The harmonica fits easily into my hand. A tap or two against my leg clears it out, and I try a few notes. They sound good. They always do.
I know how I’ll answer. She probably knows it too. But in the meantime, let her sing a little of those Saturn Ring Blues.
HOW MUSIC BEGINS
Hands raised, ready for the downbeat, Cowdrey brought the band to attention. He took a good inhalation for them to see, thinking, “The band that breathes together, plays together.” Players watched over their music stands as he tapped out a barely perceptible four beats, then, he dropped into the opening notes of “The King’s Feast,” a simple piece a 9th grade band might play at the season’s first concert, but Elise Morgan, his best student, had composed variations for flutes and clarinets, added an oboe solo, and changed the arrangement for the cornets and trombones, so now new tonal qualities arose. Her neatly handwritten revisions crowded his score, a black and white representation of the opening chords, the musical lines blending effortlessly. Everyone on beat. Everyone on tune. At the state competition, they would sweep the awards, but this wasn’t state, and they weren’t really a junior high band anymore.
Eyes closed, he counted through the bars. “The King’s Feast” recreated a night at Henry VIII’s court. Suitably serious. A heavy drum background carrying the load. Not quite a march, but upbeat in a dignified way. Someone in the French horn section sounded a bit pitchy. Was it Thomas? Cowdrey cocked his head to isolate it, but the individual sound faded, lost in the transition to the second movement.
He lived for this moment, when the sections threaded together, when the percussion didn’t overwhelm or the brass blow out the woodwinds. He smiled as he directed them through the tricky exit from the solo. His eyes open now, their eyes on him, young faces, raggedy-cut hair, shirts and blouses too small, everyone’s pants inches short above their bare feet, he led them to the conclusion, slowing the saxophones down—they wanted to rush to the end—then he brought the flutes up.
Rhythm and harmony tumbled over the pomp and circumstance in Henry’s court. The ladies’ elegant dress. The courtiers waiting in the wings. The king himself, presiding from the throne, all painted in music. Cowdrey imagined brocade, heavy skirts, royal colors, swirling in the dance.
The last notes trembled, and he held them in hand, not letting them end until his fist’s final clasp cut them off. He was the director.
Aching silence. Someone in the drum section coughed. Cowdrey waited for the lights to flicker. They had flickered after the band’s first performance here, and they’d flickered again after a near perfect “Prelude and Fugue in B Flat” six months ago. Tonight though, the lights stayed steady. Behind the band, the long curved wall and the window that circled the room holding back the brown smoke on the other side were the only audience. “The King’s Feast” concluded the night’s performance. Cowdrey signaled the players to their feet. Instruments clanked. Sheet music rustled. He turned from the band to face the other side’s enigmatic window and impenetrable haze. Playing here was like playing within a fish bowl, and not just the shape either. He bowed, and the band bowed behind him. Whatever watched, if anything, remained hidden in the roiling cloud.
“Good performance, Cougars. Leave your music on the stands for the section leaders to pick up, then you may go to dinner. Don’t forget, breathing practice before breakfast with your ensembles.”
Chatting, the kids headed toward the storage lockers to replace their instruments.
A clarinet player waved as she left the room. “Good night, Mr. Cowdrey.”
He nodded in her direction.
“’Night, sir,” said a percussionist. “See you in the morning. Good performance.”
The room cleared until Elise Morgan remained, jotting post-concert notes on her clipboard. Her straight black hair reached the bottom of her ears, and her glasses, missing one ear piece, sat crookedly on her nose. As always, dark smudges sagged under her eyes. She slept little. More often than not, late at night, she’d still be working on the music. “One of the French horns came in late again. I think it’s Thomas. He’s waiting until the trombones start, and it throws him a half beat off.”
“I didn’t notice.” Cowdrey sat beside her. The light metal chair creaked under his weight. Several chairs had broken in the last few months. Just two spares remained. He wondered what would happen when players had to stand for their performances. “The band sounded smooth tonight. Very confident.”
Elise nodded toward the window. “They’re tuning the room. Maybe they’re getting it ready for Friday’s concert.”
Cowdrey raised his eyebrows.
Elise pointed to the domed ceiling. “See there and there. New baffles. We’ve lost the echo-chamber effect you mentioned last week, and check out my flute.” She handed it to him. “At first, they just repadded them. Normal maintenance, but they’ve done other stuff too. It’s a better instrument.”
He held the flute, then tried a few fingerings. The keys sank smoothly. No stickiness, and the flute weighed heavy.
“Play a note,” she said.
He brought the instrument to his lip, but even before he blew, he knew it was extraordinary.
“During the sixth grade, after I won state solos the second time, my parents took me to the New York Philharmonic. I met their first chair, and he let me play his flute. Custom made. Insured for $50,000.” She took the instrument back from Cowdrey and rested it on her lap. “It wasn’t as good as this one is now. Maybe the Perfectionists are right.”
Cowdrey frowned. Misguided students with wacky theories about how they could get home shouldn’t be taken seriously.
“How’s that?” Cowdrey shook the irritation from his head. He thought he would check the lockers after he finished with Elise. Were the other instruments being upgraded too?
“Maybe what they want is a perfect performance, then they’ll let us go. Maybe Friday will be it.” She looked up at the nearest window. A brown smokey wave swirled behind it, cutting sight to no more than a yard or so beyond the glass.
Cowdrey felt fatherly. She sounded so wistful when she said, “they’ll let us go.” He almost reached out to touch her arm, to offer comfort, but he held himself still. No sense in sending mixed signals. “I don’t know why we’re here. No one knows. They shouldn’t get their hopes up. After all, what’s a perfect performance?”
“Any sunset is perfect. Any pebble is perfect.” She scuffed her bare foot on the immaculate floor. “Weeds are perfect, and so is a parking lot at the mall when the cars are gone and you can ride your bike in all directions without hitting anything.” She sighed. “And open meadows where the grass is never cut.”
Cowdrey nodded, not sure how to respond. She often reminisced about meadows.
Elise closed her eyes dreamily. “I found a pebble in my band jacket. Sometimes I hold it and think about playgrounds.”
“Really?”
She looked up at him, then dug into her pocket. On her open palm, a bit of shiny feldspar the size of a pencil eraser caught the ceiling light. As quick as it came out, it vanished back in her pocket. She made another note on her clipboard. “The Perfectionists are getting pretty fanatical. Others heard Thomas come in late.”
“The band will maintain discipline. If anyone has a problem, they’ll talk to me. That’s why I’m here.”
Elise looked uncomfortable. “Are you sure? With Ms. Rhodes gone…”
Cowdrey glanced away from her to the empty chairs and music stands. “Ms. Rhodes will be missed, but the band can continue without an assistant director.”