by Rico, Lauren
You know what? Maybe she should know.
“Fine,” I say leaning across the table. “She let me know that her phone number is on the back of the bill.”
“What? Give that to me. I’m going to call the manager over.”
My eyes darken, as does my tone.
“You’ll do no such thing,” I say with such finality that she drops the subject. I glance at the girl’s number and tuck it into my pants pocket. Julia watches in silence.
I’ve never been one for the big Times Square scene on New Year’s Eve, but I do enjoy a nice meal out and an expensive bottle of champagne. Especially when I plan on sticking Julia with the bill. The restaurant is bright and festive and loud. So loud, in fact, that I almost miss Cal calling me from the other side of the room.
“Well, look who it is! The horn player who almost won the Kreisler!” he says in a voice that’s uncharacteristically booming, not to mention a wee bit slurred. It would appear Mr. Burridge started his celebrations before he got here. There is a girl from the flute section with him. Cal motions for her to follow the hostess to their table, while he stops by to see us at ours.
“How’s that ego feeling, Jeremy? Still stinging a little?”
“Go to hell, Cal,” I say flatly.
“Please don’t do this here…” Julia intervenes. She puts a hand on top of mine but I pull it away. Even in his drunken stupor Cal notices.
“Everything okay, Julia?” he asks with exaggerated suspicion.
“Yes, thanks, Cal,” she says. “So… it looks as if you and I are the last two to perform next week. Are you ready?”
She’s trying to change the subject but all she’s doing is pissing me off more. I don’t want to engage him; I want him to get the fuck away from me.
“Mostly yes. I’m working on something special for my encore.”
“What’s that?” she asks as I roll my eyes across from her. She needs to stop encouraging him.
“It’s an old Chuck Mangione song called ‘Lullaby.’ I’ve made an arrangement of it for horn and piano.”
“Oh Cal, that’s going to be beautiful!” she exclaims loudly.
Could she sound anymore ridiculous?
“It was a favorite of my mom’s and I really wanted something that no one else has used before.”
“Yeah, well, isn’t that sweet,” I say, throwing my linen napkin down on our table and getting to my feet. “Julia, we need to get going. You settle the check, and I’ll see if our cab is here.”
“Cal, I can’t wait to hear you play. Congratulations again,” Julia beams.
I hold out my hand to help her up. When she doesn’t notice I grab her arm, maybe a little too hard. She winces and shoots me a look, but doesn’t comment on it. Cal’s eyes are moving from me, to her, and back again. He’s knows something’s not right, but he’s too stewed to do anything about it.
“I really appreciate that,” he says. Then, as if something has occurred to him, “You know, Julia, you should stop by the after-party I’m throwing at Nunzio’s. You could bring a date if you want. Maybe one of those nice guys in the violin section,” he says pointedly.
I stare at him with undisguised hatred.
“Fuck you, Cal,” I sneer under my breath.
He just smiles and walks away to his own table.
“Jeremy!” Julia hisses when Cal is out of earshot. “You could be a little more gracious, you know? You look like a sore loser.”
I’m still clutching her bicep. She must realize how big of a mistake she’s just made because she starts to back pedal. And fast.
She reaches up and touches my face gently.
“Don’t you see?” she begins with a softer tone. “I know you’re the better player. You know it. Just because Cal won, doesn’t mean your life and career are over. It doesn’t mean I love you any less.”
I stare at her in silence for a long moment as she watches me expectantly, hopefully.
“Are you really that naïve, or are you just that stupid?” I ask her coldly.
She holds her smile a bit too long, not realizing at first that I’m not kidding.
“Jeremy…”
“I’m going,” I say, dropping my grip from her arm. “If you aren’t out there by the time the cab is, you can ask your old buddy Cal to see you home. I really don’t care either way.”
And with that I walk away from the table and through the door. After a few minutes she follows me out into the frigid night air. When a car pulls over, I open the door and get in, leaving her to look in at me from the curb.
“Get in or close the fucking door, Julia,” I order from the back seat.
She gets in and sits silently by my side. I act as if she isn’t there, refusing to even glance her way. When she makes a move to touch my hand on the seat next to me, I yank it away. As we pull up in front of the building I’m out the door in a flash. I don’t offer her a hand out of the cab. I simply get out and keep walking.
“Hey!” I hear the cabbie call as Julia gets out and starts to follow me. “You gonna pay?”
When I look back over my shoulder she’s digging through her purse for cash. Upstairs, I find Brett watching the Planet of the Apes marathon on TV, what’s left of a bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of him. He looks up when I come in.
“Hey, you’re home early.”
“Yeah, well, we ran into Cal Burridge at the restaurant, and I had to leave before I stabbed him in the heart with my steak knife.”
“Oh, no. That definitely would not be good. Where’s Julia?” he asks, looking behind me.
“She’s on her way up. I left her to take care of the cab.”
By the time Julia makes her way upstairs, I have changed out of my dinner clothes into sweats and a t-shirt, and I’m pouring myself a glass of the Chardonnay my brother has open.
“What took you so long?” I ask, as she comes in.
“Gee, I don’t know,” she says, dropping her keys and purse on the counter. “It took me a while to scrape together the cab fare after you stuck me with the restaurant bill. You couldn’t have waited for me?”
I lean against the counter and sip my wine, looking at her over the rim of the glass. I can actually see the rage as it washes over her, an angry red that blazes up from below her neckline all the way to her forehead. Brett is trying not to appear too interested in this spat but I can see him watching us out of the corner of his eye. If there’s one thing musicians have, it’s exceptional peripheral vision. We don’t miss a thing.
“How dare you treat me like that when all I’ve ever done is support you! Don’t you ever humiliate me like that again!”
Oh, now she really has gone too far. Faster than she can blink, I’ve set the glass on the counter and we are standing toe to toe, me towering over her.
“You want to rethink that comment?” I ask her calmly.
Her internal struggle is playing out across her face like a movie. I see it all. Fear, pain, confusion. Finally, to my surprise, she settles on courage.
“Go to hell,” she whispers with venom in her voice.
Oh, baby. You just chose wrong.
By the time Julia realizes I’ve hit her, she’s already on the floor, looking up at me incredulously. Blood trickles through her fingers as she holds her hand to her nose and mouth. Without a second glance, I pick up my wine glass and go into the living room to join Brett on the couch. I watch as he looks her way, makes eye contact and turns back to the television.
“Your favorite part is coming up in a few minutes,” he says, gesturing towards the screen.
“Good!”
I clink my wine glass with his.
“Happy New Year, bro,” I say.
“Back at ya,” he says.
Julia is crying quietly on the kitchen floor.
****
It’s close to four in the morning when I roll over and run my hand up and down her outer thigh. She doesn’t stir so I reach around and cup her breast in my hand, rolling my thumb around her nipple until
it hardens to a tiny peak. Now she murmurs my name as she wakens slowly, reaching her arm back behind her, touching my face. Even in the dark I can see her swollen lip and the angry scab that’s forming where it split. I can also just make out where there is still a purple/green bruise on her wrist from Christmas Eve. She’s been covering it with long sleeves and sweaters. Good. Something to think about next time she considers crossing me.
“I’m so sorry…” she whispers. “Please don’t be angry with me. Please, I won’t do that again. I know I deserved it…”
I don’t reply, just hook my thumbs into the waistband of her panties and tug them down. She raises her legs in turn so I can pull them off of her. She starts to turn toward me, to face me, but I push her back. Without preamble I thrust hard into her and she sucks in her breath. It’s easy to see this isn’t unpleasant for her, but it’s hardly the extended foreplay she’s used to from me. A few more quick thrusts and I’ve taken care of my business. Julia, on the other hand, looks at me over her shoulder with eyebrows raised.
“Something wrong?” I ask, daring her to complain.
“No,” she says quietly as she rolls back over and pulls the sheet tightly around her body.
I throw my legs over onto the floor and pull on the sweats I was wearing earlier in the evening. Next come my t-shirt and sneakers.
I catch her shooting me a furtive glance.
“What?” I ask with evident irritation.
“Are you… going out?” she asks softly.
“Yes.”
She touches her fingertips to her swollen face unconsciously.
“Do we have a problem?” I ask, forcing her to meet my eyes.
She shakes her head right away.
“No. No problem, Jeremy.”
I give a quick nod and walk out of the bedroom, grabbing my keys off the dresser and whistling all the way out the front door.
40
I’m using my hand as a visor against the stage lights as I peer out into the empty concert hall from backstage. I just want to be sure that Matthew isn’t lurking up in the balcony somewhere, hoping to see Julia’s dress rehearsal. She says he’s away until tomorrow morning, but you never know what he’ll do when it comes to his sweet little ‘Orphan Julia.’ Just in case, I’ve asked Brett to sit up there and keep an eye out. I spot him and he gives a nod that he sees me too.
On stage, Maestro Gregory Sutton is addressing the New York Symphony, one of the best orchestras on the planet. Julia is seated out in front of them, cello between her legs, looking a little too comfortable for my liking. I am, however, pleased to see that the swelling in her face has gone down. That was stupid of me to hit her where someone might notice. Next time I’ll be more careful.
It’s the Sunday going into “Kreisler Week” and tensions are running high. The pianist and violinist had their dress rehearsals yesterday. I was there to see their performances for myself, to know exactly what I’m up against. I don’t want any surprises.
Lucy, the pianist, was actually better than I thought she would be. But, considering the fact that pianists have won the last few Kreisler’s, no one, including Lucy herself, thinks she has a shot at the gold. I heard her telling someone this is her warm-up for the Tchaikovsky Competition next year.
True to character, the Russian violinist had a hissy fit during his rehearsal, threatening to kick the principal violinist’s teeth in if he didn’t play softer during the concerto. Someone from the competition stepped in, and the hothead was told he’d be cut if he didn’t calm down.
This afternoon, it’s Julia and Cal’s turn. Julia has already played through the Rachmaninoff Sonata with the symphony’s pianist. Now, they’re getting ready to run the piece that she’ll play with the entire symphony, a cello concerto by Mozart contemporary Luigi Boccherini.
The Maestro turns around on his podium and says something to her that I can’t hear. She smiles, nods and sits up straight, getting her bow into position. Sutton conducts the orchestra in a brief introduction and then Julia starts to play. Her bow glides effortlessly over the strings. She makes the intricate scale patterns sound like child’s play. Back and forth, back and forth, the bow rocks from one string to the next in quick succession. Then suddenly she’s teasing, dragging out the notes one by one while the orchestra rests in silence… before taking off again. Now she’s harmonizing a melancholy melody with the symphony strings. The whole damn concerto is like this. By the time she gets to her cadenza in the final movement, it seems as if every single member of the orchestra is watching her, rapt.
Shit. This cadenza– a virtuosic solo part within the concerto– is fucking brilliant. She’s all over the fingerboard. When did she write this thing? I was so busy focusing on how she was playing the other two pieces that I didn’t pay any attention to the work she was doing on this one. Which, apparently, has been substantial. If I had known, I might have been able to do something about it. Well, there’s still time, I suppose.
The Maestro has to actually tap his baton on the podium to get the orchestra’s attention off of Julia and back on him for the very last measures. When the concerto has ended there is a long moment of silence and then the orchestra starts to applaud. And not just the polite little tap-tap-tap thing they do with their bows on the music stands. These people are actually hooting and cheering and whistling. The Maestro holds out his hand for Julia. She sets the cello on its side and joins him on the podium facing the symphony. The applause grows even louder. I can see the crimson color of her face from here. What a lightweight.
When they finally let her go, Julia practically skips backstage.
“Oh, my gosh! Jeremy, that was amazing! What a rush to play with an orchestra like that!” she says giddily.
I don’t say anything, just leaf disinterestedly through a magazine that someone has left on a table back here.
“Well?” she finally asks, impatiently. “How’d I do?”
I put the magazine down and meet her hopeful gaze. I clear my throat.
“I’ve heard better.”
“Excuse me?” she says, cocking her head slightly to one side.
“I’ve heard it played better by other cellists. But you were perfectly….” I appear to struggle for exactly the right word. “...adequate.”
“But all those musicians... their applause…” she starts to protest.
“Julia, do you think you’re the only one they do that for? They did the same thing for the pianist and the violinist yesterday. They’ll probably do the same thing for Cal now. They’re just being polite.”
In fact, there was some average applause for the pianist and they actually hissed at the obnoxious violinist, but she doesn’t know that.
Julia looks as if I’ve popped her favorite balloon. I guess, in a way, I have.
“Come on, get packed up. I want to sit down in the audience for Cal’s rehearsal.”
Her disappointment turns to concern.
“Are you sure you want to do that, Jeremy? Why don’t we just go home…”
“I told you what we’re doing,” I snap at her. “Now put the damn cello away and let’s go.”
She nods and goes to do as I have instructed.
As I watch her, I note that all traces of giddy are gone.
41
When Julia and I slip out into the concert hall, the Symphony is regrouping on stage after a brief break. It’s such a different experience, watching the pros. There’s none of the horsing around and petty nonsense that you see in a college orchestra; even a group as advanced as the McInnes Conservatory Orchestra has to be wrangled by the conductor. Not here. When Maestro Gregory Sutton steps onto the podium, everything stops. All eyes are on him and you could hear a pin drop. These are professionals.
“Cal Burridge will be out in just a moment here,” he begins, facing the orchestra. “He and I have already worked out his preferred tempo so please just keep an eye on me. He’ll do a cadenza at the end of the final movement. I’m just going to be marking beats for yo
u there until the measure before the orchestra comes back in. You know the drill here, ladies and gentlemen. Light, bright, buoyant. This young man plays Mozart brilliantly, so you’re in for a treat.”
I realize that my knuckles are turning white as I grasp the armrest. What a joke. It should be me up there. And where the hell is Burridge anyway? As soon as I think it, he sprints on stage, barely balancing his horn and music as he makes his way to his seat out front of the orchestra to the left of the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you the winner of the French horn division of the Kreisler International Music Competition, Mr. Calvin Burridge,” the conductor says to his ensemble. Cal approaches the podium and shakes hands with the Maestro before giving a nod and a smile in acknowledgement of the musicians’ applause. His face is a little rosy from the attention. The idiot doesn’t even know how to act in a professional setting, let alone play in one.
The Maestro waits for Cal to set up his music and blow a few notes through his horn. The oboist plays a quick A for him and he makes a big show of tuning, moving each of the horn’s crooks in and out and back in again by fractions of an inch. Fucking prima donna.
“Jeremy, really. Are you sure you want to be here?” Julia whispers next to me. “You look so… unhappy. We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”
“You’ve got that right,” I snap at her, then think better of it and soften my tone. “I’m sorry, Jules. Thanks for worrying about me, but I’m fine.”
I pat her hand, and she smiles at me sweetly. All is forgiven, for now, anyway.
The Maestro leans down and says something to Cal before turning to his orchestra. He picks up the baton from the podium that holds his score. And then his hands are raised, but still, as if they belong to a marionette suspended from wires in the ceiling above. They just hang there for what seems like a very long time before he gives them their downbeat and the Mozart begins.
In the opening of the Horn Concerto No.3, the orchestra paves the way for the horn by playing the main theme for several measures. The soloist pops in with a note here and there but spends several measures counting. Cal is silently blowing air through his horn to keep it warm and in tune.
