by Anna Adams
“You have to admit, he is a great cook. I have never eaten so many delicious meals in my entire life.”
“That’s a good thing, then. I told James he had to spoil you and fatten you up a little bit.”
Maude laughed at Victoria’s honesty, but couldn’t help but think of how she’d suffered from lack of food so often over the last sixteen years.
Victoria, whom Maude so greatly admired, also had a keen eye that James didn’t possess, although he made up for it by having a keen ear. She knew that something was wrong, off-key with Maude and her family. The Ruchets hadn’t called her once since she’d arrived at New York, and Maude never spoke about them. She’d told James to “fatten” Maude up because she had instantly seen at the airport the kind of neglect Maude had suffered from. Although she hadn’t had a moment to discuss this with Maude, she had fondly observed the gradual change that had already begun to take place in the young girl, who laughed more and had formed fast friendships with her children.
“Maude,” she started. “You said at dinner Saturday that you didn’t know who your parents were.”
Maude nodded.
“Why didn’t your foster parents tell you?”
“I have no idea.” Maude said. “I’ve asked them, but they refuse to tell me.”
“Do you know that you can research this information on your own by contacting the French administration?”
“Sometimes I’m afraid that perhaps their deaths were so tragic that my foster parents didn’t want to tell me. I wonder sometimes if—”
“—If not knowing is somehow better than hearing a truth that is too hard to bear,” Victoria completed.
Something in Victoria’s voice made Maude look up at Victoria. For a split second, Maude saw in Victoria’s eyes a haunted look that mirrored her own. For a small instant, a veil was lifted. The woman and the girl could see each other’s suffering like no one else could have seen it. It was the haunted look of a suffering that had been too long suppressed and silenced and could only be comprehended by another person bent by the weight of similar anguish caused by a tragedy. The woman and the young girl looked at each other and recognized it for what it was.
Victoria was the first to break the spell as she got up and took another cup of hot chocolate.
“So James has taught you all about Motown’s glory days, hasn’t he?” she asked, smiling.
Maude nodded, still puzzled about what Victoria had revealed inadvertently, but, not wanting to appear nosy, she refrained from asking questions.
“He and I differ on our tastes in music. Although I am fond of soul and rhythm and blues, I have a particular taste for world music. It probably comes from my Nigerian background.”
“You’re from Nigeria?” Maude asked astonished.
“Yes, I was born there, but my family moved to the United States when I was ten. I spent most of my life in Manhattan, but met James during my year abroad in Paris. That’s how small the world is.” Victoria laughed, her genuine, clear laughter, resounding in the cozy kitchen.
“I’ve heard you play the djembe, and I think it’s a beautiful instrument,” Maude hesitated. “I was wondering if you could teach me more about this drum and world music. Only if you have a little time. I know you must be very busy with your job and getting funding for the shelter and everything.”
“I’ll always have time for you, my dear Maude.” Victoria smiled one of her dazzling smiles, and Maude looked at her gratefully. “Besides, James isn’t the only musical prodigy in this house. We’ve always wanted our children to learn about everything music has to offer from all over the world, from every language, tribe, country, or continent. You’re just getting started.”
Chapter 7
“Soulville is the best place to make music,” Jake explained as he guided Maude through Soulville Tower. Jake, one of Soulville’s most loyal receptionists, had taken an instant liking to James’s most recent protégée. “Soulville Records has three mastering rooms, five studios, and four production rooms,” he continued. “The acoustics here are amazing! James made sure of that. That’s because the echo chambers here are unique: the sound isolation allow the sound engineers to sweeten the music tracks with a rich reverberation. You’ll learn more about all that when you start recording. You’ll be recording in studio A, the best studio this house has to offer. For now, you’ll be working in MCR.”
“MCR?” Maude asked.
“Matt’s Creation Room,” Jake explained as they crossed the entry lobby.
Maude’s eyes instantly fell on the Steinway Concert Grand Piano.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Jake said, following Maude’s gaze.
Maude could only nod.
“She’s Soulville’s ‘mascot,’” he explained. “She’s also cursed.”
“Really?” Maude scoffed.
“Don’t take this lightly,” Jake warned. “This piano is a custom-made Steinway 9.6’ made in 1863 by Steinway & Sons. It was acquired in the 1920s by Carnegie Hall, where it was played by prominent pianists like Vladimir Horowitz. This historical piano was restored in 2006 and was given original Steinway parts including the soundboard, pin block, action parts, and its original ivory keys. However, ever since this restoration, no one has been able to play correctly on it.”
“What do you mean?” Maude asked, her curiosity piqued.
“I mean that nothing but the most horrific sounds come from this instrument, even when played by the best pianist.”
“When was the last time you tuned this instrument?” Maude asked warily.
“It is regularly tuned by the best piano technicians,” Jake insisted. “It’s cursed. Everyone agrees with this theory.”
An involuntary shiver ran down Maude’s spine as she looked at the rosewood Steinway.
“I’ll show you the kitchen and the Creation Room, and the tour will be over,” Jake said, ushering her along.
Matt’s Creation Room was a wide, colorful space dedicated to music. The walls were splashed with bright orange walls, green sofas, and cushions, which contrasted with the serious, dark upright Yamaha piano in the center of the room. There were other instruments in the room: several guitars, a violin, several drums, a bass guitar. The walls were like a private Hall of Fame covered with posters and even relics of famous singers. One wall was covered with pictures of Matt and his three platinum albums Matt, Superstar, and Moving On. The room was bathed in light entering through the wide windows. It was Matt’s Creation Room and he had obviously decorated the room according to his own tastes.
After finishing her scales while waiting for Matt, she posted herself next to the windows to practice her audition song for La Cenerentola that Saturday evening. It was a beautiful, sorrowful song that Cinderella sang in the first scene about a king who looked for true love not in splendor and beauty, but in innocence and goodness.
Maude had difficulty getting into the spirit of the song at the moment as she surveyed Times Square from the top of Soulville Tower. Nevertheless, she tried to sing mournfully in Italian.
Matt silently entered the room, propped himself on his favorite sofa, and listened to Maude sing.
Her face was in an ocean of light that shimmered on her brown skin, while she sang, a faint smile on her lips. Her hair was tied in a lazy bun over her head, which enhanced her natural beauty. She had heard Matt enter and was satisfied to think that she hadn’t betrayed any emotion when he arrived, unlike their previous encounters.
“Isn’t Cinderella supposed to be singing with melancholy in that song? Why are you smiling?” he asked when she had finished.
Maude turned around, almost regretfully.
“Hello to you, too, Matt. Glad you could make it,” she greeted ignoring his comment.
“Right. Let’s get down to business.”
“I’ve been working on a song,” Maude said, taking a music sheet out of her file.
“Great, let’s hear it!” he said enthusiastically. Composing was one of his favorite stages in
the creative process.
“It isn’t finished yet, but I thought we could work on it together, since you’re supposed to be some sort of ‘wizard with words’ or something.”
“I’ll ignore that last bit of sarcasm and pretend you just paid me a compliment,” Matt declared, unaffected.
Maude went towards the piano and started to sing:
Strolling in the streets of Paris late at night
The Eiffel Tower sparkles, full of light
I look around the city smiles at me
There’s no other place I’d rather be
“Stop!” Matt interrupted.
“What’s wrong?” Maude asked, surprised and displeased at his tone.
“Everything!” Matt exclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Everything? That’s harsh.”
“Not everything. The rhythm’s jazzy,” he admitted. “But, come on, Maude. You’re singing a song about Paris? Beautiful Paris, Paris full of light. Paris, the wonderful.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t you see what is wrong? Paris is nothing like that!”
“Of course it is. It’s one of the most beautiful cities in the world,” Maude protested, crossing her arms testily.
“For a tourist,” Matt spat out. “You’ve described Paris like a tourist would, Maude. Paris is only partly what you’ve described. Come on, you’ve lived in Paris. How is life in Paris, going to school everyday, taking the subway everyday? You must know.”
“I’ve never lived in Paris, Matt. Excuse me for having the point of view of a dowdy, provincial peasant!”
“You aren’t from Paris?” asked Matt, trying to hide his astonishment. “James said—”
“James and I met on the only day I spent in Paris. As a tourist. I am from the North of France,” she said, raising her head proudly, as if announcing that she was the Empress of the North.
“From the North? Where it rains 363 days a year?” he mocked, grinning wickedly.
Maude felt her cheeks burn. How dare he make fun of where she came from.
“I’m assuming you’re Parisian. Your arrogance is a dead giveaway.”
“I am actually. Although I consider myself more of a New Yorker than as a Parisian today. Manhattan is my home.”
“That’s why you have so little consideration left for Paris, I suppose.”
“You suppose wrong. I love Paris. I am just not as blinded by its beauty as you are.”
“So not only am I provincial peasant, but I am also a blind one?” Maude asked in disbelief.
“I never said you were a peasant.”
“You’re too kind,” Maude retorted, sarcastically.
“All I’m saying is that Paris is a lot more than what you say in your song. Paris isn’t just a beauty queen. She’s full of passion. She’s the city of the French Revolution. And every other revolution as a matter of fact. Paris is also today the epicenter of every important strike. Never take the subway on a strike day. Or you’ll be crammed in with hundreds of other people wishing you could be anywhere else in the world. Paris is a city full of life, like every big city. Paris can be a very dirty city too. There’s lots of pollution. All I’m trying to say is that you should describe Paris as she really is, its different layers. Not some soapy, postcard version of it. Put more emotion in it.”
“I haven’t spent my life in Paris like you have. So, excuse me if the only Paris I know is the one I visited on my only day there. You didn’t even listen to the whole song.”
“Don’t need to,” he said, taking her sheet, nevertheless. “Let me see. ‘Walking along the Seine River/The wind blows softly like a whisper.’ Seriously? Why do you withhold so much from your text? You need to dig deeper in your emotions.”
Maude’s eyes blazed as she snatched the sheet from him.
“A little sensitivity wouldn’t hurt,” she started coldly. “I wonder why I even bother taking advice from someone who was singing a song called ‘The Love Doctor’ merely two years ago.”
“Ouch. Now that’s harsh,” Matt winced. He was thoroughly ashamed of that song. To say it wasn’t his best work was an understatement.
“Too harsh?” Maude mocked relentlessly. “Did I hurt your feelings? Why don’t you call the Love Doctor so he can fix you up?”
Matt hid a smile, trying not to anger her any further.
“Really, Word Wizard. Where was all your brilliance when you were singing—”
Call the Love Doctor cuz my heart is breaking
Losing you, babe means losing everything
Call the Love Doctor cuz my heart is breaking
Without you babe, I am nothing.
Maude sang, mimicking him.
“That is totally unfair. I was young back then and I had been stupid enough to sign with Glitter Records. They didn’t allow me to write my own songs.”
“Perhaps they were right.” Maude stated dryly.
“Get down from your high horse, Miss Maude,” he coaxed in a gentler tone. “Every song needs work. And this one isn’t an exception. Your songs need to reflect who you really are. Dig into your deepest, darkest feelings. Don’t you know that the best songs were written about suffering?”
“So, now you’re going to give me a musical history lesson?”
“It is part of my job. James said you needed to learn about more contemporary artists since you seem to be stuck in Beethoven’s nineteenth century.”
Maude remained silent, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Matt shrugged and headed towards the piano where he started playing the notes to “Oh Happy Day.”
“Gospel music. Gospel music is a very good example of what I’ve been saying. It comes from the Negro spirituals African-American slaves used to sing while working in the cotton fields.”
He swiftly changed the tune to a slower pace, starting the notes of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
“In their songs, African-American slaves expressed their suffering and hope for a future deliverance.”
He changed the tune again and wore a sullen expression starting Nina Simone’s version of “My man’s Gone Now.”
“Blues,” he said. “Whether about heartache or general good ole spleen, blues always expresses sorrow or suffering.”
As he sang with emotion, the lyrics went straight to Maude’s heart. She listened with her ears, her heart, her soul. She was amazed not only by Matt’s technique but also his unique capacity at interpreting a song that had nothing to do with his initial pop music career. And with such feeling, too. While he played, eyes closed, she admired his broad, straight shoulders, his calm but assured stance. He was a remarkably accomplished artist, she thought, almost regretting having been so harsh about his Love Doctor song. He certainly had grown as an artist since then, she mused.
He stopped playing and turned towards her.
“You do understand what I mean!” he exclaimed, pleased to see Maude responding to his song. “I chose Nina Simone to show you something else. Just like you, Nina Simone had a classical background. When she was younger, she wanted to become a concert pianist. Her skill was beyond measure and she used it in a wide repertoire of jazz, blues, and R&B songs. And I think you can do the same. Music knows no limits and I truly understand why James insisted on signing you, Maude.”
Maude remained silent, still thinking about his rendition of Nina Simone.
“All you have to do is dig deeper. Try finding some suffering in you. Don’t sing the Cenerentola with a smile. Although you look like a girl who’s had it all. You know, the nice girl from the North of France, who grew up in a quiet, small town with her loving mom and dad and brothers and sisters, always top of her class, quick-tempered when things didn’t go her way. A bit spoiled, I guess. You have to put all that—”
“Spoiled?” Maude blurted in utter disbelief, the word echoing through her mind. Of all the things he could’ve said about her, spoiled was the last word that could have appeared remotely appropriate to describe her. As for
suffering, she’d had plenty of that, too, which is why she didn’t want to think about it. Not while she was so happy in New York and Carvin and the Ruchets were the last thing she wanted in her head. She painfully pushed the Ruchets away from her mind and turned to Matt, eyes flaring up again.
“You know nothing about me, Matt,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion. “And you obviously know nothing about suffering, or you wouldn’t idealize it the way that you do. You see it as a romantic notion that seemingly gives depth to songwriting. And it does. Not because the singers actually thought of woe in a purely aesthetic way, but because that’s how they actually lived. You will never understand that,” she finished, trembling from head to toe.
And with that, she grabbed her bag, coat, gloves, scarf, and stormed out of Matt’s Creation Room, slamming the door behind her.
Maude was still fuming that evening as she stood backstage in the Morningside Theater listening to the other La Cenerentola auditions. She was also feeling increasingly nervous as she watched the other students perform for the lead roles. She still couldn’t get rid of Matt’s words that were echoing in her head again and again. Although she hated to admit it, his musical advice was sound even though he hadn’t at all perceived her personality correctly.
To think he saw her as a pampered, spoiled brat!
She couldn’t, wouldn’t dig too deep in her feelings of abandonment, sadness, and loneliness she’d felt in Carvin. She’d better push them away and pretend they weren’t there. She felt that if she unleashed them, they would consume her, and everyone would see who she really was: the poor, abandoned orphan whom they would all feel sorry for. Maude wanted to be able to hold her head high, not bow under the burden of pity. How would Matt react if he really knew the truth about her, her miserable, bare life in the basement of a tyrannical foster mother?
Maude forced a smile as she saw Thomas wink at her before walking on stage, faced Ms. Tragent and started to sing his solo. Thomas was incredibly at ease as Prince Charming and was a talented tenor. Nothing ever seemed to daunt this assured Prince Charming, who didn’t seem to have a worry in the world, just like its interpreter. Thomas took singing very seriously. Even in Ms. Tragent’s class, his concentration rarely wavered. He never was shaken by her sharp glares and icy remarks directed towards him, which he viewed as sharp stones on a necessary road towards improvement. Underneath his calm demeanor, brewed an ambition of steel and an unvarying search for perfection, which made him a thorough artist. He was determined to get to the top and knew he possessed the talent and will to become a famous pop artist. Even if he had to go through Ms. Tragent’s boring classical lessons.
