Strange Sweet Song (14 page)

“You’re quite the celebrity!” Ryan says.

She pulls out her score and places it on a music stand. “Hey, I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you guys last night.” She hopes her voice sounds normal and not as nervous as she feels around him.

“Don’t you worry about it,” he says. “The place closed early, anyway. Some other time, huh? You and me.” He sits at the piano and flips open a score.

“Okay.”
You and me.
Did he just ask her out? Sing rolls her shoulders and pretends to be interested in the wall. Ryan begins to play something fast and flashy, and when she glances at him, he makes a face. She laughs. He is fooling around, but he’s also showing off—and she realizes just how highly skilled a musician he is.

“Nine oh two,” he says after a moment. “Shall we start without him?” It’s a challenge—no, not a challenge: a dare. Now she catches his eye, and he smiles, shoulders relaxed. He is not angry with her after all.

“I don’t care,” she says. “I don’t care what he thinks, anyway.” She is immediately embarrassed, but exhilarated, too. Why did she say that?

Ryan laughs in a high voice, a real laugh, and keeps playing the fast, flashy music. “Well, good for you. I don’t either. I’m only interested in the Gloria Stewart competition, to be honest. Opera Workshop is such a pain in the ass—except for the lovely company, of
course.
” Sing blushes. “And I don’t much care for apprentices, anyway. They’re just mistakes the administration wants to keep close to home. Keep them from spoiling DC’s reputation in the real world.”

Sing frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, everybody knows,” Ryan says, still playing. “If a student is less than competent, they don’t want him out playing for other people, do they? Other people who’ll say, ‘Sheesh, DC gave
that
guy a certificate? Looks like things are going downhill.’ So they let ’em cook a little longer if they’re not quite done yet. That’s all.”

“Like Daysmoor,” Sing says, tingling from the gossip.

Ryan’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, I bet
he’s
got a real good story. You’re friends with that
Trumpeter
girl, right? You guys should do some digging on Apprentice Plays-poor!”

Sing tries to swallow the jealousy that crept up her throat when Ryan mentioned Jenny, whose name he didn’t even know. On cue, the door opens and Daysmoor slouches in. Did he hear their conversation? If so, he makes no indication of it; he just drips into a chair and says, “That doesn’t sound like
Angelique.
”

Ryan finishes with a flourish. “Liszt,” he says. “The handsomest composer who ever lived.” He winks at Sing, whose heart jumps. “It’s my piece for Gloria Stewart International.”

Daysmoor stretches his legs out onto another chair. “I’m sure the judges will be very impressed with all your fast little notes.”

“I’m sure they will be.” Ryan smirks. “I suppose
you’re
playing something terribly serious and meaningful and tortured.”

“I’m not playing anything,” Daysmoor says flatly. “You don’t need to worry. Competitions aren’t my thing.”

Ryan raises his eyebrows and glances furtively at Sing. “Do tell.”

But Daysmoor simply looks at his watch and says, “Why haven’t you started rehearsal?”

“We were waiting for your blessing, sir,” Ryan says, and Sing nearly laughs.

The apprentice betrays no emotion. “What is it to me? I’m not going to be out on that stage underrehearsed.”

Now Sing doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.
I’m not going to be out on that stage, either.

“Oh, by the way…” Daysmoor reaches into a pocket, finds a blue piece of paper, and holds it out in Sing’s direction. She hesitates. “It won’t bite,” he says. “That much.”

Ryan clucks. “Uh-oh, what did you do?” His tone is somber, but Sing notices a sly smile.

“What do you mean?” she asks, suddenly shaky. What is that blue paper? Is she in trouble?

Daysmoor shakes the paper. “I suggest we start this rehearsal. Please take your censure and we can get on with it.”

“Censure?” A dull horror creeps up from Sing’s stomach into her chest. She gingerly takes the blue paper from Daysmoor’s outstretched hand. “What—” She unfolds the paper and stares down at it. Below the embossed letterhead, her name, and the date is the word
INFRACTION
,
followed by the words
Trespassing, reckless endangerment
and three check boxes. The two boxes by
NOTIFICATION
and
WARNING
are unchecked, but the one next to
CENSURE
has a thick black mark in it, presumably made with the same pen used for the elegant signature at the bottom—President Martin.

Daysmoor lets out a frustrated sigh. “Someone shouldn’t have taken a little field trip into the woods last night. The president frowns on that sort of thing. Three of these and the trustees are notified. Meaning you’re expelled. Okay? Now can we start?”

Sing gapes at him.

Ryan whistles. “Running around in the woods, huh?”

“Mr. Larkin,” Daysmoor says, a little less evenly than usual, “if you would be so kind as to open your score and focus on music instead of gossip.” Ryan obediently takes his score but wags an admonishing finger at Sing.

The lightness with which Ryan seems to be treating the situation makes her feel a little better. Just a little. How easy is it to get a censure? Will she get three without even knowing it, just as she never suspected she’d get in trouble for visiting the forest? Correction—she never suspected she’d get
caught
visiting the forest.

And Daysmoor
ratted her out,
as her father would say.

Traitor! How could he pretend to be hiding her from the Maestro, only to go blabbing to the president that she was there? She studies his face, but he is impossible to read. She folds the censure and puts it in her pocket, seething.

“Page 324,” Daysmoor says, businesslike. Sing sees Ryan arch an eyebrow, though he doesn’t say anything as he flips through his score. She looks at the page over his shoulder and finds the place in her own score—
“Quand il se trouvera dans la forêt sombre,”
Angelique worrying about the fate of her love, Prince Elbert. The most difficult aria in the opera. Sing inhales, unsure—she is comfortable with her French, but in truth she has never sung this aria in front of anyone else.
He chose this one on purpose,
she thinks, anger at the apprentice starting to thicken.
He wants to see me fail.

“Let’s see how it goes,” Daysmoor goes on. “You need to pay attention to the lines, Miss da Navelli. Your phrasing in the duet yesterday was lousy. Please observe the composer’s markings.”

“I always observe the composers’ markings,” Sing says.

“Then we’ll have no problems.” Daysmoor closes his eyes. “When you’re ready, Mr. Larkin.”

Ryan begins with the famous five-beat introduction. The thick chords have always made Sing think of heavy footsteps, perhaps Prince Elbert going to his grave, or perhaps Death himself approaching. Ryan leans into the keys, face solemn.

Sing breathes.
“Quand il se trouvera…”

Sad and light,
she thinks.
Innocent.

“
… dans la forêt som
— Sorry, wait. That rhythm was wrong.”

“I know,” Daysmoor says.

“Can we go back?”

The apprentice sighs. “Beginning again, Mr. Larkin.”

“We don’t have to go all the way back—I just—”

“Beginning.”

Sing rolls her shoulders as Ryan begins again.
Stupid! You
know
this music!

“Quand il se trouvera dans la forêt sombre, il se comprendra…”

Why does her voice sound so strange? Harsh?
If only he’d heard me last night, in the woods,
she thinks.
If only I could sing like that here.
She backs off.

Daysmoor barks, “Don’t try to disguise inadequacy as emotion.”

She falters a little.
What did he mean by that?
Should she sing louder? She tries, but her sound goes all wobbly. She retreats again.

“Stop.” Daysmoor frowns at her. “What are you doing?”

She stares at him, mouth open. “I…”

“Relax, breathe, support. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Relax. With his scowling face looking at her the whole time?
Sure.

They begin again. She tries to breathe. Why are her lungs so small all of a sudden?
“Quand il se trouvera—”

“Stop.” This time, Daysmoor rises and crosses to her. “What is the problem?”

Her body is frozen. “I don’t understand.”

“Where is the rest of your voice?”

“I … my voice?”

He fixes her with that black gaze. “When you concentrate, you have notes. You have rhythms. You have air and tone and line. But there’s a hole in your voice so big I could roll a bass drum through it.”

“What … do you mean?”

“
When
you concentrate,” he says. “And when you don’t, your nerves take over. This is not the place for nerves, Miss da Navelli. I don’t care how terrible you think you are, or what type of weird psychological baggage you’re carrying around. You’re letting your anxiety ruin your singing. Get it together or get out.”

Sing is stunned. No one has ever spoken to her like this. She is paralyzed, her whole body sparking. Ryan peers silently at the score.

The apprentice retreats and pours himself over two chairs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes in a final sort of way. “Angelique’s
first
aria, then,” he says. “The easy one. And continue from there, please. I might close my eyes in order to listen better. If I start to snore, it means I’m listening especially closely.”

Thirty

G
EORGE KEPPLER SAT AT HIS
desk, making notes in the enormous, yellowed score of Mahler’s Second Symphony. The radio behind him spilled a live broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera into the dark little office, a performance of
Romeo and Juliet
starring the famous young soprano Barbara da Navelli. Outside, just visible beyond the small window, the trees glittered from top to bottom—living ice sculptures, rattling and creaking in the snowy gusts.

Looking at the score again made George almost giddy, brought him back to his ambitious days as a young conductor. Was it during only his second year as maestro of the conservatory that he had last performed Mahler 2? He smiled. What nerve, choosing such a monumental piece! It hadn’t been half bad, either.

His smile faded as he tried to calculate the year. Could it really have been fifty-five—no,
sixty-five
—years ago? Yes. That would make him how old now? Ninety-seven.

Slowly, unconsciously, George slid open his upper right desk drawer and pulled out a small mirror. He inspected his face. The lines on his forehead and around his mouth and eyes were a little more pronounced than the last time he’d looked. Just a little.
Ninety-seven?
It wasn’t possible. No one would think him a day over fifty. He could pass for forty-five. His hair wasn’t even gray.

The crystal was in his pocket, as always. He slid it out and put it to his face, his fingers running over the lines around his mouth. Time would not forget him forever.

A knock at the door startled him; he closed his fingers around the crystal and let his hand fall to his lap. “Come in!”

A young man wearing apprentice robes poked his head in. Strikingly handsome, with blue-black hair and eyes like soft coal.

Nathan.

“Are you busy?”

George shook his head. “Not at all. Just marking up the Mahler. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” The apprentice pulled up a leather chair. George noticed an unusual lightness about him this morning; he was known for his easy manner, but today he seemed especially cheerful—excited, even.

“Look at this.” He slid an opened letter onto George’s desk.

The letter was short and official. George read it through twice, examined the signature at the bottom, and laid his hands flat on the desk. The two men sat in silence.

Finally, Nathan said, “Europe and the Far East, then back here—a full two years! Pending the live audition, which I’m not afraid of. I know you’re nervous about things like this—and they do suggest I get representation, of course—but don’t you see? This proves I’m good enough! I can have a career! All my years of studying and practicing and teaching—”

“Where did this come from?” George couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice. What he meant was,
How did someone else hear you play? Someone who mattered?

Nathan’s smile faded. He folded his hands. “My students wonder why I’m not established, you know. It’s harder and harder to make them think it’s just my—age.”

“What do you care if your students wonder about you?” George said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Apparently one of them recorded me and sent it—”

“What! I told you—”

“I didn’t know he’d done it!” Nathan sighed forcefully. “They often record their lessons—why would I be suspicious? Why don’t you want anyone to hear me? Why do you want to keep me here?”

George tapped his desk. “Don’t you remember what happened?”

Nathan’s gaze fell. “That was years ago,” he said, but there was a note of defeat in his voice. George had become used to this note, always clear, always in tune, just as he had taught Nathan to feel it that horrible night in New York. But it had been so long since the Gloria Stewart competition. George feared more and more that some of his protégé’s old swagger would return.

He studied Nathan’s face, exactly as he remembered it from all those years ago. Whatever time-slowing magic the crystal held, it was meant for him. George—somehow—was just managing to absorb a little bit of it. A familiar pang of panic stabbed him. What would happen to the crystal if its true master left? Would it still radiate its magic, or would it crumble to dust?

Would Nathan
die
if he were separated too long from the crystal that kept him young?