s just, you know, that’s what insurance costs. You want to be a charter boat captain, you have to pay the insurance.”
They were coming up on Jacob’s Cove, and Ruthie pressed her foot more firmly on the gas. Once they were safely past, she said, “Matt? Can I ask you something?”
He was reading again, flipping through pages as though a better answer lay somewhere between the lines of what he’d already read.
“Matt?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you really want to be a charter boat captain?”
“What do you mean? Of course I do.”
“Nothing. I don’t know. It’s just … you were totally miserable taking that class.”
Ruthie had accompanied Matt on one of his Boston weekends, entertaining herself while he was in class by visiting with those of her friends who were enrolled in various Harvard graduate programs. Matt’s class let out at six, and on the first evening they met up with a group at the Cantab Lounge to drink beer and listen to Little Joe Cook reprise his 1957 hit “Peanuts.” The next evening, however, Matt claimed to be too drained from sitting in class all day to deal with another late night, and sent Ruthie out on her own. The third night was the same. Ruthie was sure he just hadn’t liked her friends and preferred lying around watching ESPN to going out with them again.
Red Hook Road Page 31
