S.V. Redkin – The Great Conductor (страница 11)

“Oh, good,” Nancy said and added, cutting to the chase: “So, love, when are you going to call that Victor person and ask him on a second date?”

“Well . . .” Christine looked at her grandparents, who seemed to freeze, waiting for her reaction. “I guess I’ll call him tonight, then,” Christine said, taking a plate with the dessert and unfreezing the scene.

“That’s what people who decide to move forward do. Right?”

“And don’t let others tell you otherwise,” Nancy said, taking a healthy bite from her chocolate éclair. “Oh my goodness. This is a delicious éclair,” she said, still chewing.

“You should try the one with caramel, hon,” Veronica said excitedly and took her plate. “It’s out of this world.”

“So much for intervention,” Sam said with a smile, pouring the coffee into mugs.

Chapter 10

Vincent Addario had always considered himself an extremely lucky man. He was number one in his music class, gave inspiring violin performances as a teenager, and became a soloist for a short time after winning a regional competition. He wasn’t even terribly upset when his agent told him that his solo career would end soon, because he had lined up some promising auditions with respectable orchestras.

Vincent always knew that he would eventually become a great concertmaster, and he believed it was his destiny to work with great conductors. So, when one of his former, well-connected colleagues told him about an upcoming, secret audition for the position of concertmaster, Vincent gladly agreed to attend the meeting at an unknown location, even though it was late. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and Vincent did not want to miss it. Following his colleague’s advice, Vincent kept the meeting a secret, not wanting to jinx his chance of getting what he wanted so much. Finally, his old violin, on loan from a wealthy lady who had faith in him all this time, would be given the proper attention it deserved from the audience.

The colleague was waiting for him at the designated place, and Vincent felt a tingling sensation of excitement in his stomach, anticipating big changes. The colleague showed him to a door in the redbrick building, which looked like an old warehouse, and let Vincent walk inside first. Vincent smelled a whiff of alcohol on the colleague. He can probably afford to have one at this hour. He’s not auditioning, Vincent thought and smiled. Vincent could use a drink himself to steady his nerves. Perhaps later, after he got the position?

Just as Vincent stepped inside, he felt something cold around his neck. When he tried to touch it to see what it was, he felt a strong push from behind, and the thing around his neck became excruciatingly tight, painfully digging into his flesh. He tried to remove it, but he couldn’t get a grip with his fingers and felt it cutting in deeper. He wanted to scream for help but couldn’t make a sound as he was holding his breath. He jerked back and forth, trying to get away, but was held in a strong grip, as if in a vise. While his body fought for survival, part of his mind hadn’t yet registered what was happening; it felt too surreal.

So much for not jinxing it, was Vincent’s last thought before his soul left his earthly body.

Chapter 11

Sebastian was excited—at last he had someone to work with on his piece. A fellow musician who could understand the scale of the project. The first ever rehearsal would be in the shrine of music, and they were sure to spend a magnificent time going through Sebastian’s concerto together. The Great Conductor highly recommended the musician as a skilled re-creator who could read the composer’s mind. Sebastian ironed one of his two white dress shirts for this occasion, and he would wear it with black slacks. Lydia would have been pleased.

Sebastian cleaned the practice room and assembled a note stand that he had bought the day before, where he placed a copy of the concerto and brought down an adjustable chair from upstairs. He wondered what his future colleague would like to drink, so he prepared water, soft drinks, and had a fresh coffeepot ready. Martha had helped him with that. She had also prepared her amazing herbal tea to calm his nerves. That tea had served him really well every time he met with the Great Conductor—made him relaxed.

In his mind, he had a plan: They would both go through a compulsory practice routine to warm up before working on the masterpiece. The Great Conductor had informed Sebastian that the upcoming musician had gone through a rigorous audition process, was relieved of all their commitments for the duration of rehearsals and was introduced to the piece and could not wait to meet him.

It was an unusual feeling for Sebastian to have the whole house to himself. His brother had gone on a trip and would not be around for rehearsals, which suited him well. His mother’s ashes were in a cheap urn in the living room, and she wouldn’t be a bother either.

There were no instructions in Lydia’s last will, so Sebastian thought it would be best to cremate her. Sebastian liked the Japanese philosophy that emphasized not bothering others or taking up excessive space—reduction of clutter to create peace and focus. For Lydia, being a pile of ash fit that idea perfectly. No one knew when their last day would be, but Lydia hadn’t considered herself an average person even in her seventies and apparently hadn’t planned to leave this world soon. There weren’t any relatives who could argue with Sebastian’s decision, and Paul couldn’t care less.

While putting the last touches on his practice, Sebastian realized that there was no music in his mind. It was rather strange because something was always playing on the background of his thoughts. He tried to focus and decide what would be suitable for such an important day. Bach’s Suite no. 1 in G major Prelude came to mind. As soon as he decided, the slow and emotional movement began to flow through his mind, exploring the full range of the cello. Then a fast and demanding single-line fugue followed, leading to a powerful ending. Perhaps a slow and solemn beginning would be a good idea for their rehearsal—a cello duet with a violin. Maybe they should play the entire suite.

“It’ll be wonderful,” Sebastian said out loud and nodded as if the suggestion had been made by someone else and continued with his preparations.

He thought about the arrangements for the new musician after their rehearsal and wished that he had asked the Great Conductor about it. He would be honored to host the musician in his house since Lydia’s room was empty. He had already made it spotlessly clean, removing any signs of the elderly occupant and the negative energy that her possessions had seemed to emit, contaminating the space that was needed for artistic creation. Sebastian had left only one part of the original décor—a few old, black-and-white pictures on the wall. Those were Lydia’s photographed lifetime achievements—pictures with different musicians, conductors, and solo portraits of her harp playing. She was young and smiling, bearing no resemblance to the old and grumpy woman who had passed away a couple weeks ago. Sebastian thought that it added something special to the otherwise unremarkable room. He went up to his mother’s room to take another look.

“You were always a negative one,” Sebastian said, thinking about his mother and looking around the room with a big window (empty windowsill, wiped clean), a made-up queen-size bed (newly bought sheets and pillowcases), a bedside stand (empty and wiped clean), an old wardrobe (only wooden hangers inside), a desk (a reading lamp and nothing else), and a wooden chair.

He remembered the accusations Lydia used to throw at his father, blaming him for ruining her life. This seemed quite strange to Sebastian at the time, because he had seen nothing but kindness and patience from his father. What if he liked pop music—the Beatles—more than Bach? What if he wanted to spend time in the park playing catch with his son instead of pushing him to play scales until his fingers blistered? Did that make him a loser? Lydia seemed to believe it did.

It was very confusing for Sebastian at that time. Later, he understood how unfair Lydia was to his dad. He always suspected that Stephen’s heart problems were not entirely work-related, as Lydia explained to him during the funeral. He could feel her constant nagging eating away at his dad’s health, bit by bit. The death of his father made his brother angry. Paul swore not to talk to Lydia again. It felt like Paul had crossed Lydia out of his life once and for all—something Sebastian had not been able to do.

A few memories came to mind—“Lydia’s method” of practicing music, which had to start with “cleanup” routines (banana bow, left-hand exercises, shifting, vibrato, etc.) before Sebastian could get to the scales. All mistakes were punished by a slap on his hands with a wooden ruler, not so hard as to damage the muscles, but painful enough to leave a burning sensation on his skin for the rest of the day. According to Lydia, it helped his brain to stay focused on music and “away from all the other nonsense.”