Doubtful, Mr. Strasser says now, addressing the audience, is the word you’ll find printed in your programs next to this concerto of Mozart’s, as it is considered by most scholars to be a fake. Penned in the last century by a violinist-cum-composer with a flair for pastiche. It is, like the Beethoven, performed only as a curiosity. It is not included in recordings of the complete violin concertos. The place it is most often heard, fittingly enough, is in the audition hall, learned by young violinists who, like the concerto itself, hope to be taken for the real article. It is ironic, however, that our winner, who turns out to be as real as Mozart himself at the same age — virtuoso violinist, accomplished composer — should be offering up this particular piece of apocrypha for us. Well, I think we can all safely assume that this piece, through young Arthur Morel, has never sounded more genuine than it’s going to sound this evening.
Applause and the thunder of our feet rumbling the floorboards bring Arthur from the wings to take his place beside Mr. Strasser.
They shake hands.
Arthur is, somewhat scandalously, not wearing a tux. He has on khaki pants and a brown corduroy sports jacket. He’s not even wearing a tie. If Mr. Strasser is shocked, he hides it well. There is a stir of eye contact and smirks through the body of the orchestra, cut off by Mr. Strasser’s swift turn and raised baton.
I set my instrument in its perch between my knees and, touching my bow to a string dusty with rosin, wait for my cue.
Arthur looks relaxed, more at ease I think than I’ve ever seen him, and if I hadn’t recently come to know that stern inward scowl that was his usual expression (absent now), I would have had no reason to be unsettled.
It is interesting to note that what was unforgettable about Arthur’s performance — the cadenza — nobody could recall him ever playing. In rehearsals he skipped it. Even in dress rehearsal when it came time for his solo, he just drew his bow across the open strings and announced he was saving up for tonight. Saving up? And what about the audition — I tried to remember. Coming out of that performance had been like waking from a pleasurable dream, foggy and spent: What cadenza had he played then? Had it been his own? If it was remarkable, it was no less remarkable than any of the other notes he’d played. Had he skipped one entirely? This seems unlikely, for it would have been a noticeable omission to at least one of the roomful of listeners. It seems more likely that he performed whatever stock cadenza had been included with the score. Neither was it a question I could ask Arthur myself, as this performance brought about his immediate expulsion from school and marked the last time I would see him for more than a decade.
Coming at the end of the first movement, the cadenza is preceded by a solid ten minutes of performance, and I can’t imagine this auditorium ever having been filled with a richer, more vibrant music. Our playing is charged, excited. We bring Arthur to the moment of his solo with the lightest, most graceful touch. Mozart’s impostor would have approved. And then:
A pause, the breath before the aria:
I am looking at Mr. Strasser, who produces a wadded handkerchief to swab his glistening head. His eyes are cast upward, the faraway gaze of attentive listening.
And then he frowns, mirroring a leap of panic that I myself suddenly feel — the silence has gone on a beat too long. He turns just as I hear a shout from the audience and something onstage that sounds (I can’t be hearing this right) like a loud, wet fart.
In a nearby row someone exclaims, Oh my!
Arthur had been in my direct line of sight, but now he is lost to the craning heads of my fellow cellists in front of me. A ripple of voices from the audience erupts into a full-throated roar. I look down at the front row and understand from each grimace, the muscle reflex of revulsion, even as the savory cabbage stink hits me: Arthur has opted for the riot.
Pei-Yee, who had a front-and-center mezzanine seat for the spectacle, reported to me later: He just tucked his violin under his arm and turned. It was so fast. You almost would have missed it if you weren’t paying attention. He just turned and dropped his pants and oh — my — God! It was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. He squatted, right there on that stage — and took the biggest, grossest shit!
3. BLACKOUT
“IT’S HALF THE SIZE OF the place we moved from,” Arthur said, opening and closing doors around the apartment, as if to show just how small.
“And where was that again?”
“Jamaica Queens. For the school district. Metal detectors were the final straw for Penelope. Will put up a fight against the move, but not much of one. I think he’s thrilled, secretly, but doesn’t want to show it. Maybe he feels his happiness would be a retroactive condemnation of his old friends — or of us. Who knows? Yesterday we went to a parent-teacher conference at the new place. ‘Magnet school,’ quote-unquote, that’s what they call it — I suppose, because the parents cling to the place for dear life. All of us in this meeting, parents and teachers and administrators, could barely contain our gratitude for one another. The handshaking never stopped.”
It might seem like I’m pulling a bit of authorial misdirection here for the sake of narrative suspense by not immediately recognizing Arthur Morel. From the moment he said my name, the moment he took my hand. How could it be otherwise? He’d have been unforgettable! It’s true. He was unforgettable. I was haunted by that act of his for some time afterward, all the more so for our passionate talk those weeks prior, which seemed to have provoked him into it somehow, and in this way made me feel complicit. In fact, his performance was so powerful, so seared into my memory, that my brain refused to reconcile this man — proud wallet snapshot of wife and child, breezing through his new two bedroom in Herald Square like some sunny realtor — with that brilliant but obviously troubled boy I had known those years ago. Even as we toured the apartment, I trailed in utter disbelief at the seemingly ordinary family man he’d since become.
Arthur opened a bedroom door. The apartment layout was similar to the editor’s apartment down the hall. But there, this room housed the editing equipment. Here it housed Arthur’s kid. There was something familiar — not just in the structural echo of the space I spent my day, but in the spiritual echo of the one in which I spent my childhood. It was an only child’s room. Where unfashionable interests were allowed to flourish, safe from the withering glare of sibling disapproval. Outgrown toys, unembarrassed to be sitting next to current ones: Spawn action figures and a stuffed Barney doll sharing floorspace with a Super Soaker and a glittery pair of silver shoes. Above the bed was a poster of a blurry flying saucer with the caption THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE. Looking around I see other X-Files memorabilia: trading cards and comic books and bedding. Arthur: in charge of another human being — with his own room and a preference for campy television. Amazing! Maybe the shock had as much to do with me: it meant that I was an adult, when most days I still felt more like the occupant of this room.
I was led down a short corridor, past several framed photos and a wicker hamper. “Bathroom,” he said, pointing to a door opposite the hamper, “and this one is ours.” There was no room like this at the editor’s apartment. We didn’t dwell, but from what I saw, it struck me as consistent with their adultness. Matching furniture, scathed from the recent move — veneers chipped, drawer faces crooked — gauzy curtains, a side table with a clock radio and a little dish for spare change.