Sight Reading (6 page)

But it hadn't turned out that way.

Now Yoni was calling someone Hazel didn't know a tortoise. The blond girl laughed and flicked her cigarette ashes into the ashtray—but no, it wasn't an ashtray at all. It was one of Jessie's art projects, the little ceramic imprint of her hand they had fired in a kiln. Jessie had insisted it be displayed right here on the table between the window and the couch. And now it had become an ashtray. Hazel felt her mouth opening, to object.

“Oh, sorry. Jeez. Ah, well.” Gary was leaning over, blotting at the Persian carpet. He had spilled his glass of wine.

“Oh, don't worry,” Hazel said quickly, her heart in her throat. “I'll mop it right up.”

Nicholas made a motion as if to help her. “No, don't you worry,” she told him. “I'll get it.”

She hurried to the kitchen for some seltzer, though probably it wouldn't do any good. Mrs. Sprat had followed her there, her enormous cotton dress rustling around her. “First we'll just lift it off with some paper towels,” she told Hazel calmly. “That way it won't rub into the fibers.”

Together they hurried back to the living room. Mrs. Sprat administered the paper towels to the swilling, sullied flowers, her dress shifting around her like a great tide while Hazel poured seltzer onto a sponge. Gary, moving his feet out of the way, asked some question about conservatory hiring policy, and each one of the men had a different answer.

Hazel knelt on her new skirt and blotted at the carpet. The wine spread into the towel with uncanny speed, so dark and red it might have been blood. And then she felt them—tears, hot and ridiculous, about to come forth. That she was upset about a spill seemed all the more unpardonable.

“All right, hand me that sponge,” Mrs. Sprat said while Hazel managed, as she always did, to blink the tears back.

Chapter 3

E
arly on the Saturday morning of the spring concert, a hall-mate said sleepily that there was someone on the telephone for her.

It was early May, buds finally opening on branches. Remy leaned against the wall outside of her room, the spiraled cord of the hall telephone stretched as far as it could go.

“Sorry to bother you this early,” came Mr. Elko's voice, “but there's a possibility of what some might term an emergency.”

It figured that innocent, orange-haired Lynn, still living at her parents' duplex in Somerville, would only now contract the quick, violent flu that had swept through the dorms two months earlier. Lynn had been up with it all night, Mr. Elko said; she wasn't certain she would be able to play this evening. “We'll just have to see how she feels tonight.”

All morning Remy practiced
Scheherazade,
trying out different accents and bowings, finding ways to avoid crossing strings where she didn't want to break a phrase. She imagined herself saving the day—and how grateful Mr. Elko would be.

She was still embarrassed about the way things had gone at the cocktail party. Late in the evening, when she went to the kitchen for a glass of water, she had somehow ended up in a debate with Mr. Elko. For some reason (well, because she knew it might prolong their conversation) Remy had put forth the notion that brilliant ideas were always inherently original—which Mr. Elko immediately pointed out to be incorrect. He laid out a number of innovations composers had brought forth over the years, how each had borrowed from the others and made each successive musical development possible. And though this of course made sense, and was expressed with a certain exasperation (“Why, even in the past fifty years . . . you can draw an arrow from Schoenberg to Webern to Cage . . . !”), Remy felt compelled to stand her ground—until Mr. Elko's wife came in and asked what was taking so long with the lemon slices.

She was gorgeous, of course, the wife: calm and blond and floral scented. Remy had felt, all over again, unkempt, unruly. It didn't matter that she had cut her hair; it was still a curly mess.

Well, maybe tonight would be different. She would be the modest, self-effacing stand-in, as calm and composed as the stars in the sky.

But of course Lynn was there for the concert. Her parents delivered her right to the door, her mother pinning a corsage to Lynn's gown in a way that wouldn't interfere with her violin. Pale and thinner than ever, wearing enough makeup to hide the fact that she had been vomiting for twelve hours straight, Lynn gave a wan smile. In case she was still contagious, she stood apart from everyone until it came time to go onstage. She then played, Remy noted, as strongly as ever.

At intermission she disappeared into the bathroom, and Remy told herself it was still possible; Lynn might not have the strength to make it through
Scheherazade
. But she did, of course, summoning her stored talents, translating emotions into crafted sound, knowing when to stretch the music or speed it up, where to increase tension or release it, and just how long to hold a fermata. . . . The audience gave a standing ovation, and even Mr. Elko was amazed, Remy could see. When the soloists took their bows, the rest of the orchestra tapped their feet more loudly than usual, aware that they had witnessed a feat of human endurance. When they stepped offstage, Lynn said a tired, “Thanks, Remy,” grinned that goofy silver grin, and went to find her parents in the hall.

Only about half of the orchestra converged in the lounge, where a somewhat dull party was taking place. As always, the concert had been scheduled too close to final exams; everyone was tired and anxious and had something better to do than sit around drinking wine that came from a box. Remy's friend Jennifer had already rushed off to telephone her boyfriend, who was in the army and lived on a military base somewhere. Samantha had sauntered off to a rendezvous with Yonatan Keitle. Peter suggested he and Remy head back to the dorm together, but Remy told him to go ahead without her. Having spent ten hours thinking she might be concertmistress for the night, she was as exhaustedly giddy as if it had actually happened, and quickly downed a glass of pink wine. It was too sweet, yet she drew another glassful from the little plastic lever, and then slouched on a sofa with a bassoonist who lived on her hallway.

When she looked up from her glass, Mr. Elko was approaching, holding a full plastic cup of wine. “Remy, I can't thank you enough. You put my mind at ease enormously.”

“My pleasure,” she told him, but it didn't sound as suave as last time.

The bassoonist was just leaving, and Mr. Elko took his place. The side of Remy's body next to his felt as if it were glowing. And then she was engulfed—by the urge to touch his skin, to lick his lips, to stroke the floppy dark hair of his head.

“This stuff drinkable, then?” Mr. Elko nodded at Remy's glass.

“It works for me. But I guess I don't know much about wine.”

Mr. Elko took a gulp from his plastic cup. “Ghastly. We'll have to get rid of it. I say we drink it all.”

She laughed. “Are you a big drinker?”

Mr. Elko considered. “I do like a good Scotch, as you may have witnessed at our party. And I suppose I'm all for getting pissed every now and again. Though this wine might stop me.”

Remy said, “I can never get really good and drunk, even when I try.”

Nicholas nodded, smiling. “You know, I've been thinking about what you said at the party. When we were discussing originality, where it comes from. I kept wondering what stopped you from seeing what I was saying—and you know what? I figured it out. You're a Romantic.”

Remy felt her ears redden as Mr. Elko explained, “The very idea of independent genius is a Romantic one. You know, the brilliant but misunderstood loner. What artist
hasn't
felt that way at some point? So I see where you're coming from.” He nodded. “I, too, am a Romantic at heart.”

In his eyes Remy glimpsed the humble look she had noticed at moments in rehearsal, like in the Sibelius when the trumpets called out over the low, smooth undulations of the strings. “So that's something we have in common, actually,” he said lightly, as if it were no great coincidence.

But Remy felt her heart brighten, said, “It's true I tend toward romanticism. Or maybe what I mean is I tend toward the emotional!” She laughed. At the other end of the lounge, someone had turned on a radio, and some students were mock-fighting over which station to listen to. Seeing them, Remy felt as if she were in some other room altogether.

“Strange,” Mr. Elko said, watching them. “Hearing that music on the stereo makes me recall something.” He shook his head, as if to dislodge the memory. “I couldn't have been more than five years old. It was my first piano recital. My sister was there, too. We sat through these insipid renditions of, oh, you know, Chopin and Haydn and Bartók, brilliant pieces played poorly. The hall was on George Street—this was in Edinburgh—and when the concert was over and we could finally leave, we opened the door and there was a gypsy band on the pavement.”

He smiled. “You know how it feels to finally leave some stuffy place and step out into fresh air? The music they were playing came flying in the second we opened the door. Some lively gypsy song. There was more life there on the pavement than in the whole of our piano recital. My sister even started dancing.”

Remy smiled, as if she had been there, too.

“I suppose it was the first time I really felt the difference a musician's interpretation makes. That it's the musician's job to bring a composition to life. Though at the time, of course, I simply wanted to play the accordion!”

Remy said, “That must be where your instinct to conduct comes from.”

Mr. Elko's eyes widened. “You know, you may be right. I'd never considered that.” He seemed surprised. “And what about you? What are your plans, now that you're graduating?”

“I'm getting ready to audition for a master class Conrad Lesser's teaching this summer.”

“Ah, yes, I heard about that. Quite an opportunity. I'll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

She told him that either way she would be here next year. She had gotten the tutorship she applied for, would be teaching in the school's outreach program and playing in the honors orchestra. In what she hoped was a nonchalant voice, she asked, “Will you be here next year, too?”

Mr. Elko paused. “I suppose that depends. On if the school wants to keep me, for one thing. But also if my wife wants to settle here. She's barely been here since we moved.”

He explained that her father had been ill. “Every time he's in hospital, he catches some infection. Then he comes home and starts smoking again.” Mr. Elko shook his head. “She had to go back to North Carolina just yesterday, in fact. Help her poor mum out for a bit.”

Remy nodded slowly, thinking about the beautiful woman with the blue eyes and perfectly smooth hair. Even her perfume had smelled just right. Finding Remy and Mr. Elko in the kitchen together, she had barely glanced at Remy, as if she could not be bothered.

It hadn't occurred to Remy that there might be a wife, though she supposed she ought to have known. But she wasn't used to wondering about things like spouses; how was she to have guessed? Glancing at Mr. Elko's hands, she said, “You don't wear a ring.”

Mr. Elko raised his eyebrows the way he did in the Mozart when it was time for the clarinet to sneak back in. “I didn't know that was a requirement.”

“A wedding ring.” Remy heard how demanding she sounded, when really she wasn't even sure she believed in wedding rings.

“We didn't have the money for that. Not back when we married. My father-in-law was shocked. Right away he went out and bought her one. Gold thing with diamonds and sapphires—I
think
they're sapphires. . . .” He made a face, as if wondering. “But back when she was your age she said she didn't need a ring. She said love shouldn't be about possession—”

Just hearing him recite another woman's phrasing made Remy feel sick. “You must miss her. You look sad.”

“Oh, I always feel a bit gloomy after a final performance. A sort of postpartum depression.”

“Me, too,” Remy said. Of course he loved that smooth-haired woman; she was beautiful, and she was his wife. Remy looked down into what was left of her pink wine. “I guess that's the way it always is after a performance. For an hour or two we're all working so well together, we create this sublimely beautiful thing, and then suddenly it's over and we all go our separate ways.”

Mr. Elko was looking at her appreciatively. “You know, you're exactly right. It's not postpartum. It's postcoital, this letdown.” He laughed. “That's exactly what it is.”

He didn't appear to think twice about having used the term “postcoital.” Remy thought for a moment. “It
is
physical, isn't it? The whole thing. Not just the way my fingertips feel”—she showed him the tips of her left hand—“and not just the way my back sometimes hurts. It's the way I feel during the performance. Like in the Sibelius, when we're playing those swirls, and the trumpets sound like they're off in the distance? My hair stands on end, every time, and I feel like someone's just stripped my skin off—that sounds disgusting, I don't mean it that way.”

What she meant was that in those moments she was acutely aware of being a living being in a mysterious world, and at the same time a mere particle in the world—a world that would continue on without her, long after her heels ceased to scuff the earth. But it was easier to just describe the physical sensation. “It makes me feel exposed, like all my nerve endings are reaching into the air. I feel that way every time.”

Mr. Elko looked at her. “It makes me feel that way, too.”

The side of her that was next to him felt as if it were on fire. Yet it didn't matter, because there was a woman—a beautiful woman with bright eyes and smooth hair—he already loved.

Remy said, “I should get going,” hoping he would tell her to stay.

He took a sip of wine and made a comical face. “Oh, yes, avoid this pink liquid at all costs.”

Remy stood and gave as much of a smile as she could. “Well, good night,” she said, and went home.

“SHE SAID SHE DIDN'T NEED
a ring. She said love shouldn't be about possession—”

Heading home from the party, Nicholas heard himself saying the words, so stupidly. The cheap wine had left a cloying taste on his tongue, as if in retribution. Around him the air, too, was sweet, the flowering trees blooming hugely in the darkness. “ . . . love shouldn't be about possession . . .” With each echo Nicholas heard the self-effacement, the falseness of that statement, understood what Hazel had done, all those years ago, for his benefit. She had protected him, by pretending not to need or want an engagement ring. How had he not heard it before? He who had made a profession of listening.