Violists Part 8

I turned to Mr. Rossi. "Look, I'll take her to see a doctor, and..."

"NO!" Jenny screamed. "I have to go on! There are people waiting out there!"

"Honey," I replied, "you have to see a doctor right away."

"Daddy--people paid _money_ to see me play tonight..." She started crying again. "If I don't go on I'll be humiliated forever!"

Under his breath, Rossi was making ecstatic noises in a thick, and quite ineffable, European accent. He sounded like a bad Italian wine with a French label--bottled in Austria and shipped via the Trans-Siberian Railway to Alaska where it was smuggled south on a Canadian ship. "She eez a true artiste..."

Try as I might, I could not convince her to come away with me. She was stubborn in that way--more stubborn than her mother had ever been. Mr.

Rossi was no help at all in the matter either: he seemed to agree with her!

"But you can't stand up," I added, still trying to convince her.

"I'll sit," she replied curtly. Her tears had all dried up by then.

"Oh yais, eets no problaim," Mr. Rossi interjected, "we'll seemply yoos ainuther baow." I shot him a look that shut him up immediately.

Jenny insisted on performing. She always carried another bow, and now the wisdom of that practice was proven. Unfortunately, it would have to suffice, though she had repeatedly decried it as being "quite an inferior stick" for playing anything serious. She got her elitism from her mother, too.

Mr. Rossi clapped his hands, entirely relieved. "Ah, but ZEES awdiense weel nevair hear souch subtle deefferense!" I knew what he meant too--the auditorium was filled with hundreds of gla.s.sy eyed parents, siblings, and tiny tots; half of them probably could not even spell "viola". Mr. Rossi practically pranced away--off to see the numbskull and make another announcement: the soloist was unharmed; the show would go on.

Jenny had only one further thought: she'd had enough time to stop shaking, but she was so unnerved by the experience that she decided she could never trust herself to play from memory. "I really must have the score, Daddy. I should."

The ladies of the green room were bustling around, trying to fawn over her, but keeping a respectful distance from her father, whom they correctly perceived to be an ape in a touchy mood. Oh, yes, they all agreed whole-heartedly that it would be no disgrace at all. Plenty of soloists had played before with the music in front of them. And considering the state of her nerves, the audience would be so relieved--and honored--to have her play at all, that they would forgive the minor irregularity of playing from the music. By all means, she must have the score.

Reluctantly, I finally gave in and knelt down to tie her shoe-laces.

She could not stand una.s.sisted--we tried a few experimental steps and she collapsed immediately under her own weight. One of the ladies produced an ace bandage, so we tied up her ankle, which had swollen so much it looked like a baked yam. A chair was taken onto the stage for her to sit. And of course, since she would be playing from the score, she needed a page turner.

It was the hand of fate: I knew the music, and I was wearing a black suit. "Honey--I'll turn the pages," I offered boldly before anyone else could volunteer. "Just like we used to do."

She gave me that little-girl smile--I'd hardly seen it in ten years, but it made me feel like a real father again. "Oh, Daddy, would you?"

"Come on," I said, putting my arm around her. "I'll escort my princess to her throne." She laughed, and we left the green room with her limping along beside me.

Now, I'm not much of a theatre person. I never attend plays, and the last time I was on stage I was in the third grade. By the time we reached the wings, I knew my face had already turned the color of a ripe tomato and I was sweating. I should have let one of the bustling ladies turn pages for her. How I could face an audience, I had no idea. I concentrated on keeping my daughter's weight off her sprained ankle.

As we sat down, I had a brief moment to look out and feel terrified.

The auditorium was dark, so I could only see the first few rows. And I could sense the breathing ma.s.ses beyond the lights, hovering expectantly in the shadows, ready to slash me to ribbons. A hot wind was blowing in over the bobbing heads in the front; their forked tongues wagged angrily as they coiled slowly. I could almost see the sand whipping across the dunes. They were pretty damp dunes, though, since it was a rainy night. I could feel the intense humidity in the breeze. The conductor gave a nod, with a broad smile in our direction, and the orchestra struck up with the soft introduction.

I panicked at first, shooting my eyes across the page of music, trying to remember what I was supposed to be doing. Where was the first page turn? I couldn't even remember how to read the little black dots. The page took on the look of an obscure foreign doc.u.ment splayed out across the music stand, filled with incomprehensible ink blots. It was a Rorschach test for the incurably insane. The whole scene was backed by the restless, peering faces of the audience. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to calm myself. I snapped them open immediately, however. If I had my eyes closed, I would miss Jenny's signal. If that happened, I knew all would be lost for certain. I'd be laughed off the stage, and she would be ruined before she had even begun.

Only an eccentric maniac like Rossi the Terrible would have picked "Harold in Italy" for the finale of a Christmas concert. It's not seasonal in the least--what was wrong with something seasonal that didn't require a viola solo? But I guess, the orchestra was ready, Jenny was ready--maybe under his mop of stringy and vaguely European hair he thought it would be an exquisitely quirky touch to perform it for Christmas instead of waiting until spring.

The first few page turns pa.s.sed without incident, and my heart-rate steadily decreased toward normal. She nodded knowingly at just the right instants, and I managed to turn the pages without spilling everything all over the floor or uttering a primal scream. After that, each page turn became easier, and I found that by the time we were well into the piece, I was breathing again, and I could follow the score. I began to get c.o.c.ky too, and took a few glances at the audience out of the corner of my eye. I could feel the rapture, starting up out there somewhere like a wisp of cool air. She was playing beautifully, pa.s.sionately. Mr. Rossi was conducting as brilliantly as he could--at least his expansive gesticulations looked fervent. I had heard the piece so many times--the solo pa.s.sages anyway--that I knew it by heart.

But hearing it then, pouring from Jenny's viola backed by the shimmering of Berlioz' orchestration, it took on a sublime quality that I had completely forgotten. It had been a long time since I had really listened to "Harold in Italy", and all the old memories started to come back.

The second movement has a quality like a caravan painted in broad, colorful strokes. It starts out very softly, and builds up as the caravan approaches, pa.s.ses by the listener, and then eventually recedes into the distance. It's a striking section, and personally I think it's the best part of the whole work. By that time, I was alert again, and was trying to gauge the audience reaction. I had started to recognize individual faces, and remember where they were--I had been turning pages for more than fifteen minutes. I kept track of where people were looking, whether they folded their hands, how they tilted their heads at certain points. I didn't hear a lot of coughing and shuffling either. As my eyes grew accustomed to looking at them, I could see further, beyond the first few rows. They really were--I suppose a Victorian might have said "transported"--by the music. I flipped the page again at Jenny's nod.

I had noticed previously one rather large woman near the front row.

She was all dressed up with several long strings of pearls and a long dress of medium golden-brown shades with lacy white frills and a high collar. She had pale, white skin, and her brunette hair was tied up in a hideous bun and topped with a white flower. The whole outfit made her look like an overdressed turkey dinner with all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs and those little white caps on the drumsticks. She seemed for a long while to be even more "transported" than anyone else. I could see the rouge on her cheeks; her lips were parted and she bent forward. The next time I chanced to look her way, near the end of the second movement, she was crying into her handkerchief.

At that moment, as the caravan was fading into the distance, I had a kind of revelation that I'll never forget. This is what it's all about, really, I told myself. This is Jenny's life, and the kind of emotions she can evoke in an audience are her special gift. Maybe I had never really come to terms with the direction she had chosen. I started to feel tingly and blurry eyed. If she, with her playing, could bring tears to even one large woman in a worse-than-average audience, she must also be bringing joy to another, and at least some feeling to someone else; maybe everyone else. If she really wanted to do that with a viola instead of a violin--bringing a new kind of life to a little regarded solo instrument--I felt I could finally accept it.

Somehow, over the past three years, my opposition to her taking up the viola had completely blinded me to the fact that she was actually succeeding. It felt like her destiny beginning to unfold. I was sitting on stage with my seventeen year-old daughter, actually partic.i.p.ating in her debut as a soloist. How many fathers have that opportunity, I wondered. I felt a growing sense of privilege attending the event, and I was elated by the time the third movement was over.

Jenny would fly away from me, of course, into some concert career, climbing ever higher--the inevitable result of a child growing into an independent woman with a great art to unleash on the world. Whether she ever became a famous soloist or not, I thought at that moment, was irrelevant. It was really the ambience that she lived for; not only the brief moments of performing, but also the people around her--the friends with whom she played and pa.s.sed her time, the practicing, the dedication; even Mr. Rossi, whether I really liked him or not. I could hardly keep tears out of my eyes long enough to turn pages through the end of the fourth movement.

When the music finished and the last blast faded into the walls, there was fully ten seconds of absolute silence in the auditorium. What happened to all the tiny tots? I almost wondered if the audience had gone to sleep! The applause began from the front--the large woman held her handkerchief between two fat fingers, and was applauding wildly, ecstatically, leading the crowd. I had never seen such fervor in a spectator. She was shaking her head, back and forth--I could see the tears glistening on her cheeks--she threw kisses. In an instant, the applause grew to a tremendous roar that crashed against the front of the stage... and then the audience, en ma.s.se, were on their feet. I could almost not believe it--a standing ovation for "Harold in Italy"?

No, it was all for Jenny.

The reception afterwards was gorgeous. I stood back, still hovering close to Jenny while she took the greetings of her friends and random members of the audience, including the large woman with the handkerchief. I sipped a California white wine that was far too young and sa.s.sy, and let her bask for nearly an hour. She still could not stand up, of course, so they had brought her a padded chair from somewhere, and she sat straight-backed like a little monarch, with a big bouquet of pink roses nestled in the crook of one arm, nodding and smiling. The other hand was perpetually extended to receive other hands--and on a few occasions to receive a kiss from some lecherous old geezer.

It ended all too soon for Jenny, I could see. But when I glanced at her face as the last of the stragglers were leaving the room, I could tell she was dead tired. The pain in her ankle could not be masked any longer either. She winced and stretched out her legs when I approached.

"Daddy, let's stop by the hospital on the way home, OK? Just to make sure it's not broken or anything."

I laughed. "Sure thing, Jenny." She had always been small, like her mother, and had never grown too big to carry. I lifted her up, and holding her viola case in one hand, carried her out to the parking lot.

The rain had stopped, and half the clouds had dispersed. The moon lit up the remaining clouds like big silver scoops over the far hills--and a few stars twinkled overhead in the cold air.

I whirled around, and around as I walked. "Let's see," I kept saying, "was it this way?" And I would whirl her one way. "Or was it that way?" She was in giggles, with her arms clasped behind my neck.

We found the car--I knew where it was all along, but I was having fun.

When we reached the car, I set her down on her feet for a moment to fish my keys out of my pocket. Meanwhile, I handed her the viola case, and she took it absently. She turned around then, and seeing the front of the car for the first time, burst out in a squeal. "What the h.e.l.l happened to your car?" She limped to follow me to the door.

"Little mishap on the freeway," I replied, unlocking the pa.s.senger door. Her eyes went from the front grill back along the side of the car. I couldn't help smiling when her eyes stopped at the trunk. It was half open, with big sprigs of fir tree bulging out all over.

"Oh, Daddy..." she whispered, clutching my shoulder. I heard that warm tone come back into her voice and she embraced me. "You said we weren't going to have a tree this year..."

"Changed my mind, honey," I replied. "Besides--it was too cheap to pa.s.s up." I grabbed her viola case out of her hand. "Got it from mah ol' frenn CJ," I drawled.

She looked at me like I was made of goat cheese. "What?"

"Get in, I'll tell you about it on the way," I answered, holding the door for her. "Poor thing had an accident on the freeway, but it ain't nothin' a little amputation won't fix."