Nocturne (2 page)

Savannah

“I
’
m glad we
were able to put off this class until Madeline was teaching it.” Nathan stretched his arm across the back of my chair as we settled into one of our last required Music Theory classes.

It was spring semester of my junior year—his senior year—and while there was still a light covering of snow on the ground, since it was late January, I was thrilled to be taking a class with Madeline White. She was a flutist who I’d had the pleasure of working with off and on for the last few years, and she’d been my private instructor since I entered the conservatory. Most importantly, she shared some of the same liberal music theories we did.

“I totally agree. Our last two classes were painfully boring. At least we have a chance of staying awake this semester.” I chuckled and rested my head on his shoulder for a second.

Nathan and I are both natural flutists. That’s not bragging—it’s a damn relief. We were able to tackle harder note runs and the highest and lowest octaves before most of our peers, opening a wide range of opportunities for us when we got here on campus.

While our technical abilities might lead some to assume that we would spend our days digging through the vast historical music library to conquer pieces written before the founding of America, sometimes we did just the opposite. We played with the music. We took the gift we were each given and tried to make it fun, alive. I love the classical pieces, don’t get me wrong. There’s something chilling about playing pieces written during the middle of a plague when the world was falling to total shit. However, being able to take notes invented before certain cultures and languages, and turn them into something fresh and new was invigorating. White, we knew, felt the same way. While I knew we’d have to cover a lot of the nuts and bolts of music and scales and the way pieces were written, I was happy to work through the tedious material with someone as bright as Madeline. She always told us to call her Madeline while we were at camp, and I wondered if it would be the same in class.

“It’s ten after.” Nathan shifted in his seat. He can’t sit still for long. Which, by the way, is hilarious to watch him try to control during a performance. “Where the hell is she?”

Just then the door opened, and the class sighed in a mix of disappointment at having to stay in the class, and relief that it would get under way.

“What the hell?” I groaned as Nathan pulled his pencil out of his bag.

He sat up and looked to the door. “What’s
he
doing in here?”

It was Gregory Fitzgerald, smugness wrapped in a cello, from my audition three years prior. I had, obviously, gotten into the conservatory. Not only did I get in, I’d received glowing accolades from the judging committee upon my first few months here. From everyone except him, that is.

Whatever.

I hadn’t seen much of him around campus since getting in, but, three years later, he was walking into Madeline White’s Music Theory class. With his cello case. He still had the same beard, though it was slightly shorter. It was well-groomed but made him look a bit older than the thirty-one years I knew he was. That was probably what he was going for. I read an interview with him once, in the BSO newsletter that was sent to my grandparents’ house every quarter, along with newsletters from the other four Big Five orchestras. The reporter asked him what he thought about being one of the youngest first-section cellists for the Pops. He shrugged it off, arguing that age and experience were trumped by hard work. His dark hair didn’t seem to have any grey in it, though I assumed that would change quickly if he never wiped the scowl off his face.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced unapologetically. “Unfortunately, Madeline White has had a personal emergency and will be out for the whole semester.”

Nathan leaned over and whispered in my ear, “And they couldn’t find someone else to fill in for her today but
him?
”

I shrugged. “We should call Madeline after class and see if she’s okay,” I whispered.

“I know. I really don’t want to have to find another instructor. I’ve worked with her forever.”

“Compassionate.” I smacked Nathan’s arm and shifted in my seat before I turned my eyes back to our new, attractive professor.

“So,” Fitzgerald continued, “I’ll be taking over this class.” A cacophony of complaints and cheers filled the class.

Christ.

Gregory Fitzgerald was a surprisingly divisive topic amongst students, given how little time he spent with the actual student body. Most of the population was in agreement about his ability; there was little you could do to argue that he was at the top of his field. And, most of the females seemed to be in agreement about his looks. As the guys around us began to frown at not getting to have class with the beautiful Madeline White this semester, the girls took on blushing grins, suddenly looking much more interested in music theory. His allure didn’t come exclusively from the clear blue of his eyes, but from the way they sought me out. Like prey, as he surveyed the field of students and targeted in on me.

Breathe.

The disagreements, however, began when we all tried to break down how it was he got there. He was known to spend twenty hours a day practicing before he made it to the Pops. Sure, that’s fairly typical, I guess. But, what wasn’t typical, were the rigorous hours he put in on a regular basis. Ten, fifteen hours every single day was the rumor, and it was only slightly less on performance days. Work, work, and more work was definitely his reputation, and my excitement about music theory this semester bottomed out in an instant.

“If you’re all quite finished and ready to act like the adults the government insists that you are, let’s get started.” He set his cello case on the floor by the podium and began the driest introduction to an upper level music theory class in the history of humanity. He didn’t even introduce himself. He didn’t have to, but that he
knew
he didn’t have to really got under my skin.

Nathan wrapped his arm around my shoulder once again. “Get comfortable, beautiful. It’s going to be a long-ass semester.”

By the end of the lecture I was watching the seconds tick by on the clock, certain it was slowing down on purpose. I bounced my knee anxiously as Gregory spent the lecture discussing why musicians should learn certain scales in certain orders, and how that translated into certain classical pieces. He stepped away from the podium and the students began to shift in their seats, collecting their bags, some standing up. He grabbed his cello  and headed for a seat in front of the podium. I looked up at Nathan, and he just shrugged his lean shoulders and turned back to Gregory. Without addressing the class, without asking anyone to sit back down or be quiet, he started playing.

It was Bach’s Cello Suite, No. 1 in G major. Everyone knows it. Even people who aren’t musically inclined would recognize the piece within the first measure, if they didn’t already know it by name. I scrunched my forehead, trying to figure out why he would be playing such an easy piece, given what I knew he could play. Hell, if I had a little bit of time with a cello, I could probably play it.

By the third measure, it was shockingly clear. Suddenly there weren’t any other students in the class, and I could barely register that Nathan was standing, unmoving, next to me. I was locked on Gregory’s hands. His face. The way his body swayed each time his bow moved seductively across the strings. Inside ten seconds, he was a musician. Just like the rest of us. Screw that—he was nothing like the rest of us. He was perfect. It was perfect. His eyes were closed, and as the song slowed before the last twelve seconds, or so, he hung onto the pause with his eyebrows pulled together. I held my breath, my throat tight with anticipation, and with tears stinging my eyes at the absolute beauty of this seemingly elementary song he’d just taken to a level I didn’t know existed.

Exhaling only when he carefully ran through the end of the song, I cleared my throat and looked up at Nathan, who was still standing and completely slack-jawed. It wasn’t that we just watched some groundbreaking performance, and that was the cause of the dead silence in the room. It was that we just watched a musician with one of the sternest reputations live up to it in a classroom full of students who could only dream to play with a fraction of the greatness he possessed. Right before our eyes.

Resting his bow against the top of his thigh, he opened his clear blue eyes. “Class dismissed.”

Gregory

Just one semester. That was all I had to deal with ... one semester of dealing with arrogant, disruptive teenagers bent on wasting my time in a class I didn’t want to teach in the first place. I was hoping Madeline would be able to pick the class back up before the end of the semester, but given the extent of her wrist surgery, it didn’t seem likely. She would be spending her free time in physical therapy to get back to playing.
That
I could understand. Turning the corner to walk down the long hallway of practice rooms, I shuddered at the thought of not being able to play for a few months, as was going to be the case with Madeline.

The practice rooms are mostly soundproof, so it took me off guard to hear the high-pitched melody of a flute floating through the hall. The tone was solid, the sound itself was beautiful, but the notes were disorganized. It didn’t sound like jazz—which I could appreciate on a technical level, if not a sound and composition level—it sounded like rock music of some sort. Suddenly the notes stopped and the hypnotizing melody of
Entr’acte
from Carmen took over my senses. While this was a fairly simple song, note and rhythm-wise, to be able to play it beautifully was the challenge. It was largely in the upper octave and played between piano and mezzo-forte—especially challenging for under-trained throats that tend to lean toward blaring through the upper-most octaves as though they’re in a marching band.

As I made my way toward the end of the hallway, the song started again as soon as it was finished, sounding even more beautiful than the time before. I knew it wasn’t Madeline, even though it sounded keenly like her. It had to be one of her students. Madeline was thorough and demanding in the physical instruction of her students—coaching their throats to stay open and strong. While that was good practice for all flutists to learn, Madeline was able to train her students in such a way that gave them great endurance. Approaching the room, drawn by a curiosity that didn’t usually strike me with woodwinds, I began to think maybe it was another instructor. The sound, though, was too familiar to be someone I didn’t know. When the second run of
Entr’acte
ended, that unfamiliar rock song started again.

Normally, it’s poor form to spy on someone as they are practicing, but their sheer inability to stay on task irritated me. How could one jump from classic opera, to that uncultured noise, and back again? I raised my eyebrows when I saw Savannah Marshall, her back to me, playing as she stood in front of an empty music stand. Her control over the notes is what held my ears captive. Despite her playing music I had no use for, I couldn’t look away. While I remembered her audition nearly three years ago like it was yesterday, since I’d never heard a seventeen-year-old flutist with such skill in all of my years, I chalked some of it up to her ability to audition.

Some people get stage fright. This is why, increasingly over the years, musicians have turned to anti-anxiety medications and beta-blockers to calm their nerves. Some musicians, however, do their best work in an audition, and can’t ever maintain that level of skill. I’d assumed the latter was the case with Savannah. I still remembered her almost cocky attitude for her audition, and her constant chatter during my lectures led me to believe she simply did not take music seriously.

The young woman before me, however, was certainly a musician. Her posture was perfect, and she swayed just enough to show she felt the music, but not so much that it looked forced. Suddenly, as if she sensed someone looking in, she dropped her flute from her lips and turned around. She didn’t seem startled as she took me in with large brown eyes that seemed to be misting over.

“You really should close the door, Ms. Marshall.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep any praise off of my face as I placed my hand on the handle.

She cleared her throat and shook her head. “Sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald. You can leave it open, though. I’m finished.”

I dropped my hand as she walked toward the chair by the door and started taking apart her flute, cleaning the inside of each piece before putting it back in the case. The instrument was gorgeous. It had a rose gold body with silver keys, and a gold mouthpiece that was engraved with scrolling designs. Quite a high-end piece for a student—even one in the conservatory. Someone certainly believed in her a great deal, as this professional-grade flute was easily ten to fifteen thousand dollars.

“That’s a beautiful instrument you have there.” I tried to keep my tone ambivalent, not wanting to let on that I was most interested in how she acquired such a piece. I’d mortgaged my late grandmother’s home in the most expensive neighborhood in Boston to buy my cello. Because when you play an instrument at this level, you gave it whatever it took. Your entire life.

“Thank you,” she replied. “My father gave it to me over winter break. I’m still getting used to it, but I love it.” Her face brightened as she spoke.

“Well, he must think a lot of your ability, Savannah.”

Her eyes flickered straight to mine, and her brow furrowed as she seemed to process my statement.

“I’m here at the conservatory, aren’t I?” she shot back. “This isn’t just a hobby of mine, Mr. Fitzgerald.” She chuckled to herself as she snapped her case shut and placed it in her instrument bag.

“That piece you were playing…” I started.

“The
Entr’acte
? What about it?” She shrugged on her green wool peacoat and matching scarf.

“It’s a bit of a simple piece for you, isn’t it?” I held the door open as she walked through and met me in the hallway.