“Tiffany, I have to go to a big fund-raising dinner for Wildwood this Saturday night. It’s over at the Performing Arts Center, at the restaurant they have on the grounds over there. It’s supposed to be the event of the season or something. It’ll be full of society people—big-time contributors to the orchestra and all that. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to come along.”
“Come along?” She wasn’t sure exactly what he meant.
“Sure. You know, as my date.”
Her face relaxed into a smile.
“Why, I’d love to,” she replied sweetly.
“Wow, sounds like a really big deal.” Mark was shaking his head. “Are you sure that’s not out of your league, Tiff?”
She glared at him, so furious that she couldn’t have spoken even if she had had the presence of mind to come up with something that truly expressed what she thought of him.
But her anger didn’t last long. After all, she had more important things to think about.
“Of course I’ll come, Jason,” she said. “I’d absolutely love to.”
Tiffany practically floated back upstairs, still clutching the single red rose. She had all but managed to push away the unpleasant feeling that Mark’s intrusiveness had left behind.
After all, what did a jerk like Mark Jackson matter to her? She was going out on a date with Jason Diamond!
* * * *
Jason’s invitation to the upcoming fund-raising dinner at the Wildwood Performing Arts Center put Tiffany in such a good mood that for days she awoke singing, went to sleep humming, and spent practically every moment of the rest of the day smiling. It was more than being so excited about the evening ahead that she could hardly stand it. She also felt a sense of triumph. After all, she had succeeded in one of the goals she had set for herself that summer: adding Jason Diamond to her life.
Her other goal—becoming good enough on the cello to save herself from any future embarrassment at orchestra rehearsals—was not going quite as smoothly, however. All the hours of practicing were not making any real difference in her playing. It was true that she was getting a bit better at holding her own during rehearsals, and during her lessons with Morris Church she at times sounded quite passable. But she had yet to experience that sense of passion her cello teacher was always talking about—and she certainly had yet to hear anything even close to it in her music.
She was meeting with her usual frustration a few days before her dinner date with Jason as she sat alone in one of the practice rooms. She was trying to play the lovely, lilting theme of the first movement of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, in this particular section carried by the cellos. And as usual, it was coming out as nothing more than the mechanical punching out of one note after another.
“I hate this stupid symphony!” Tiffany cried, hurling the bow of her cello across the tiny practice room. “It’s ugly, it’s dumb, and I wish I never had to play it again!”
Tears sprang to her eyes as she stared at the music before her, glowering at it as if it were her opponent in a battle. She sat very still for a few seconds, as if she were waiting to see what was going to happen.
But nothing happened. The bow stayed on the floor, exactly where it had fallen when she threw it. The music, meanwhile, remained on the music stand, staring right back at her.
No, this time, she realized, her only opponent was herself.
With a loud, tired sigh, she leaned over and picked up the bow. She had already spent a good forty-five minutes going over this passage, the same one that Mr. Church had had her playing for him over and over at her last lesson. And before this, she had put in a full half hour of scales and exercises that were meant to help her warm up while they improved her technique and just generally helped her learn her way around her cello. Yet none of it seemed to be making a bit of difference.
She suddenly felt a sense of rage. How dare this simple little combination of notes, these little black dots sprinkled across a page, get her so infuriated! How dare they have so much power over her!
There was only one thing to do. She was going to have to prove to herself that she wasn’t going to let something this simple affect her this way.
Tiffany picked up her bow and placed it across the taut strings of her cello. She took a deep breath and then began to play.
But this time, it was different. The way she approached it was different. Instead of agonizing over the exact position her fingers were supposed to be in, instead of worrying about whether she was easing from the forte to the mezzo forte gradually enough, she played the passage from the heart.
And as she did, she knew that for the first time in her life she was making music.
When she had finished the passage, when she brought her bow back down again, she discovered that she was trembling.
I did it! she was thinking. I really did it! I made music! I felt it!
It was true; the sounds that had come from her cello this time were music. It was music that came from her heart, from her soul, rather than from the part of her that was simply trying to get the whole thing over with.
This time, the music had been part of her.
With a new enthusiasm—and a brand-new sense of herself, something she had never experienced before—Tiffany got ready to play it again. She was going to play this entire symphony, she decided, and then go on to all the other music in her black vinyl folder.
Who knows? she thought, smiling. Maybe I’ll end up playing all day. Maybe I’ll end up playing all night, as well!
She tried telling herself that it was no big deal.
After all, she was thinking, all you did was play a few measures of Beethoven that came out sounding pretty good. It’s not exactly a miracle, you know.
And then she began playing the symphony’s theme one more time.
Well, she thought, a smile creeping slowly across her face as she played, maybe it’s a little miracle.
Chapter Seventeen
“Going out tonight, Allegra?”
Tiffany glanced up from the task that had been absorbing her for the past ten minutes: putting on blood-red nail polish. In the past she had kept her nails as long as she could. Now that the cello had wriggled its way into her life, however, she had had to start keeping her nails short. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t find an outlet for flamboyance in other ways.
“You’re really pulling out all the stops,” Tiffany went on, once again trying to find out what the evening held for Allegra. Not that she really cared, of course, she was just bored. She held her fingers out stiffly, waving her hands in the air every now and then in an attempt to try to speed up the drying process so she could move on to the next task on her schedule: trying some new hairstyles she had seen in a fashion magazine, hairstyles that she hoped would hold Jason Diamond’s attention when she went out with him the following night.
“As a matter of fact, I am going out tonight,” Allegra replied.
She stepped back and surveyed her image in the mirror. It was obvious from the way she was dressed that she was going somewhere—somewhere special indeed. She was wearing a strapless dress, a print in bright shades of pink and lavender, that was much more sophisticated than the clothes she normally chose to wear. Her hair was pulled back and fastened in back in a sort of knot. On her feet were a pair of pink ballet-style slippers. A bit of jewelry, a little makeup, even a spot of perfume ... yes, it was clear that she was headed for someplace out of the ordinary.
“You don’t seem very excited,” Tiffany observed, sounding rather bored by all this herself.
“I suppose I should be.” Allegra sighed. “After all, I’m going out to a very fancy restaurant. It should be an elegant evening. I’m going to Le Pavillion,” she added, naming the most exclusive restaurant in town.
Tiffany’s eyebrows shot up.
“Wow! You’re going to Le Pavillion? What’s the occasion? ‘‘
“Oh, a friend of my parents is passing through town, and he’s taking me out to dinner.’’ With
a frown, she added, “It’s sort of a social obligation on his part.’’
“Some old guy, huh?” Tiffany was already losing interest.
“Well, he’s not that old. Misha is in his thirties, I guess.”
“Misha?” That was such an intriguing first name.
“Misha Bodorov. He’s a pianist.”
Tiffany nearly fell off her chair. “Misha Bodorov! Even I’ve heard of him! He’s internationally famous, isn’t he? Something like the best pianist in the world? I remember reading that about him. Isn’t he that incredible genius that everybody is crazy about?”
“That’s the one. So what do you think? Do I look okay?”
She presented herself to Tiffany for inspection.
“You look fine,” Tiffany said after studying her for a few seconds. “Except for one thing.”
“Oh, no. What is it?”
Tiffany looked her over one more time. “I think it would help if you could try a little harder to look as if you were looking forward to this.”
Le Pavillion was just as elegant as Allegra had expected. It was a French restaurant on the main floor of an old Victorian house. The room in which Allegra and her escort were seated was painted a rich royal blue, and the dim lights made it all so romantic that she found herself wishing she were there with a date instead of with her parents’ friend—no matter how famous he was.
She had to admit, however, that Misha Bodorov was excellent company. He did treat her like a date, someone his own age, rather than the daughter of some friends of his, someone he was simply taking to dinner out of politeness. He was a good-looking man, small in stature but dark and handsome. His manner was one of confidence, so polished that it was easy to imagine him performing for kings and queens all over the world, as he had since he was barely Allegra’s age.
“Ah, you are growing up so fast,” the pianist said as he sipped a glass of champagne. He had insisted on making a toast to her, clinking his glass against her glass of ginger ale. “The last time I saw you, Allegra, you were barely out of grade school.”
“I’m sixteen now.”
“Sixteen! Really? It hardly seems possible. Already you are growing up. And you are growing into such a lovely young lady. Now tell me all about your mother and your father. And Pierre, of course. Let’s not forget your brother. How are they all doing? I haven’t seen them since ... goodness, has it already been more than a year? Yes, I think the last time was when I was performing at the Chopin festival in New York, right before I went on that European tour.”
Allegra filled him in on all the details of her family’s life: her father’s busy conducting schedule, including the new record he was making with the Allenburg Orchestra; her mother’s success in her latest opera, Tosca, performed at the Met; her brother’s enthusiasm over his new piano teacher at Juilliard.
“Ah, it sounds as if they are all doing as well as ever,” Misha said when she had finished. “And what about you, Allegra? How are you enjoying your summer here at Wildwood?”
“It’s wonderful,” she replied sincerely. “I’ve met so many nice people. Our conductor is great. And we’re playing some wonderful music.” She went on to list the pieces the orchestra was working on.
“How wonderful,” Misha said. “I am glad it is going so well for you.”
And then, his dark eyes twinkling, he added, “And I understand from a conversation I had with my friend Amos Derwood last night that you, Allegra, are the shining star of this orchestra.”
“What do you mean?” And then Allegra figured it out. “Oh. You must be talking about the concerto contest. Yes, my parents are certainly excited about that.’’
“Your parents?” Misha seemed surprised. “And what about you?”
“I guess it’s pretty exciting,” Allegra admitted.
“It will certainly help get your career as a violinist under way. Not to mention the fact that having won a competition like this one and having performed under a conductor like Amos Derwood will undoubtedly help you get into one of the better music conservatories after you graduate from high school. Have you decided yet where you’d like to go? Or is it just assumed that you will go to Juilliard like Pierre?”
Allegra cleared her throat.
“Actually,’’ she said slowly, “the truth is that I don’t want to go to music school at all.”
“What’s this?” Misha exploded. “The daughter of Paolo Ferrante, the conductor, and Catherine Lafarge, the opera singer—and of course a talented musician in her own right— doesn’t want to go to music school?”
After taking a deep breath, she said, “I don’t think I want to be a violinist.”
Misha was so amazed at what he was hearing that he didn’t know how to react.
“Allegra! I... I am astonished. Have you talked to your parents about this?”
She shook her head.
“I think ... I think they will be very upset to hear this.”
“I know they will.”
“If you don’t want to be a violinist, what do you want to do, then?”
Slowly a smile crept across Allegra’s face. “I want to sing.”
“Ah. You mean opera. Like your mother.’’ Misha looked relieved.
“Well, no. Not exactly. I mean I want to sing popular music. What I’d really like to do is sing with a rock band.”
Misha made an exclamation in Russian. Allegra was left to her own devices to try to figure out what it meant. But while she didn’t understand the exact words, she understood completely what the feeling behind it was.
“You have talked to your parents about this?”
“No. Not yet.”
“I see.” Misha’s face was drawn into a serious expression. He thought for a minute or two, then began to speak very slowly.
“Allegra, did you know that my parents never wanted me to play the piano?’’
She was amazed. “But how can that be? You’re so talented! You’re ... you’re a genius!”
Misha just smiled. “What they wanted for their son was that he become a great scientist. They refused even to listen to any talk of me becoming a professional musician. So do you know what I did?”
“No, what?”
“I used to—how do you say—sneak around. I became a very sneaky person.” He laughed. “I would tell them I was working on a very special science project for school when I was really sneaking over to a friend’s house to practice on his piano. My parents owned a piano, an old one that had been in my family for a long time, but I didn’t dare play it. Instead, I would tell them I needed money for science textbooks when really I was paying a piano teacher for lessons. This sneakiness, it continued for years.”
Allegra leaned forward.” And then what?’’ Her dark brown eyes were wide.
“And then one day my piano teacher came to our house. He knew I was afraid to tell them what my true passion was. And he felt I had a gift for music. So he did not tell me what he was going to do, but instead came unannounced to see my parents one evening.
“He told them they had to help me become what I was meant to be. That I was a very special pianist, and that to hold me back would be a terrible waste.”
“Did they listen to him?”
“Oh, no!” Misha was chuckling over the memory of their reaction. “They were very mad! Not at him, not at me, but at the idea that their dreams for me may have been turning out to be the wrong dreams. They could not accept what he was saying. At least, not at first.”
“So what happened?”
“My teacher was a very smart man. He knew there was nothing left for him to say, no argument he could make. Without another word, he gestured to me, telling me I should sit down at the piano and play for my parents.
“I was trembling as I did. This, I knew, would be the most difficult performance I would ever give, the most critical audience I could ever have. I also knew it was the most important performance I would ever give in my entire life.”
He was smiling dreamily as he we
nt on. “And then I began to play. I remember it as if it were only last night, instead of twenty-five years ago. I played Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata. At first it sounded clumsy to my critical ears. But soon I forgot all about my teacher, my parents, the fact that I was playing for them in order to convince them that this was how I should spend my life. I forgot everything. Only the music was there for me. I became lost in it, this passion of mine, so that the music and I became one and the same.”
Allegra waited, expecting him to go on. But he had begun eating, acting as if the story were finished.
“So what happened?” she finally asked impatiently.
Misha just looked at her, a bit surprised. Allegra was puzzled, but then she remembered who he was. Misha Bodorov, one of the world’s greatest pianists.
And then she smiled.
Later, at the end of the evening, Misha dropped her off in front of the dorm. She turned to him before getting out of the car.
“Thank you, Misha,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you a million times over!”
“For the dinner?” He waved his hand in the air. “Ah, it was my pleasure.”
“No, for your advice. That story you told me tonight, I mean.” Looking very serious, Allegra said, “Misha, you just helped me make the most important decision of my entire life.”
* * * *
As she strolled into the lobby, lost in deep thought, Allegra was surprised to see that even though it was late, there was someone in the lobby. He was slumped in a chair, staring at the television screen. She glanced over, not wanting to disturb him, then jumped as she saw who it was.
“Steve! What are you doing up?”
He jumped, startled by the sound of her voice, then leaned forward to snap off the set.
“Oh, in,” he said, looking sheepish. “I, uh, I guess I couldn’t sleep.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I was kind of waiting up for you.”
“Steve!” she scolded, laughing. “You’re worse than my parents! Did you really think I wouldn’t manage to get back safely?”
“Well, uh, no, not exactly.”
Going Solo Page 18
