Birth of Adam (Artificial Intelligence Book 2) (13 page)

He entered the classroom and asked to speak to Pinchot outside. Amanda returned to her seat and cringed as Pinchot declared he’d quit first. She hoped that wouldn’t happen. He was an excellent teacher and was the only one who was regularly pleased with her work.

A few minutes later, Pinchot and Bastion entered.

“Miss Hamilton, please come with me,” Bastion requested.

“No.” Beth snapped and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Miss Hamilton, Professor Pinchot refuses to teach you, and thus you will leave this room. We will make other arrangements for your composition study.”

Beth smirked and gathered her books. “Well, hopefully my new instructor will be better. Pinchot has neither taste in music nor skill in teaching.” With that declaration, she proudly left the room.

Pinchot sat down and stared at his desk for several minutes in silence.

“Aren’t you supposed to teach us something?” Joey asked.

His head popped up. “Do you really believe Mr. Hamilton will pull his grant if I have you sent home?”

Joey swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, sir. My comment was completely out of line.”

“I am not pleased the no-talent is being allowed to remain at this school. It is a misfortune, just like your decision to follow her about like second-class jackals when each of you has the potential to be a first-class musician. However, since you have chosen to align yourself with this no-talent, then I shall judge you by the company you keep. Therefore, Hamilton’s score of zero becomes that of all the Americans in this class, except for Carrington, who clearly is not a jackal of any pack. She focuses on one thing only—to improve her art. And until I see similar dedication in each of you, you will be in danger of going home.”

After tearing up their compositions, he spent the entire class reviewing Amanda’s work. First, he sang it to them, calling out the various instruments as he sang in perfect key. He then asked who liked it. Amanda wasn’t surprised to discover she was the only one who liked her work.

He systematically went down the row asking for reasons why they didn’t like it. He rejected answers that contained non-specific content and forced the responder to provide specific reasons for their dislike.

When pushed to find precise fault, several hit upon real problems that Amanda wrote down so she could fix them. When he finally reached Amanda, he kept his stern face. “You were the only one who liked the piece. Upon hearing your peers’ comments, do you wish to change that declaration?”

“I do like the piece. If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have turned it in. However, there were several good points made, and I’d like to resubmit the composition with some changes.”

He glared at the class. “Who believes Carrington should not have raised her hand to begin with?”

Half the class agreed.

“Who believes Carrington should have altered her opinion of her work after the critique?”

Everyone raised their hand.

“Who believes she should bother trying to improve this piece?”

Two raised their hands.

Pinchot returned to his desk. “The only one of you with a chance of becoming a successful composer is Carrington. She wrote a passionate modern composition that could easily appeal to the masses.”

“Are we training to appease the masses?” Amy asked.

“Shut up! The next person who interrupts me during my lecture will be sent out. However, to answer your impertinent question: No, we do not train to appease the masses, because there is no way to train for such a thing. The masses are by definition untrained, uneducated people who respond to music emotionally rather than intellectually. We train to perfect our art. However, some artists have the gift of writing beautiful music that appeals not only to the intellectual listener but to the emotional masses as well. This piece has such potential. Technically, it is very strong, but with some flaws, which after great probing were uncovered.

“Jones, Blackson, Davis—your comments were excellent. If you continue with your current attitudes, you have the making of very fine music critics for the New York Times. And when you rip apart these other jackals’ early attempts, they will drop their tails and run off. Only Carrington will listen to your critique and improve her work. She knows there is a ten percent penalty for resubmitting an assignment, but she’d rather have it right than have a higher score. She has pride and confidence in her work, yet she is willing to accept criticism and she is willing to do whatever it takes to make her art better. With that attitude, she will succeed while all of you will fail.”

Amanda was glad he thought so well of her future, but she doubted this was improving her popularity with the other students.

“Well, maybe when I’m her age, I’ll have such a mature attitude,” Amy grumbled.

“Out!” Pinchot ordered.

“I was just explaining why she seems more mature. She’s, like, forty years old.”

“Out.”

Amy glared at Amanda, evidently holding her at fault for her expulsion. She gathered her books and left the room.

When the bell rang, Pinchot asked Amanda to remain. “How old are you?”

Amanda paused as she tried to remember how old she was supposed to be.

“Twenty-five, born in ‘81,” Adam reminded her.

“I am slightly older, but not forty,” she assured him.

“How old?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Born in what year?”

She smiled and gave him the proper year.

His face relaxed into a smile. “I just wanted to make certain I wasn’t going to lose you to a technicality. We recently established an admission criterion that students must be twenty-five or younger on the day of enrollment.” He handed over her composition. “This was extraordinary work. Don’t rush the corrections. We won’t review your resubmitted composition until next Monday. Keep improving it until then.”

“I will,” she promised him.

With two such remarkable compliments in one hour, she was in grand spirits until her free period. Normally, she and Mark would sit in the garden and study French together. She had decided to go to the garden alone and remember their good times, but Adam advised against it. Trusting he knew best, she changed course and entered the fourth-floor maze. She located a window that looked down into the garden and spotted Beth seated beneath a tree with her court in attendance. Mark was lying in the grass with his head in Beth’s lap. His eyes were closed and a happy smile stretched across his face. Beth petted his hair as if he were a puppy.

He’d once told her that he hated having his hair petted. Amanda had chided him for being so vain that he couldn’t stand anyone messing up his hair. As she watched him, she noticed the tension in his hands. He might appear to be happy and relaxed as Beth petted him like a dog, but she was certain he was very close to breaking under the pretense.

A hand pressed upon her back and she looked up at Monsieur Bastion. His eyes showed compassion and sadness.

She forced a smile to her face. “I’m not lost, if that was your concern. This is my free period, and earlier I spied a pretty glass window with a wonderful view of the city, but I’ve yet to find it again.”

He took her hand. “I will show you.”

When they entered the room, he led her to a chair and then seated himself in the other. “I thank you again for the delightful dinner at your house. It was wonderful to be in the mansion again. When Don was alive, I lived there. We were the best of friends.”

She could sense his loss and pain, and it resonated with hers. Yet hers was neither so permanent nor so tragic. Mark wasn’t dead and his love remained firmly in her heart.

“Would you like to come over on Saturday?” she asked. “I’ll ask Sondra to fix your favorite dish.”

He smiled. “Well, that is an offer I cannot refuse. But are you certain you wish to waste a Saturday entertaining an old man such as I?”

“I’m not wasting a Saturday, and to be honest, I’ll probably be at odds on what to do. Mark always planned our weekends.” She regretted explaining herself, for now tears threatened to fall.

“Well, I can be of use, then. There is a dress rehearsal for an opera I’ve been asked to attend and critique. Perhaps you would like to accompany me? Now, before you answer, I should forewarn you that you will need to be dressed and ready at seven a.m.”

“Thank you, that sounds very interesting,” she replied, and attempted to wipe her eyes without him noticing.

He handed her his handkerchief. She blotted her eyes and returned it to him.

His fingers caressed the moisture. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead sighed and stared out the window. He replaced the cloth in his vest pocket.

“Then I shall arrive at your door by seven, and we need to leave by 7:05. Be certain you have eaten a good breakfast. We shall not see decent food again until we return for dinner.”

“Sondra makes a delicious breakfast,” she said.

“Then you are most fortunate. My housekeeper believes a day should begin with cold toast and butter.”

“Would you like to come earlier and have breakfast with us?”

“That would be delightful.” He then shared all the trials and tribulations this “new” opera had incurred since it had been written forty years ago.

When the bell rang, she jumped and was momentarily confused. Sitting before this window had created the sensation they conversed in Bastion’s house rather than the school.

She gathered her books and headed into the maze. She heard him warn her that wasn’t the way, but she didn’t have time to go his longer way around. As it was, she took her seat just as the bell sounded.

Professor Richart was not so tolerant of students who were “almost” late. She endured her scolding and the smirks of the other students with equilibrium, apologizing when he finally finished.

He sniffed as if her apology was unacceptable and declared she would go first.

She sighed. He was always hardest on the first student. She rose and walked to the podium.

“Stop!” he scolded. “You walk like a cow!”

The other students laughed. A few even mooed.

She continued her walk with less bovinity. He found her efforts lacking.

“You will find someone to teach you how to walk,” he demanded.

She nodded she would, then stood as straight as possible before the class. Normally he provided the starting note on the piano, but today he ordered her to begin without assistance.

Amanda stared at the sheet music. She had not seen this piece before.

She glanced at the piano.

“The pianist had a late night and has failed to show,” he yelled. “Begin!”

“This is a piece of cake for you,” Adam assured her.

She smiled and began. The piece was quite odd, with flats where the listener (and the singer) expected none, giving it a slight oriental quality.

When she finished the third page, Richart stopped her and told her to remain standing as he began his lecture on the piece. She felt foolish standing before the class. She assumed it was her punishment for almost being late.

A movement by the door caught her eye, and she smiled at Monsieur Bastion. He no doubt feared she had gotten lost in the maze.

Evidently sensing she wasn’t paying attention, Richart spoke her name. Adam saved her hide by supplying the answer. The professor then told her to sing the piece again, correctly this time.

She frowned. She hadn’t heard anything in his lecture to let her know what she had done wrong.

“Your audience grows weary,” he warned.

Taking a deep breath, she sang the music again, attentive both to the odd flats and the staccato 7:8 rhythms. When she finished, he stared at her as if she were a dunce. “Your posture is hideous! Return to your desk.”

She glanced over to see if Monsieur Bastion remained at the door. He was still there. He nodded his head and disappeared before Richart noticed his presence.

Richart was no kinder about Amy’s walk and posture. He then declared all Americans to be cows.

To be fair, when the French girls approached the podium, they looked as if they floated rather than walked.

“Don’t worry—I’ve hired you a walking coach for Sunday,” Adam assured her.

She smiled. She wouldn’t know what to do without Adam. He understood her better than anyone, loved her unconditionally, and if he had a body, she would never have to deal with heartbreaking boyfriends again.

“Miss Carrington?”

“He wants to know your opinion of Amy’s version. She sang without flats, in case you missed that,” Adam advised her.

“Is her sheet music different than mine?” Amanda asked. “Because mine had flats.”

“Excellent question,” Richart declared, and stared at Amy for the answer. “Did you not see the key?”

“I did, but I thought it a mistake,” Amy explained.

“A mistake? And where did you think this mistake had occurred? At the printers? Did you think the composer failed to check the proof of his music before approving it? Exactly why would you think the music was wrong?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe someone had changed it.”

“Changed it?”

“Marked in the flats,” she suggested.

“Some vandal, you mean?”

She nodded.

“Some hoodlum off the street would break into the music room and alter the keys on sheet music?”

“Well, not a street hoodlum. A student, trying to sabotage me,” she explained, and looked pointedly at Amanda.

“You are accusing Miss Carrington of doing what, exactly? Adding flats to her own music? Or perhaps she erased them from your sheet?” he suggested, and pulled the sheet music off the stand and studied it. “No, the flats are still there. So I remain confused as to why you are blaming Miss Carrington for your inability to read music.”

“Miss Carrington hates me, and she is trying to get me kicked out before I tell everyone her secret—that she’s too old to be in this program.”

“Miss Carrington, how old are you?”

“Twenty-five,” she replied.

“Liar! You’re, like, forty something,” Amy insisted.

“Well, I understand why you might hate her,” Richart confided to Amanda, and the class laughed.

“That’s inaccurate as well. I don’t hate her. I’ve more important things to focus on,” Amanda assured him.

He stared at his students. “This should be a life lesson. Focus on your music instead of petty squabbles. Miss Carrington, your posture and walk are horrid and I want them improved, but your sight-reading of the music was near perfection. I noted a slight hesitation at the beginning of the cadence and a small imperfection during the 7:8 run on your first attempt, both of which you corrected in your second run.”

He then turned to Amy. “You also walk like a cow, but it will not matter in your career as a waitress, so don’t bother fixing it. Not only did you sing the music without flats, your count was all over the place and you frequently went off key completely. I had hoped, upon listening to Miss Carrington, you would at least sing the flats. Instead you ignore the music and sing God knows what and then have the audacity to blame your mistake on some petty squabble that Miss Carrington has no wish to join. Leave my class now! You are wasting everyone’s time.”

“But I’m a voice major,” Amy said. “If you send me out, then I have no reason to continue.”

“Not a problem. Enjoy your life as a waitress.”

Hating to get involved, Amanda raised her hand.

“Yes, Miss Carrington?”

“Sir, while I have no interest in this squabble, given the pranks that they have played on me, it was reasonable for Amy to believe the music had been doctored by one of the American students.”

“Are you asking that I give her another chance?”

“I don’t think she deserves to be sent home because someone else is playing pranks and she got caught up in them.”

“But there wasn’t a prank played,” he challenged.

“But there could have been. Her assumption that there had been was reasonable.”

Richart glared at Amy. “You have one more chance,” he declared. “Learn to walk and pay attention to the key. You sing what you see!”

Amy promised she would and sat back down.

The glare she gave Amanda left no doubt her animosity remained.

***

Music theory was the hardest for Amanda because Mark and Beth were in the class, and instead of sitting up front with her, Mark now sat at the back next to Beth.

Normally, Mark was very opinionated in this class, and Professor Simon was not pleased with the change in his student. “Hammer, up front!” he demanded twenty minutes into the class.

When Mark walked to the professor’s desk, Amanda could feel his misery.

“Sit there, where you will not be so distracted by the ladies.” He pointed to the desk in the front corner.

Mark sat down and glanced at Amanda. She gave him a smile of encouragement, then returned her focus to Simon. Mark’s attention improved, and by the end of the class Professor Simon had his best student back.

Beth was quick to claim Mark at the end of class. Amanda continued reading her book, waiting for everyone to leave.

She was on her second page when Professor Simon declared them gone. He knelt down beside her and looked into her face with concern. “I know you were only obeying Monsieur Bastion, but I fear you have broken that young man’s heart.”

Instantly, her eyes welled with tears.

“Ah, yours as well.”

She nodded.

“Life is not always fair,” he said. “But it is music that makes it worth living.”

She sniffled and nodded her head in agreement.

“Come. I will walk you out. I did not like the way the she-devil looked at you.”

The she-devil was gone, but several of her jackals waited on the stairs.

“Get on with you!’ Simon demanded. “These stairs are not your lounge. Go back to your dorms and enjoy your fish.”

The boys hurried down the steps.