S.V. Redkin – The Great Conductor (страница 3)

“Don’t just stand there; go boil some eggs before your practice. Martha never makes me tell her things. She does it before I even think about it.” Lydia’s voice was penetrating the second movement in Sebastian’s head. “I want you to pick up some pills for me in the afternoon, and we’re running out of vegetables. Don’t forget to buy some meat for dinner, and I want a bottle of decent wine this time, not that cheap garbage you got me the other day. You hear me?”

She scanned Sebastian’s outfit—an old Aloha shirt and cargo pants. “And for God’s sake, try to wear something tasteful when you’re in the house, will you? What’s wrong with you today? You’re supposed to be a musician.” She sighed dramatically. “Here I am, talking about not having children. How silly of me. What children, for God’s sake? There’s no woman in the world who will ever think about getting involved with you if you insist on dressing like a bum.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Don’t forget to take your vitamins either. Do I have to think of everything?”

Sebastian waited for a moment to see if there were any more instructions from Lydia, but when he saw that her eyes were back on the TV, lured by the talking heads as usual, he quietly left the room.

It was time for his daily practice. He went downstairs to the basement and, through the laundry room, entered his “shrine of music”—the only place in the house where he was left completely alone to his own devices and the place where his cello was waiting for him.

The floor and walls of the shrine were covered with old Persian carpets, which his father had brought back from his business trips to the Middle East. Stephen, an oil engineer who had traveled extensively for work, was known as a great admirer of the unique carpet craftsmanship found only in the East.

Sebastian had fond memories of his father, an ever-positive man who played Beatles records when Lydia wasn't home, as she hated “that crap,” and who died unexpectedly of a heart attack when he was only fifty years old.

The death of his father was difficult for Sebastian, but it brought him closer to his brother, Paul, with whom he had rarely talked before. Paul was everything Lydia wanted in a son—neat and organized. Sebastian, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He never really cared about how he looked, which annoyed Lydia, a perfectionist in everything. She had worked hard to ensure that Sebastian’s “inherent laziness” would not hinder his progress in music as a child and had “sacrificed hundreds of hours” of her undivided attention to his practices. There were never any sleepovers at their house, and Sebastian was never invited to his classmates’ parties, as he never had time for anything other than music.

Sebastian carefully placed his still-steaming coffee cup on the old desk that was covered with piles of music sheets. He stood motionless in the middle of the room with his eyes closed, waiting for the second movement of the concerto that was still playing in his head to finish. As soon as the imaginary Mstislav Rostropovich lowered his bow, Sebastian opened his eyes and smiled. Rostropovich, imaginary or not, never failed to put Sebastian in the right mood for practice.

He picked up the coffee cup and took a few sips, enjoying the drink for a moment. After he had finished, he placed the cup back on the desk and turned his attention to the large, old, battered, but sturdy cello case with its seven silver latches, which was standing next to his chair and music stand. Inside the case was the most precious thing in Sebastian’s life—the instrument that had cost him half the money his father had left him when he became old enough to make an extremely difficult decision about purchasing the right instrument on his own. For once, Lydia had agreed with his choice.

Sebastian did a bit of a body warm-up: rolling his shoulders and stretching them out—the third movement playing in his head.

He slowly unclipped the latches of the case and opened the lid. There, inside, was his Helmuth Keller & Son cello, “Galina”–named after the wife of Mstislav Rostropovich. The moment Sebastian saw the instrument for the first time, he knew it was special. Its beauty was worthy of the name of the greatest musician’s wife. Sebastian gently touched the fingerboard and moved his fingers along the upper bout rib all the way down to the f-holes, body, and tailpiece.

“Hello, Galina,” he said quietly with a dreamy smile. “Miss me?”

Sebastian still remembered his first cello, which was made in Shanghai, China, from German wood. It was a special instrument that held a special place in his heart. But “Galina” had become his life partner, the instrument with which he created his own music.

First things first.

Sebastian took his bow out of the case. Using a nail clipper, he clipped off a torn horsehair. Then he tightened the horsehair and applied some resin. He liked to use the stuff, which was said to have golden flecks in it, which were invisible to the naked eye, but Sebastian liked the idea of it. His telescopic chair was positioned where the corners of the floor carpets almost met, revealing just enough of the hardwood floor to put a slip-stop endpin rest for his cello. He did not want to ruin his father’s carpets. He adjusted the spike “Russian style” so that “Galina” would be more horizontal against his chest—easier for his bow hand, which would give him a richer, more powerful sound.

With “Galina” across his chest, Sebastian waited until the third movement—the solo cadenza based on themes from the preceding movements—of the concerto was over in his head. He did his usual warm-up routine (finger control exercise, warming up his right hand’s wrist, crescendo and diminuendo exercises on an open string), then he reached for the metronome that was on his desk and gently pushed the pendulum.

Sebastian closed his eyes, listened to the steady clicks, feeling the growing excitement he always had before playing, took a deep breath, and started with his trill and vibrato exercises before moving on to the scales.

He doubled his speed, doing four active runs for each bit in his usual meditative and steady manner. Then, to stimulate his brain, he performed one movement from one of Bach’s Cello Suites—today, according to Sebastian’s ritualistic order, it was number 4 in E-flat major.

Now, it was time for his masterpiece. The musical piece that would change the world of music. The one that would surely change his life, but . . . the world would have to wait until he had what he needed to present it properly.

Chapter 3

It was an unexpectedly relaxed Friday in the office. After her usual greeting of the parents’ photo on her desk, Christine had a cup of coffee and started on some paperwork. She had a few reports to finish before the weekend, and although they wouldn’t make the pile on her desk much smaller, it was good to get them done.

She was finalizing a murder case—a young woman had been shot in her apartment by some gangsters who owed her boyfriend a debt—and was preparing to appear in court for the trial. She was reviewing her testimony when her phone rang. Her grandmother’s name appeared on the screen.

Christine knew the reason for the call—Veronica Heart was calling to check if Christine was coming to lunch that Saturday. Christine had canceled a few lunches previously, citing her busy schedule, but this was only half true. She knew her grandparents were worried about her working under pressure and being single, and they wanted to make sure she was okay. While she appreciated their concern, it was difficult for her to sit through lengthy conversations about finding a life partner. They were supportive of any decision she made, even if it meant she was into women. This had amused her at first, but then she realized they were serious. Her grandparents most certainly suspected that Christine’s lack of any romantic or sexual relationships with men meant that she was probably “playing for the other team or no team at all.”

Christine could not explain why, at thirty-five, she had hardly gone on any dates with men. She was reluctant to tell the people who had taken care of her after her parents died about the mess that her personal life had become. A few short-term relationships that meant nothing had convinced her that it was better to stay at home, doing what she enjoyed—making stone beads and reading about gemstones—rather than wasting her time on men who weren’t ready to invest emotionally in the dating process. So she resorted to telling them that it was her choice—whatever it was—and they should respect that.

She did have another, less antisocial hobby, though, which was somewhat related to her work. She liked going to shooting ranges, where she could let all her negative emotions and frustrations leave her mind as she shot bullets at targets.

Perhaps she could have invented an imaginary relationship, and at one point, she even considered bringing home a fake boyfriend to make her grandparents stop asking about her love life. She had decided not to do it—she couldn’t bring herself to lie to them. But this time, she felt that she had no other choice and reluctantly picked up the phone.