by Sally Mandel
David picked up our suitcases from the front hall and headed down the driveway. I wondered if we were about to hoof it back to Manhattan, but there was Phillip, waiting in the lineup of limos.
“What’s Phillip doing here?”
David hadn’t said a word to me, so I wasn’t sure he’d answer: “I asked him to wait in case Gwen Champling wanted a lift back to the city.” Each syllable got its own personal little icicle.
Well, I thought, I guess she’ll have to hoof it. I have to say I was completely stunned by the intensity of his anger.
“Who’re you mad at, me or Nardigger?” I asked after we got into the car.
“Both.”
“Okay, let’s start with Nardigger because that’s easy. Why should you give a shit about a miserable no-talent who has to take everybody down to get his rocks off?”
“Because he’s the epitome of everything that’s wrong with this world.”
“Wait,” I said. That was going a touch far. I mean, war, famine, and starvation? But David was on a roll.
“He’s totally self-involved. He sees no one else’s point of view. He’s power-hungry and cruel. These are the precise qualities that cause human misery on a grand scale.”
“You make him sound like Stalin,” I said, thinking that such a ridiculous concept would make him see how overblown this whole thing was.
“Exactly!” David opened his eyes extra wide so there was white all around the irises. It made everything he said even more intense.
I was quiet a second. David was stuck in a groove and it was time to get him out. How, was the question. Since logic wasn’t going to work, I decided to try a different tactic. “Have you ever seen his head?” I asked. “I mean, without the hat?”
David looked at me like I was the village idiot or maybe just an idiot savant.
“I’m curious,” I said. “What’s under there, one of those sweeps that starts at the back of the neck?”
David just leaned against the seat and closed his eyes. “I got us a gig on Charlie Rose,” I said, but he was asleep. What I want to know is, how can a person go from extreme rage to dreamland in a nanosecond? The guy was o-u-t, just like that. By the time he woke up, we were almost in Queens and I figured I’d try talking to him like he’d never been pissed at me. But he beat me to it.
“Did you really get us Charlie Rose?” he asked.
I smiled. “I think so. Mr. Balaboo should call tomorrow and find out if he was for real.”
He took my hand. “I was jealous, Bess. Of that man you were with on the beach.”
“That’s why you were mad at me?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry. I can’t stand sharing you.”
“Well, you sure as hell don’t have to share me with Sal Peroni,” I said, and gave him a nice long kiss.
“I’m sorry I dragged you away from the party,” David said. “We were supposed to stay overnight.”
I laughed out loud. “Anytime, babe. Southampton has seen the last of my butt for the next decade.” I curled up against him. “You been using lemon soap?” I asked him. The scent was very strong. I could smell it straight through the fabric of his shirt.
“Don’t see that man again, Bess.”
That was easy. “Okay, David, if you quit worrying about the asshole in the white hat.”
He didn’t answer. I kept up my end of the bargain, but I wish I could say the same for David.
Chapter Twelve
I tried to reach Pauline to grill her about Jake, but her machine kept answering. Jake’s recording said he was on vacation. It took Angie to get it through my dense skull that they were probably traveling together. I also had a little emergency discussion with Mr. Balaboo about David’s tantrum on the dunes. It had shaken me up, given the stuff I’d read about David when I was in my research phase—that he was gloomy and even difficult. I’d always dismissed that stuff as bullshit. Mr. Balaboo told me that yes, David had experienced “dark phases” but that there was no artist alive who wasn’t a pain in the posterior at one time or another. Did I imagine that I was a piece of cake? That was reassuring. A week passed and by then, David and I had become a media event and I forgot about everything else.
Right off the bat, we got a gig playing that old crowd-pleaser, Saint-Saen’s Carnival of the Animals. It’s been arranged a million ways, for just two pianos, for a bunch of different soloists, with or without orchestra—in fact, I’m surprised the Rolling Stones haven’t done a version. It isn’t usually performed with full orchestra but we were invited to play the duo-piano version with the New York Philharmonic under guest conductor Vladimir Chesnikov. This was our first time performing with a world-class orchestra, which was intimidating enough, but in the temperamental-genius department, Chesnikov ranks Numero Uno. So on the morning of our first orchestral rehearsal, I got a little lecture from David.
“It’s not just Chesnikov’s size, which you’ll see is formidable,” David said. “He’s a maniac for perfection, a real throwback to the old days of the tyrants.”
“I heard he gave Gabrelli a nervous breakdown,” I said. We’d been practicing day and night and I’d thought I was starving, but suddenly the blueberry muffin didn’t look so appetizing. I shoved my plate aside.
“True. Eduardo wasn’t prepared, or at least Chesnikov didn’t think so. The maestro was so humiliating in dress rehearsal that Eduardo broke down and couldn’t perform.”
“Didn’t Gabrelli sue or something?”
“He tried but nothing came of it. Now, Bess, don’t look so sick. You’re ready.” He gave me a grin full of mischief. “Except for that rubato section.”
We’d nearly come to blows over a couple of measures that morning. I wadded my napkin up and tossed it at him. It bounced off his forehead and landed in his coffee cup for two points. First of all, just because I hadn’t passed out at any recent performances didn’t mean I wasn’t petrified. Stepping out onstage was still like hanging by my thumbs over the edge of the Empire State Building. And this was the big time. Not Weill Recital Hall in Carnegie Hall but the genuine article itself, Isaac Stern Auditorium. Now, though, every time I started to get that old familiar fireworks thing going behind my eyes, I’d peer through it at David or even think about him and that made all the difference. I threw on a pair of jeans and a cotton sweater. If I was going to get yelled at by the Russian, at least I could be comfortable.
“You’re wearing that?” David asked. He was a Ralph Lauren ad in cream linen slacks and a black blazer.
“Yeah.”
“Hm,” he said, in that way that suggested maybe the French didn’t invent cheeseburgers, but at least they knew how to dress.
I threw him “the look,” which is what David called the expression I got when no amount of bullying or even a terrific bribe would get me to change my mind. He held his hands up in defeat—a hundred hours of haggling over musical decisions had taught him to pick his spots. I wrapped a couple of muffins in tinfoil for Phillip, the driver, because he was looking too thin, and off we went to face the monster.
Some people love the pitter-patter of rain on the roof or a birdcall in the woods. What does it for me is the sound of an orchestra tuning up. A clarinet snatching a last-minute run-through of a difficult part, a cello practicing a chromatic scale, a violinist demonstrating her pizzicato technique, the rumble of the tympani, and all of it going on simultaneously. Back in the poverty days, I’d crane my neck around a column (they called it “limited vision” at the box office) and look way down at the orchestra. I could imagine being an alien, staring down from my flying saucer and wondering why those Earth creatures were rubbing hairy sticks across wooden boxes or blowing through shiny pieces of metal. It could look strange and maybe pointless, but then, oh, man, some genius like Schumann made dots on paper and organized those funny gestures into sounds that could tear your heart out. Hanging over the edge of the balcony and listening to somebody like Ozawa conduct was about the closest
I ever got to religion.
Anyhow, I let David go off to greet Chesnikov while I stood and listened to the tune-up. David’s piano was already there, and as I watched, stagehands rolled mine out from the other side. This was before we chose our semipermanent pianos from down the street at Steinway. What they do is keep instruments on hand for particular pianists to use when they’re in town. Unless you’re like Horowitz and haul your own all over the world with you. But for this first concert, we’d spent two hours at Carnegie Hall the day before trying out various pianos until we found the best pair. It’s hard enough to choose one for solo performance—there’s something wrong with every instrument. If a piano has extra brilliance, it can lose out on subtleties. If the action’s great, maybe the soft pedal’s sluggish. A lot depends on the program, like if you’re playing strictly romantic pieces. Then it’s easier to choose an instrument that matches the music, but most programs are a mix. When you add another pianist to the soup, it really gets complicated. Then you’ve got the issue of balance to deal with along with everything else.
David came down to the first row of seats where I was trying not to have a meltdown and introduced me to Vladimir Chesnikov. He bowed and kissed my hand. So far so good—at least he didn’t bite my fingers off.
“Mademoiselle Stallone,” he said, “you excuse me please that my English is not so good. You speak Italian maybe so?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, but it’s okay. Just tell David. He’ll translate.”
He made another bow. “Are we ready to begin?”
“Sure,” I said, and we went up onstage. Chesnikov had a conference in German with the concertmaster while David and I did some warm-ups. When Chesnikov hopped up on his podium, everybody started producing “A’s” like their lives depended on it.
How to explain what it’s like to play music with the full weight of an orchestra behind you? After hours of practicing your little piece in the privacy of your apartment and imagining the instrumental parts, suddenly you’re out there with all those amazing musicians, the conductor raises his baton, and next thing you know, you’re riding that huge sound like it’s a living thing, beautiful and wild and strong. I was so high I almost passed out from the joy of it, forget about being nervous.
The whole first half of the rehearsal went pretty well although the maestro got real peeved when the bassoon came in one measure ahead of us.
“I trust you don’t do everything too early, Mister Jonas,” he said, with this mean little smirk. Of course, the orchestra snickered, figuring they’d better act like they appreciated the joke, but it seemed unnecessarily malicious to me. Jonas was a dorky little guy who was so embarrassed that even his ears turned red. Otherwise, though, things went pretty smoothly for a while, with Chesnikov giving David a few minor suggestions and David translating for me. I was beginning to think that the conductor’s legendary tantrums were kind of like those stories we used to scare each other with when we were kids, about the guy with the hook-hand who killed couples parked by the beach at night. Namely, bullshit. I did notice that there wasn’t a single other woman in the orchestra.
Finally, we got to the section I especially love. There’s a piano entrance that’s so soft it’s almost a whisper. We’re talking swans in the text here so the sound should drift in very quietly. Well, Chesnikov kept giving a downbeat like these swans were more like the Hitler Youth out for their morning marching exercises. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but the thing was, it didn’t sound like fucking swans to me. So first I asked David to ask Chesnikov if he could ask if the orchestra could come in a bit more softly. Chesnikov nodded and proceeded to conduct the entrance exactly the same way. I stopped playing, and waved my hand, figuring let me try it this time.
“The entrance, Maestro, could it be more softly, please?”
He glared down at me from his perch. “It is soft, mademoiselle.”
“But maybe even more,” I said. I looked at David for help. “How do you say drifting, like swans drifting on the water?”
“Comme les cygnes derivant sur I’eau,” David suggested to Chesnikov. His voice cracked a little and suddenly the orchestra was real quiet. Everyone was staring at Chesnikov and me like we were two trains speeding toward each other on the same track. Even though you know it’s going to be really gruesome you can’t tear your eyes away.
“Once again, same measure,” Chesnikov said, with totally fake patience. The veins in his neck were beginning to turn kind of purple, probably not a great sign, and David was shooting me these shut-up looks across the pianos. But when the orchestra came in, it was no different. Too damn military for fucking swans. I stopped playing and put my hands in my lap. Chesnikov lowered his baton, stood very still, then turned to David.
“You must do better to control your woman.” Chesnikov spit out “woman” like it meant something close to “vermin.” Funny, he used English for that crack.
David opened his mouth to say God knows what, but before he had a chance, Chesnikov spun around and started raging on me, poking the air in the direction of my face with his baton.
“I try to excuse you, mademoiselle, because you have no experience. I understand you are not a cultured person and you come from low circumstances. But you behave like an idiot.” When he said “idiot,” he rapped the baton on the lid of the piano with so much force that the sucker jumped out of his hand and slid under the cellos. Not to mention the scar he made in the finish of the Steinway.
Well, this was the second time I’d heard myself referred to as an idiot—and Chesnikov didn’t even have the courtesy to add the “savant” part. I suppose I should have been thinking about how maybe this wasn’t the perfect way for David and me to make our official debut with an orchestra, but I’ve just never been able to tolerate a bully. I waited for him to take a breath and then I just started talking normally. I guess curiosity got the better of him, because after a few more screams, he clamped his mouth shut and listened. I pretended he hadn’t been acting like a lunatic and talked to him like we’d been having a totally civilized conversation.
“With all respect, Maestro, I’d just as soon David and I don’t come off sounding like we’re doing halftime at the Super Bowl. I mean, our asses are on the line here, too.” Then it occurred to me that he probably wouldn’t be too familiar with American football. “The entrance would be more correct if it was quieter; that’s all I’m saying. No big deal.”
“Correct!” That did it. “Correct! COR-R-R-RECT!” Chesnikov turned to David and started yelling in French, but I mean, we’re talking major decibels here. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a pill bottle was making the rounds in the first violin section. The truth is, the amount of beta-blockers sucked down in the orchestra before any performance is directly related to how scary the conductor is, and those fiddlers were popping them like breath mints. Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out what Chesnikov was screaming at David. I figured something like, “Get rid of that crazy bitch or your career is down the hopper.”
I was sitting there thinking, So, Bess, you probably just screwed yourself and maybe yanked David right down with you. Maybe you’d better figure out a way to dig yourself out. I stood up, went over to Chesnikov, and got hold of his hand, which was kind of like grabbing a guided missile out of the air, it was moving around so fast. I could hear the orchestra kind of gasp in unison, like “Oh Christ, what’s this nut going to do now, knock the maestro off his stand?” But my touching him was drastic enough to get his attention. He tried to shake my hand off, but I hung on with a pianist’s grip.
“Maestro,” I said, “Maestro Chesnikov. Please, I’d like to apologize.” I figured, Okay, humble pie can’t taste much worse than the shit I used to eat when I was a waitress. Chesnikov was gawking at me like I’d been let out of the zoo just that morning.
“You’re totally right. I know squadoosh about most things and I’m very inexperienced. I did grow up in circumstances that would be foreign to you—I don’t know if
I’d call them low.”
His mouth had dropped open a little. I mean, how would you react if an inferior animal, say an orangutan, opened its mouth and started speaking in complete sentences? But at least I’d shocked him into listening.
“I got here because good people helped me and I worked my butt off. I’ve always admired your work.” No kidding, Chesnikov’s recording of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony was timeless. “But in my old neighborhood, you speak up if something’s bugging you. That’s all I was doing. If I was rude, I apologize with all my heart.”
Okay, I confess that I had tears in my eyes, but everything I was saying was totally true. I just left out a few things, like how screaming assholes don’t impress me because I was raised by the world champion.
Chesnikov surprised me by stepping off the podium and, still holding my hand, leading me into the wings. There were stagehands lined up like spectators at a really bloody boxing match. He shooed them away so we could have some privacy.
“You understand, mademoiselle, that I have the power to ruin you.”
I nodded. “I sure hope you won’t do that, Maestro.”
“You must acknowledge that I am the boss of you here. Of everybody here.”
“I understand, sir,” I said. “But does that mean I can’t question anything we do?”
He took both of my hands and shook them up and down. “One time you can ask, and then we do as I say.”
I thought for a couple of seconds. I knew this was as far as he was going to go and also that he thought he was making a major concession—like, Okay, I’ll even listen to the little twerp at the piano.
“Okay, that’s fine with me.”
“Tell me, what is squadoosh?”
That took me back for a minute. Then I remembered and couldn’t help a little smile. “Squadoosh is nothing, nienta, nada.”
He stared into my face for what seemed like a long time. Then he said, “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
