The Extra (27 page)

The musicians, women and men, nod in agreement.

“Debussy died at the age of only fifty-five, at the end of the First World War, as German cannons battered Paris with their last remaining shells. And so his funeral procession took place in empty streets, although he was, in my view and that of many others, the most important French composer of the twentieth century, whose influence continues to be felt to this day.”

“How, exactly?” demands a white-haired cellist.

The maestro laughs. “I see you don't want to play today, just talk.”

“We want to have a better understanding of what we're playing,” several voices chime in.

“Fine, fine, you're right, because in recent years this orchestra has not played Debussy, and this is music that requires particular precision. It's not easy or simple. A complex and dreamlike harmonic world, scales of whole tones, atonal passages, glittering transitions. His repetitiveness is unsettling. In short, ladies and gentlemen, we are not lounging in a beach chair and looking at the sea, but entering the depths, and the Japanese want an answer from us—what to do in the next tsunami.”

“Just so it doesn't swallow us too,” interjects a veteran oboist, and everyone laughs.

“No,” the humorless first violinist assures her, “we shall not perform on the east coast of Japan but on the west coast, the one not exposed to the Pacific Ocean that still yearns for the moon that was born from it.”

The conductor silences them with a tap of his baton.

“Now let's get to work. And since this is a serious and difficult piece, I will be more of a taskmaster and less of a comedian, nor will I limit myself to mere criticism. Rather, I'll do some whipping, since I just got a whip as a gift.”

He picks up the Bedouin whip, extends it and waves it cautiously above his head.

Pandemonium. The orchestra goes wild. Shouts from every corner. “Not fair!” howl the string players. “Your whip only reaches us and not the winds and percussion!”

“Why won't it reach them?” asks the conductor. “It will. I'll step down from the podium and whip any faraway offenders.”

A bold cellist asks, “Where did you get the whip?” She rises from her chair and comes over to inspect it.

I hope he doesn't give me away, Noga thinks, cringing. Damn, what a mistake I made.

But Dennis van Zwol, the incorrigible joker, cannot conceal the provenance of the gift. “Beware, friends,” he declares, “the whip arrived from the Holy Land. Our Venus gave it to me as a gift, to strengthen my standing with you. You know the Israelis, don't you? They are new Jews, swift and strong, who don't hang up the whip as a wall decoration, like us cowardly Europeans, but use it to straighten out anyone who angers them. So beware—from now on, I too am a new tough Jew.”

The Bedouin whip merits an enthusiastic reception, as bows, trumpets and woodwinds are waved at the harpist, who reddens with emotion. Finally the musicians calm down, and deep silence engulfs the hall.

Van Zwol closes his eyes, presses his palms together. After prolonged introspection he lifts the baton delicately, as if all musical wisdom were hidden within it, bids the timpani to beat the first sounds, then signals the two harpists, their hands poised on the strings. Christine is to strike the first note with the left hand, and immediately thereafter, Noga, the first harpist, is to enter with her left hand, and though both are playing the same melody, they are to remain an eighth note apart, in strict time. But the conductor quickly stops them, for it turns out that Christine is unaware that her harp, not the other, is supposed to stress every note in the opening bars.

“Pay attention,” he warns her in French. “Sharpen your accents.”

He gives a sign to start over, then again stops. He feels the accents are not emphatic enough.

Noga studies Christine's face as she groans under the weight of the conductor's reprimands. Her face is pale and severe; luminous golden hair streams to her shoulders. From time to time she veils her face with her hand, as if banishing a painful thought. She has come to the rehearsal in a long, baggy dress that covers her long body, and the little bulge, which at their first meeting seemed to Noga to hint at pregnancy, has vanished. Over and over Christine stresses the accents requested by the conductor, but she cannot seem to satisfy him. Noga hides her head behind her harp, fearing that the conductor will move her from first harp to second, to achieve the sound he insists upon. Finally he resigns himself and motions to the orchestra to play a few more bars, then harangues the clarinets and bassoons to produce exactly the soft sound his inner ear is seeking.

“How can you not feel,” he says, by way of explaining his mood, “that here the composer has planted the melody of a mysterious sea nymph, the song of a melancholy mermaid, which from now on will evolve as a motif in the depths of the music.” It is clear to the orchestra that they are in for a rough patch, and although the piece is not long, merely twenty-eight minutes, they will spend many hours rehearsing picky nuances, to realize the vision of a conductor who has decided to turn
The Sea
into his new flagship.

When the rehearsal is over, Manfred is quick to complain to Noga: “That whip you gave him drove him out of his mind.”

She grins. “It's okay. He's still got enough mind left over.”

Manfred invites her to dinner, and she declines. She's still recovering from the sojourn in her homeland, but not to worry, they'll have ample opportunity in Japan.

“We'll have to wait till Japan?”

“Why not?” she says, and asks about Christine—who she is, how well she played the Mozart, why she looks tormented.

The flutist doesn't know much. In the Mozart double concerto she played with precision, but the notes lacked luster and emotion. He hasn't noticed her distress, just her reticence, maybe because her French is hostile to Flemish and English, and her accent is funny. He hasn't really delved into her story. He's not interested in silent married women, only in unattached and talkative ones, like the one who stands before him.

“Christine is married?”

“It's hard to say. More or less. In any case there is a man in her life. He was at all the concerts, sat in the front row, apparently not out of love for music but out of concern for her. He would arrive from Antwerp, sometimes in his work clothes—a dockworker, or immigrant, or refugee seeking asylum.”

“Where's he from?”

“I didn't ask—it's none of my business. The world today is intermingled. We even have an exotic woman from the Middle East, where people still ride innocent camels and prod them with whips, who became the first harpist of a civilized orchestra.”

He puts his hand on her shoulder and says, “By the way, you got prettier in Israel. You have color. What do you people eat there?”

“Fruit. Beautiful, juicy fruit.”

F
OUR DAYS BEFORE LEAVING
for Japan, at the morning rehearsal for the farewell concert in Arnhem, the orchestra plays a Haydn symphony and Noga goes up to the balcony to hear it from there. Seated below her in one of the front rows is a man dressed in overalls, presumably the workingman Manfred had mentioned. Christine is not sitting next to him, but her scarf is lying on his lap. The man intrigues Noga, and worries her as well. She goes to the other side of the balcony to get a better look—a well-built man, his face somber, suspiciously eyeing the onstage activity. When Christine enters the hall, still in the long baggy dress that conceals her curves, he stands up and holds her. He seems to want to take her out of the hall, but she refuses, sinking into one of the seats, hiding her face.

Later, as they begin the Debussy, Noga senses a strong smell of perfume that seems intended to mask another smell, perhaps of vomit. While the musicians tune their instruments, she asks Christine how she feels. “I'm fine,” says Christine, straining to smile. “I felt dizzy and a little nauseous.” She searches for the right words in English, then adds, “But that is expected now,” and it is clear that she regrets the explanation, and in her embarrassment, despite the drumbeats, she misses the conductor's cue for her first note.

So she's pregnant after all, decides the first harpist, who again notices that little round bulge under the folds of the long dress. But why is she disguising her pregnancy? Is it for fear that the orchestra's medical insurance will not cover her trip to Japan?

The rehearsal does not go well. The music is halted after every few bars by an angry baton. The beautiful tone achieved with great effort in previous rehearsals has gone tinny, the fluid transitions feel rough. “What's going on?” shouts Van Zwol. “What the devil happened? This isn't Debussy's
La Mer
, it's a muddy tsunami that will repulse the Japanese. Remember, people in the Far East understand music no less than we do. And they pay us a lot of money and bestow a great honor on our humble municipal orchestra by inviting us to such a prestigious city. So please, wake up, concentrate. If you don't, I'll replace the whip with a machine gun.”

Sometimes a wrong note by an unidentified instrument spreads through the orchestra. Van Zwol is aware of such an error, yet in the flurry of playing cannot locate its source. But Noga can. The second harpist did not press the pedals in time, and the error spread to the strings and undermined their precision. Noga tries to alert her neighbor to the mistake, but Christine's anxiety and weakness only compound the blunder. The conductor finally locates the problem, stops the music and returns to the beginning so the piece can regain its honor.

When the rehearsal is over, Noga inquires if the dizziness and nausea have waned, and asks about the pregnancy.

Christine is at the start of her fourth month. Your first pregnancy? Almost, essentially, not counting a youthful abortion many years before, no connection to her present partner. And with curiosity mixed with vague anxiety, Noga persists: “Is he your husband?” “Almost,” she says again. “Not really. We'll have to wait for the birth to make the marriage official along with the citizenship.”

“He's not a citizen?” probes the Israeli.

“He is almost. He has a work permit as a port traffic controller.”

“And he'll go with you to Japan?”

“To Japan? No, on the contrary, he wants to prevent me from going.”

“Prevent?”

“He is concerned about the pregnancy on such a long trip.”

“Explain to him that you are essential, that there's no
La Mer
without the dialogue between the two harps.”

“He understands, I did explain, but he doesn't care. That is why I am in despair. He is here to sabotage the trip.”

“Have you informed Dennis or Herman about his objection?”

“Not yet. If I told them, they would find another harpist to play, even in the farewell concert tomorrow, so I am waiting.”

“Christine,” Noga says calmly, straining to suppress fear and anger, “if you delay telling them till after the concert, it will be too late to find a replacement for the Japanese tour. In fact, it's already late. It's not fair to hide from the orchestra that your husband doesn't want you to go.”

“He's not my husband.”

“That's irrelevant. Whoever he is. If you keep silent, they won't be able to find a new harpist for such a long and difficult journey. You must let them know immediately. You are putting the whole repertoire in danger. Without the second harp there is no way to perform the piece.”

“That's right.”

“Which is why you should do the right thing.”

“Perhaps . . . perhaps in Japan,” Christine says despondently, “you can play Schubert or something else instead of Debussy. There are enough suitable pieces in the repertoire of this orchestra without a second harp or even a first harp.”

“No, no,” shouts Noga, “no Schubert, no Mozart, no Beethoven, no nothing. We will play
La Mer
. That's the piece the Japanese are waiting for, and we will perform it.”

“So what should I do?” agonizes Christine.

“Tell Dennis and Herman immediately that you are not going to Japan.”

“But perhaps I will go after all.”

“How?”

“Perhaps I can convince him that nothing will happen to the baby . . . Perhaps you will help me . . . Perhaps you will explain to him that without the second harp Debussy is lost.”

“All right, I'll try, I'll help you, and so will other women players. We'll look after you on the trip. But first you must inform Herman and Dennis, otherwise I will warn them.”

“You cannot go in my place.”

“I will go if you don't. Because you must not steal this unique piece of music from the rest of us.
La Mer
is also
la mère
, the mother, and you of all people, being French, must understand the significance of the connection between the two words. I left my elderly mother in Jerusalem, and that's why I want so very much to play her on my harp.”

“To play your mother?” Christine is dumbfounded. “I don't understand.”

They are now standing in the lobby of the concert hall, and musicians walking by seem to sense the tension between the two harpists and walk faster. The man in the overalls emerges from the auditorium and hurries to his partner. From close up, he looks handsome and sensitive, yet the hand he extends to Noga is rough, hard. His skin is dark and his hair curly, but his sparkling eyes are blue as the sea, possibly strengthening his claim to citizenship. He positions himself between the two harpists, suspecting that the Israeli is trying to persuade his girlfriend not to forgo the trip to Japan.

“What's happening?” he asks his girlfriend in French.

“What should be happening?” she answers coldly, dismissively.

Convinced now that the first harpist is the one obstructing the withdrawal from the tour, he switches to English, so Noga will understand, and asks Christine to do exactly what Noga had just insisted on, which is to go to management immediately and inform them.