“We expect grand things from all of these young musicians. Four of them have not played before an audience prior to tonight, and isn’t that wonderful?” She held out her own program toward the musicians, letting them bask in the moment. “We’ll begin tonight with Toby Escoba, a student of Mr. Parsons. Toby is fourteen, he’s an old hand at performance, and you may recall his beautiful trumpet rendition of Mozart’s ‘Laudate Dominum’ at the Christmas concert last winter. As your program notes, he’ll be playing Wahlberg’s ‘All That Jazz,’ with Mr. Parsons accompanying on the piano.” She turned and patted the Baldwin’s broad flank and then waggled a finger at Parsons, who had settled on the piano bench. “We certainly hope this old thing doesn’t fall to pieces.”
A student with shoulders suited for a linebacker vaulted onto the stage, ignoring the two steps. His trumpet looked fragile in his beefy hands. He took a moment to smooth out his music on the rack, blew silently through the trumpet’s mouthpiece, and fluttered the valves. Mr. Parsons, a large, well-padded man, sat quietly at the piano bench, waiting. Finally, Toby took a deep breath, shook his right hand as if the fingers had gone asleep, and then nodded at his accompanist. A dozen bars of the dissonant music left Estelle wondering how it was possible to distinguish correct notes from strays. The Baldwin held together, the trumpet blasted and screamed, and Toby Escoba beamed when the audience burst into applause twice before he finished.
Through it all, Estelle’s son Francisco remained remarkably quiet, occasionally bouncing half out of his chair, or turning to the girl on his left for another whispered conference.
From Toby’s romping beginning, the recital continued demurely with a simple piano solo played by a beginning student so tiny that her feet swung twelve inches from the stage floor. She played solemnly, brows beetled with concentration, her stiff little fingers robotic. As the concert progressed from student to student, Estelle found herself referring back to the printed program, as the names marched toward her son’s.
When Pitney Clarke was introduced, the tall girl seated beside Francisco rose, and to Estelle’s surprise, so did her son. They made an interesting pair-seven-year-old Francisco darkly handsome in black slacks and shoes and his favorite plum-colored pullover, Pitney tall and graceful in a black skirt and long-sleeved white blouse, frilly around the throat.
Pitney carried a portfolio of music, and she took her time arranging it on the piano. She whispered instructions to Francisco, who apparently had been nominated to be her page turner. He nodded quickly, even impatiently, as if he’d attended to this chore a thousand times. Serenity and ferocity appeared to be Pitney’s favorite emotions as she tackled the long and complex Schubert piece, with many passages sounding as if they required at least a dozen fingers.
The young musician managed Schubert’s intricacies well enough, but to Estelle’s untrained ear, it sounded as if the composer had written one page nicely, then copied it a dozen times, with each copy held at a slightly different angle for variety.
The communication between the two children at the piano was easy and natural. As each set of pages drew to a close, Estelle saw Francisco lean a little so that his shoulder touched Pitney’s side, and at the right moment, Pitney would offer just a hint of a nod. Francisco would reach forward, perilously close to the keys and the young lady’s lap, and snatch the page. At one point, Estelle sensed that her husband was looking at her. She glanced over at him and saw his raised eyebrow. She wound her hand around her husband’s, including Carlos in the process. There were plenty of secrets in Francisco’s little head-apparently Pitney Clarke was one of them.
The Schubert concerto worked toward its conclusion, and after he turned the last page for Pitney, Francisco sat back on the piano bench, frowning darkly, concentrating on the keyboard. Estelle realized that she was holding her breath. Sure enough, the little boy’s hands reached out, fingers soundlessly caressing the bass keys. Pitney’s fingers floated downward through the concerto’s final resolution, but it was Francisco who played the final, complex chord so infinitely pianissimo, so seamless with the girl’s own playing, that it blended perfectly.
And then he was a joyful seven-year-old again, snatching his hands off the keys and bouncing off the piano bench as if springloaded. Pitney, far more demure at fifteen, stood and acknowledged the audience, then turned and held out her hand to Francisco. The two of them left the stage.
“That’s an interesting expression on your face, querida,” Estelle’s husband whispered.
Chapter Seven
Estelle took a deep breath, listening to the applause.
“Who’s Pitney Clarke, do you know?” her husband asked, tapping the program.
“Her lesson with Mrs. Gracie is right after Francisco’s. Her mom works for New Mexico Cellular.”
“Ah,” Francis said. “Interesting rapport between those two kids.”
“Apparently so.”
If she had a problem deciding how to introduce Francisco, Mrs. Gracie had solved it neatly. Mike Parsons, the band director, stepped onstage. Applause greeted him and he nodded curtly, all business.
“Do you like what you’re hearing?” he asked, his foghorn voice reaching effortlessly to the farthest corners of the theater. The audience applauded politely. “So who’s next?” Glancing at the program as if he might have forgotten, he continued, “Francisco Guzman is seven years old, and is already one of Mrs. Gracie’s stars…as well as being a veteran page turner.” He frowned with mock severity at Francisco, who was already half standing. “Please welcome a remarkable talent playing a composition by another rare one…Mozart’s Sonata in F.”
“Relax, querida,” her husband whispered. “My hand’s about to fall off.”
Estelle flexed her fingers, realizing that she’d been crushing every hand she could reach into a clammy ball. She tousled Carlos’ silky black hair, and he leaned back against his father, perfectly confident and at ease, ready to listen to the stories his older brother was about to tell.
Now all by himself on the stage, Francisco was diminutive against the black expanse of the piano. He slipped onto the bench and regarded the keyboard as if someone had switched the blacks and whites while his back was turned. With his left hand, he reached out as far as he could, spanning the bass keys. He straightened, then did the same, reaching to his right. Estelle could see that in a year or two, her son might be able to reach the pedals without straining and pointing his toes. The little boy looked out at the audience and grinned impishly.
He had not carried any music onstage, and the piano’s black music rack was empty. His left hand curled under his chin in a gesture that Estelle recognized as the little boy’s way of holding on to some inner, personal delight. Finally, both hands drifted down to the keyboard, and the first chord, a full, rich F, burst forth. He held it longer than he ever had in practice, longer than the composer indicated it should be, but it was Francisco’s story now, not Mozart’s.
The piece that reminded Estelle of squirrels arguing over nuts continued without hesitation until the presto movement, the opening measures of which had always reduced the little boy to hopeless giggles. Carlos emitted a tiny squeak and instantly clapped a hand over his mouth, but this time his older brother was undeterred. He pushed the piece faster and faster, then let it gradually relax, as if the squirrels, now sated with acorns, were too fat to move. The story ended with the same F chord that started it, played so softly that the sound disappeared in the big room before Francisco removed his hands from the keys. Only when he turned a bashful smile toward them did the modest audience erupt in applause.
Bill Gastner leaned forward, reached across Francis and Carlos, and patted the back of Estelle’s hand. “You can relax now,” he whispered. “The kid did good.”