Strange Sweet Song (10 page)

Ever since Nathan’s crystal had come into his life, George had sensed time slowing down for him. He had tried to ignore it, focusing on his work. No one at Dunhammond Conservatory seemed to notice. But lately, with these European tours, outside the safety of his small, lonely school at the base of the big, lonely mountain, it was becoming clearer that the years were actually passing him by. Time had almost forgotten him.

But what good was it? If only he could leave Nathan at the conservatory where no one would see him,
then
George could have a career of his own without fear of unscrupulous people swooping in to take Nathan away.

He had tried, once. Just a weekend at a conference, in a city a mere hundred miles south of Dunhammond. Nathan had vomited for three days and was bedridden for two weeks afterward. It wasn’t a stomach flu, as the doctor had said. George had felt the crystal in his pocket yearning for its master the whole time he was away.

The door to the hotel room opened and Nathan burst in, stamping his feet and shaking the raindrops out of the flaps of his black trench coat. “George! Here you are.”

A man stepped in behind him, neatly dressed, with thinning blond hair and clear eyes. “Maestro, Paris adores you!”

George smiled, sliding the crystal back into his pocket. “I highly doubt that. But it was a good performance.” He allowed himself this small boast. It had been an exquisite performance.

“They waited for you, you know, by the stage door,” Nathan said, pouring himself a glass from a decanter. “I thought you had just run up here to change.” He put a hand on his hip. “You
are
coming for drinks, aren’t you?”

“Of course he is. You must, my friend!” the man said. George had been introduced to him before the concert—Henri Maneval, managing director of the prestigious Parisian
orchestre
that had lost its elderly conductor in 1961. George had been courting the orchestra for the better part of the five years since. Postperformance drinks were a very good sign.

But there was something else. A creeping discomfort that had started scratching at him as he watched Nathan taking in this city for the first time. The young man seemed to absorb its vibrancy, brought to new life by the smells of the patisseries, the colors of the street vendors’ bright artwork, the fresh flowers from Holland. Nathan was so much more noticeable here.

George set his empty snifter on an end table and turned back to the window.

“Henri has been paying you the most embarrassing compliments behind your back,” Nathan said. George could hear his disarming smile, even though he couldn’t see it in the window’s reflection.

“If you’ll indulge me,” the director said, “I’d like to pay those compliments to your face, Maestro. Do come out with us—a quaint piano bar down the street. And your friend has promised to provide some entertainment!” He laughed, and Nathan joined him.

George turned sharply. “Entertainment?”

Henri Maneval put a hand on Nathan’s back. “If your protégé plays half as well as you conduct, monsieur, we shall have a very good time!” He glanced at his watch. “It will not do for me to be too late, my friends. You know how these musicians are.
A bientôt, mes amis.
” And he gave a nod and slipped away into the softly lit hallway.

George sank onto a velvet settee and put a hand to his forehead.
Five years
he’d worked for this. More than five years. He’d dreamed of taking the helm of a major orchestra since his days as a student at Dunhammond Conservatory, more than forty years ago.

Nathan closed the door. “Well? Aren’t you going to change?”

George shook his head. The rain was falling heavily now, pattering at the window like a muted snare drum.

“Are you all right?” Nathan crossed the room and sat lightly on the settee, opposite the venerable maestro. “George, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” George’s voice was harsh. “You would
embarrass
me?”

Nathan’s mouth opened slightly. “Never! What did I do?”

George ran a finger along the back of the settee. “Entertainment? Did you give M. Maneval the impression you would
play
for him?”

Nathan lowered his gaze. “I … thought tonight we could celebrate.”

Now George’s voice softened. “I understand, my friend. But you know you aren’t ready. You can’t play for someone as refined as M. Maneval—the
managing director
of one of the most influential symphonies in the world—before you’re ready! Especially when he is considering
me.
”

“I thought I was ready,” Nathan said. “I feel ready.”

George forced a sad smile. The plan that had been forming in his mind ever since they landed in France was finally solidifying. Of course, it would involve abandoning Paris—abandoning everywhere. But he saw no alternative. “My dear boy, if you think you’re ready, why not start with a competition? Why force yourself and your talents on two of the best ears on the planet?”

Nathan nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I got ahead of myself.… This is such an exciting city.”

“Here,” George said. “They are having a new competition in New York in just a few months. Named after the great Gloria Stewart, whose playing you admire so much. Why not compete? Then, if you are successful, it would be acceptable to start performing for larger and more sophisticated audiences.”

I’ll miss Paris,
George thought. It was clear that, were he to meet Henri Maneval and a few choice orchestra members for drinks, his position would be assured. But at what cost? How could he keep Nathan hidden
here
?

Safe,
he meant. Safe, not hidden.

“You always know what to do, George,” Nathan said, leaning back against green velvet. “Thank you.”

The conservatory really was the best place for them.

“I wish you’d cut your hair,” George said, winding a black lock around his forefinger.

Nathan smiled. “No, you don’t.”

Then he rose to hang his wet trench coat on the rack by the door.

Twenty-two

S
ING WALKS INTO REHEARSAL
exactly on time, hair brushed and shiny, white shirt ironed, sweater vest and skirt de-linted, kneesocks pulled all the way up to her knees. St. Augustine’s concert hall smells like varnish and cool stone.

A few students flip through their new
Angelique
scores. Sing carries an older edition, with
FIRE LAKE OPERA
stamped on the cover and “Ernesto da Navelli” written in the upper right-hand corner of the first page. Her father has never conducted
Angelique,
and never will, but the music is covered with faded pencil markings—he has thought about how he would do it.

The soft, echoey thud of the door announces the Maestro.

The Maestro isn’t particularly tall. His nose isn’t particularly hooked, though it is a little big for his face. He doesn’t stride into the room or march up the aisle with sweeping gestures. He simply is not there, and then he is, and then everything becomes more nervous, as though even the masonry itself is worried it’s out of tune.

Sing’s mouth is dry. She nibbles the edges of her tongue to get her saliva glands working.

“Welcome to Opera Workshop.” The Maestro places his score onto a music stand,
clink
. “Our first production, for the Autumn Festival, will be Durand’s
Angelique,
which, of course, was written here at the conservatory. I am also pleased to announce”—he couldn’t look less pleased—“that this year, thanks to our new theater, the festival will also be hosting the Gloria Stewart International Piano Competition for the first time since its inception in 1967.”

The assembly murmurs excitedly at the news. Sing, not being a pianist, hadn’t given the prestigious competition a thought since she arrived. But her father is to be one of the judges—and she realizes with a sickening feeling that this means he will definitely be here for the performance of
Angelique
. No chance of his schedule interfering or of his being fooled should she “accidentally” tell him the wrong dates.

“Maestro,” a scratchy voice says. Apprentice Daysmoor sits behind Ryan at the piano—the page-turner position—looking bored and slightly menacing, though at least he is managing to appear awake. “I’m curious—where did the conservatory ever find the money for such a beautiful, spacious new theater? To whom do we owe this
enormous
debt of gratitude?”

He looks at Sing. Her body jolts.

The Maestro, mercifully, responds with, “A generous benefactor.”

What was
that
? What is Daysmoor’s problem? She shoots him a look, but he has crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

The Maestro frowns. “I don’t have to remind you that rehearsals, whether with myself or Mr. Bernard, are mandatory. Principals, your coach is Apprentice Daysmoor. Please bother him, rather than me, with your questions and concerns.”

Sing makes a mental note not to have any questions or concerns.

“We will begin with act three, since everyone is in it,” the Maestro says, flipping open his score. “Principals to the stage.”

As she makes her way to the raised platform at the end of the room, Sing sees Hayley’s face in the chorus. Great. One more person who’d love to see her fail. Maybe it would be better if Lori Pinkerton arrived right now.

She finds a seat next to a boy with a thick neck.

“Are you Angelique?” he asks.

“Yes. Well, no. I’m the understudy.”

“Oh!” His face brightens. “I’m Prince Elbert.” Now he has the audacity to blush a little. Sing smiles without her eyes.

“Top of page 213,” the Maestro says, and Sing realizes her score has different page numbers from everyone else’s. She looks over at Prince Elbert’s, but Ryan has already started playing, and she recognizes the introduction to the second recitative, which means she has to start singing right—

“Stop.” The Maestro—everyone—is looking at her. She is still finding the page … there. Maybe he won’t say anything else.

He does. “Miss da Navelli, are you ready to begin?”

“Yes, Maestro.”
Miss da Navelli.
There they are again, those wondering stares. Almost everyone in the hall wears one now. Her face is hot with embarrassment, but she pushes her shoulders back and glares. Once again the Maestro cues Ryan, who looks over at her and winks.

Winks.

What is that? Is he making fun of her? Telling her not to worry? Flirting?

Could he be flirting?

She stares at him, but his focus is now on the music, which she should be paying attention to. Prince Elbert looks pinkly at her and she doesn’t mean to look pinkly back at him, but she does, and then they have to sing about falling in love with each other.

She manages to croak her way through the little recit, and then the duet begins. Prince Elbert’s part is first. His voice is rich and strong, yet another reminder she’s no longer a big fish in a small pond. He sounds like the tenors at Stone Hill, a little pressed but confident, not like the cocky, straining, Music Club boys at her old school.

No one else seems that interested in the polished sound coming out of this dumpy-looking prince. They follow along in their music or sip from their water bottles. Even Ryan is intent on his score, his body rocking back and forth as he plays.

Her turn. Her voice echoes in the grand hall, and it takes her a few beats to find some good harmonics. She focuses on breathing, but the harder she tries, the tighter her chest feels. Some of the words escape her, and twice she comes in early. At least when Prince Elbert comes back in, she can blend with him.

The duet ends. Rehearsal goes on. The Maestro’s attention stays focused on the score and whoever is singing it. Sing sits back and looks at the ceiling, wishing she were nestled safely among the chorus members clustered in the house.

What is happening to her? She knows her voice inside and out. She knows resonance. She knows air.

Why can’t she
do
it?

Halfway through the men’s chorus, the big doors open and Lori Pinkerton strides in, a brown leather messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

Sing knows it is Lori Pinkerton, because she is everything Sing imagined her to be. Her long blond hair sways as she walks, her graceful neck holds her porcelain face high, and her pink-glossed lips curve downward in a disapproving pout. Her uniform
must
be the same as everyone else’s, yet it clings and flows in all the right places, making men in the chorus turn slowly to follow her progress up the aisle.

Well, at least it’s over now.

Lori sits on the other side of the stage, back straight and ankles crossed, as Monsieur Boncoeur, a middle-aged man brought in for the role, sings his recitative.

Sing watches Ryan’s eyes stray in Lori’s direction while he plays.
They were at FLAP together.
Who knows what happened there, on the shores of beautiful Fire Lake? Sing pictures the still waters touching the perennially ice-sheathed mountains to the east, the red glow of sunset causing both to gleam like flames. She has seen the fire of Fire Lake many times, but always alone, as her father conducted or her mother sang. Did Lori and Ryan watch the blaze together?

It would take something phenomenal to pry Sing’s jealous gaze from Ryan’s face, but something phenomenal happens.

Marta begins to sing.

Everyone in the hall turns to her, Ryan and Lori included. Her sound is sweet and resonant, and she sings with such honesty and joy that the hairs on the backs of Sing’s arms stand up. Marta closes her eyes as she navigates the acrobatic lines. Sing watches her jaw, spine, fingers, all moving fluidly with the notes. She’ll have to work on her French, though. With decent French, she would be amazing.

Sing blinks.
Am I feeling a desire to see a fellow soprano—a
rival
—succeed?

I’ve only been away from my father for two days.

A distinct type of silence follows Marta’s aria. There would never be anything as vulgar as
applause
at a rehearsal, but from time to time, a special silence comes from everyone thinking the same thing:
That was great.
Sing catches Marta’s eye and smiles, and Marta grins back, silver unicorn pendant glinting.