by Frank Conroy
There was a moment of silence while Jerry regarded Claude and bit his lower lip. Very slowly, a trace of a smile showed at the corners of his mouth. "What the hell. Let's see what happens."
And so the arrangements were made. The string quartet who were to have played Bartók during the second half were prevailed upon to play first. Meanwhile Claude studied the score, with Dick Denby's sketchy notations, in the front seat of Roger's Studebaker. During the last available ten minutes, Jerry sat with him and went over tempos and phrasing.
"What we're doing is insane," Jerry said as he reached up to turn off the dome light.
"I know," Claude said, and they both laughed.
In the sudden silence following the last abrupt volley of notes ending the piece, the first thing Claude heard was the awestruck voice of the girl with the green eyes, her breath in his left ear. "Wow!" she said. She had stepped forward from the audience when Claudia had asked for a volunteer to turn pages.
And now the applause started. Claude looked at the faces of the other players, all of them smiling. Jerry giving him a thumbs-up sign, Claudia blowing him a kiss. As he stood up from the bench he realized that the applause from the sixty or seventy people in the audience was very spirited, punctuated by the odd shout. Claude made his way around the piano to stand with the other players. As they all bowed, more or less simultaneously, the audience got to its feet and continued to applaud.
"Terrific," Jerry said out of the corner of his mouth. "We did it."
"Thank God," said Marty.
"Amazing," said Roger.
Facing the audience, Claude felt a sense of relief. He had missed dozens of notes, played a few wrong ones, rushed the tempo of the third section out of nervousness, and had not quite matched the phrasing of the horns on several occasions. But the piece as a whole had been executed clearly, its shape unambiguous. Parts of it had even been beautiful, and, remembering those moments, he allowed himself to be swept up in the general enthusiasm.
A second bow.
"I knew it," Claudia said. "I had a feeling."
A third and final bow.
"Where's Dick?" Claude asked as they all thanked him and began moving out to their friends in the crowd. No one knew. "On the way to Philadelphia, I hope," said Claudia.
Quite a few people from the audience came up to Claude and offered compliments. "You really never played it before?" asked a short man with a white beard.
Claude made his way outside and took several deep breaths of the balmy air. There was the barest sliver of moon hanging over the trees, and the dark sky glinted with innumerable stars, more stars than he had ever seen. He felt extraordinarily alive, cleansed somehow, his body light and humming. He felt fresh.
The dark shapes of people fanned out in all directions. Behind the barn, car engines started, and beams of light appeared to the left and right like a panoply of arms. A single figure approached him from the center of the shed.
"Here." It was the girl with the green eyes. "Don't forget this." She held out the score.
"Thanks." He put it under his arm. "And thanks for turning pages. Your timing was perfect."
"My pleasure," she said. "It was something to see."
They stood in comfortable silence. He could see the pale orb of her face, but it was too dark to make out her expression.
"Well, I better get back to the inn," he said.
"Are you driving?"
"No, walking."
"Me too. I'll come along with you."
"Okay. Sure." Now he could catch a faint lemony scent as she came up to his side, close, almost as close as she would to take his arm.
There was a path along the side of the road, and when it narrowed her shoulder would touch his arm. He felt buoyant, almost dizzy, and everything he saw—the trees, the stars, the wooden bridge over the creek—pleased him in some simple, mysterious way. At the same time, even though no words were being exchanged, he was aware of a tacit tension growing between them. They seemed to be talking without talking, and strange as it was, it felt natural, inevitable.
It was almost a shock when, turning the corner toward the inn, she spoke. "My name is Eva."
"Claude," he said. "It's nice to meet you." He felt a little foolish, and as he turned to smile she put her hand on his arm and they stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
"Could we get a cup of coffee or something?" she asked.
"I bet we can." He found himself bending his head forward, like one of the actors on the great screen, again with an odd, graced sense of inevitability, to kiss her. Her lips were warm and he closed his eyes, lost in sensation.
Then she was smiling, and she took his arm, and they began walking again.
The lobby of the inn was entirely empty, even the reception desk. The dining room was closed, and dark through the glass doors. For a moment he stood, her warmth up against his side, unsure what to do next.
"I guess ... I guess..."
"It doesn't matter," she said.
"We could go up," he said, amazed at himself, as if the words had passed through him from some powerful agency, as if he'd been seized by magic. He held his breath.
"Yes," she said. "Let's do that."
They climbed the stairs and went to his room. She didn't leave until just before first light.
"You look like you could use this," the waitress with the hair net said at breakfast, pouring him coffee. "What'd you do last night, tie one on?"
For a split second he thought she knew, but then he realized she meant drinking. He shook his head and looked down at his plate. "No," he said, spreading his napkin on his lap. "The truth is ... the truth is, I feel very good. I feel great."
"Well, fine," she said.
And it was true. He'd spent half the night making love with Eva, and the world seemed like a brand-new place. Everything seemed newly minted—the salt and pepper shakers, the sun coming in the window behind him, clattering sounds from the kitchen, his own slender hands. He felt so good he imagined his happiness to be radiating outward from the confines of his body, and he marveled that the waitress didn't seem to notice it. And the Beethoven! He felt the music again. The Beethoven! He had to concentrate to eat his breakfast.
When she came back to clear up she said, "The chef has some white pants you could borrow. They won't fit, though."
He rose from his reverie. "I'm sorry?"
"The white pants you wanted."
It was like a memory from weeks ago. "Oh, yes. The pants. Thanks. Thanks for asking. I mean, for going to all that trouble."
"They won't fit."
"It's okay. I don't need them. It turns out ... I'm ... everything's okay," he spluttered.
"Good," she said. "Supposed to tell you you've got a message at the desk."
He approached the reception desk with trepidation, various embarrassing scenarios running through his head. The old man looked up, his milky blue eyes sharp and steady.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
"They say stop in at the administration. You got some telegrams."
"Oh, fine," Claude said, instantly relieved. "Thanks a lot."
"Good breakfast?"
"Absolutely. First rate. Delicious."
"We do good breakfasts."
"You sure do. The food is great," Claude said. "Dinner too. Just great."
"We aim to please." The old man picked up a toothpick from a glass and slipped it between his lips. He pushed the glass forward. "Want one of these? Mint. Got a mint flavor."
Claude accepted one and moved away. Now that he appeared to be safe, he wondered about the telegrams.
On his way to the farm he looked up at the sky—great, billowing white clouds hanging motionless under the blue—and for no reason at all broke into a run, relishing the air against his face. His new white tennis shoes gripped the surface of the path as he flew effortlessly along, slapping at the leaves now and then.
He was out of breath when he reached the administration building. Mrs.
Chatfield wore a different sweater but the same pearls, and the same half glasses midway down her slender nose. Telephones rang, people came and went with pieces of paper, and she held a pencil sideways in her mouth as she rummaged through her drawers.
"Voilà." She handed him two yellow windowed envelopes. He opened the first, which read:
Unavoidably delayed here. Have notified Popkin. Show him what we want. Look forward to performing with you tomorrow.
Fredericks
Claude would have to do the second rehearsal alone. He felt a flutter as he realized the extent of his responsibility, but he also remembered exactly those places he had pointed out to Popkin, so he at least knew where to start.
"Fredericks can't come to the rehearsal today," Claude said to Mrs. Chatfield.
"These things happen all the time around here," she said with a sigh. "I'm sure it will work out."
He found a chair against the wall, sat down, and opened the second telegram.
Some time to get the flu. Doctor insists bedrest. I will be thinking of you tomorrow. Play loud maybe I'll hear it.
Weisfeld
Claude stared at the paper for a long time, his eyes going over and over the strips of tape bearing the words. He did not know what to think, aware only of a sense of disappointment, a kind of slowing down within himself.
"Something wrong?" Mrs. Chatfield asked.
"My teacher has the flu. He can't come."
"Fredericks?" she said, half rising in alarm, her glasses, held by a black cord, falling to her chest.
"No, no. My first teacher, my real teacher. Mr. Weisfeld."
She sat back down. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, sounding relieved. "That's a shame."
"Can I call him on the telephone?" He got up and went to the desk. He wrote the number on a scrap of paper and handed it to her.
"Well, I'm not supposed to," she said, reaching for the receiver, "but if he's not well..."
She read the number to the long distance operator and handed the phone to Claude. After some time he heard the soft burr of the ringing on the other end. Then he heard a woman's voice. "Hello?"
Claude was confused. "Hello. Is Mr. Weisfeld there, please? This is Claude."
"He's asleep, Claude. I was just on my way out. This is Mrs. Keller from next door."
"Oh, hi. Hi, Mrs. Keller." It seemed odd to be talking to her, odd to think of her in the music store. "Is he okay? I got a telegram, it just says the flu."
There was a brief pause. "That's right. The doctor's been. He just has to rest and he'll be fine," she said. "It's nothing serious. When're you coming back? He told me you're up in the country someplace."
"Tomorrow. Tomorrow night." He switched the phone to his other ear. "But he's okay?"
"I'm sure he'll be up and about by the time you get back."
"Good," Claude said. "Okay. Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Keller."
"You're welcome."
Claude hung up the phone, thanked Mrs. Chatfield, and went outside. He walked down the path and sat at the same bench under the big tree. Weisfeld could not come, would not be with him in the wings, and Claude felt slightly askew, slightly adrift at the prospect.
"Is this your first time?" Eva had asked in bed.
"Yes."
"Not me," she said cheerfully, and kissed him.
He did not question the fact that he was only mildly curious about her. He knew she would go back to San Francisco, back to the conservatory, her parents, and her golden retriever, and that he would never see her again. He also knew it was the right time of the month for her to make love, because she had told him. She had asked him very little about himself.
From the first—their silent walk, the kiss on the sidewalk, their shared delicious sense of breaking the rules on the way up to his room (she had even giggled once, into her hand, as he'd fumbled with the key)—he'd known perfectly well that this was not what he'd read about in Romeo and Juliet, or the sonnets, or what he'd seen in the movies or read in novels. This was not transcendent. But he very much liked her. She was good, she was generous, and in her courage she had been the agent of his release. She would never know how much it meant to him to be free of his virginity, and he could never tell her because, in truth, what had happened to him seemed far more important than what had happened to her. Hence there had been few words during their long, voluptuous night of physical intimacy. At times they had been languorous and tender, at times they had clung ferociously like two kids on a roller coaster He did not really know her but he felt he owed her the world.
Now, as he came upon her in the rehearsal shed, he'felt an instantaneous shock—an electricity of pleasure up his spine—at the simple sight of her. It caught him completely by surprise.
She smiled. "Let's sit for a second."
Musicians milled around but no one seemed to pay them any particular attention. Popkin was fussing at the podium.
"Let's do it again," he said, "tonight."
"Ah, you are a hungry lad, Claude."
"Yes. Yes I am." He could not take his eyes from her mouth. "God knows I am."
"We'll see. You have beautiful dark eyes, you know."
"I'm glad."
"But," she said in a new tone, "in here it's all business. I will forget about you, and you will forget about me, and the only thing that counts is the music."
"How can I do that? You'll be sitting right behind me, staring at my neck." He was bold enough to tease.
"I won't." She leaned forward a bit. "Claude, I'm serious. I swear I won't even look at you. This is serious. We can't screw up the performance. We have to be professional." She looked down and shook her head. "I'd never forgive myself," she said, sounding genuinely alarmed.
"It's okay," Claude said. "It is, really. When I get to the piano something happens to me. I don't know how to describe it. It's like I'm there, but I'm not there. I go into some kind of zone or something. It always happens, so it'll be okay. I promise."
"Just forget about me up there—tomorrow afternoon especially."
"Mr. Rawlings!" Popkin shouted. "Come up here, please. We have to talk!"
"So," Popkin said as Claude joined him, "he says you know what he wants. So what does he want?"
There was a certain amount of irritation in his voice, and so Claude thought carefully. "I sure don't know everything he wants," he said, "but if you don't mind going to the piano, I can show you some of the phrasing."
They moved to the grand. Claude opened his score while Popkin stood over his right shoulder. Starting at the beginning, and reminded by his copious notes, Claude went through the five or six places he remembered from the previous day as most likely to bother Fredericks.
"This note shouldn't be so quick," he said. "He told me to watch it. He's after the smoothest possible shape, with a light legato." He played the phrase and Popkin grunted. "Here," Claude continued, "this forte shouldn't be so forte. More of a swelling up, sort of." He turned pages. "This sounded kind of limp yesterday. He wants it spirited. He used the word 'virile.' " He turned more pages, going over the material and playing when necessary. Popkin made him repeat sections now and then. Claude was aware of the players taking their seats, talking quietly to one another, occasionally glancing up.
"We try," said Popkin, and he returned to the podium. "Everybody here? Good. From the beginning." He raised his baton and gave the tempo.
It was once again a thrill to hear the sound, but this time Claude forced himself to listen closely. Popkin let them play four bars and stopped them. He nodded to Claude, who understood, and played the bit with what he thought was the correct phrasing.
"You see?" said Popkin. "Rounder. Not so fast with the appoggiatura. Let me hear it as a note."
The orchestra played.
"Strings, strings!" Popkin interrupted. "Do it like the horns! They've got it right. Listen to them. Horns! Just the horns now. And one." The horns played. "Good, good," Popkin said. "Now the strings alone." The strings played. "Better. Now eve
rybody. And one."
They progressed through the piece, playing in fits and starts, isolated sections again and again. It was grueling work, taking a great deal of concentration and total alertness. The room was growing uncomfortably warm. Popkin's shirt darkened and sweat rolled down his pendulous cheeks. Some piano keys became slick.
After about an hour, working on part of the middle section, Claude suddenly stopped. The orchestra straggled to a halt. Popkin looked at Claude with surprise. "Something?"
"It's just, it's just..." He twisted in exasperation. "It isn't clear. It isn't focused. We do something five times and it still sounds blurry. What's the matter?"
There was a moment of silence, and then Claude heard some shuffling of feet, some quiet hisses, and a boo or two from some of the students watching the rehearsal.
"Ten minutes!" announced Popkin, and waved for Claude to follow him offstage. Claude felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach. The hisses and boos were like sucker punches, all the more powerful for being completely unexpected. He turned to see Eva's back as she walked away.
In the gloom behind a flat, Popkin put his arm over Claude's shoulder. The man no longer smelled of cloves. "Listen," he said, "first time playing with a big group. Right?"
Claude nodded.
"Many, many people," Popkin continued. "Each one a separate people. Not like one piano, two pianos, everything precise, all the notes already made, all you do is press the key."
"I'm sorry," said Claude.
"No, no. Understandable. Absolutely," Popkin said. "But this is good because you learn. You learn right away. Today. Now." He lifted his arm from Claude and wiped his own brow with it. "Is different, orchestra. Great slow beast, powerful beast. Patience is necessary. Very much patience to control such a big animal." He found a folding chair and sat down. "Difficult business. You do a little bit here, then a little bit there, then back to over there. Little by little, you understand? And it gets better. It doesn't get perfect but it gets better, believe me. Fredericks knows this, don't worry." He put his elbows on his knees and held his chin in his hands. "You know the octopus?"
