SARA FELT RELIEVED when the weather finally broke, and it cooled down. Every day she resolved to talk to the chief conductor and make an appointment, but she ended up putting it off, telling herself either he was on holiday or she needed to get a better grip on this or that passage. Victor sent her regular emails from Madeira, attaching photographs of red cliffs and exotic tropical plants. He seemed to be bored in his fancy hotel. Some of the emails, Sara could tell, he had written while drunk, they were so full of typos. She answered briskly, saying there was nothing much happening, the weather was bad, she was practicing hard. After two weeks something changed in the tone of Victor’s emails, he still wrote regularly, but it sounded as though he was just doing it out of a sense of duty. Perhaps he’s met someone, thought Sara. The idea incensed her. Strangely, she had never felt jealous of his wife, and even after his divorce, she had never wanted more from him than their weekly meetings, conversations, and his friendship. But it hurt her to imagine that he might have a lover, a woman who enjoyed more rights and privileges than she did.
The second-to-last holiday weekend, Sara finally called the sponsorship office of the orchestra. She told the man on the other end what it was about. He tried to dissuade her, told her they worked exclusively with agencies and artists of an international reputation. Couldn’t I come along after a rehearsal and play for the conductor for ten minutes? she suggested. Ten minutes isn’t asking a whole lot. He’s terribly busy, said the man on the phone. Finally, Sara had no option but to make use of her connections and drop Victor’s name. The man at the other end was silent for a minute, then he said in an offended tone of voice that he would have a word with the chief conductor and call back.
For the next few days, Sara practiced more than ever. Sometimes she played the same few bars over and over again for an hour, until her fingers hurt. On Thursday the man from the orchestra called. Once again she missed his name, and didn’t trust herself to ask. He was short with her, and said that the conductor could fit her in tomorrow after rehearsals, at half past twelve, and she should try to be punctual.
That afternoon she played through the whole concerto. For the first time she noticed that her playing was entirely lacking in brilliance and expression. She needed all her strength and concentration to master the technical difficulties, and even then she wasn’t successful. She made mistakes, many mistakes. How deluded she had been for all those years. Even when she’d been a conservatory student she hadn’t been allowed to take the concert diploma, because she hadn’t been good enough, and she hadn’t got any better since. Perhaps the swimming coach was right, and talent didn’t matter, but nor did she have sufficient enthusiasm to carry her through, the energy, the thing he’d called the winning instinct.
Left to herself, Sara wouldn’t have turned up to the audition at all, but she couldn’t do that to Victor. Perhaps she was too self-critical. That too was part of the makeup of a proper artist, that restlessness, that dissatisfaction. In the evening she drank a couple of glasses of wine, and suddenly she felt confident again.
SARA WAS AT THE CONCERT HALL far too early. The side entrance was locked, so she waited outside the front door. Even though it was a cool day, she was wearing a skirt. She had spent a long time thinking about what to wear, she had even briefly pulled out the rather garish dress she had worn to her sister’s wedding. In the end she settled on a knee-length tartan wraparound skirt paired with a cream silk blouse. She felt cold and clenched her hands, which were slowly turning clammy. At last the door opened and a mob of chatting, laughing musicians came pouring out, some of them with instrument cases. Sara recognized an oboist who was her contemporary at the conservatory, but the woman ignored her greeting. Sara walked into the lobby, where a few musicians stood around and looked at her.
She recognized the conductor at once, even though he was in a cardigan and some baggy old cords. He walked very confidently toward her and held out his hand, without saying his name. Sara was amazed by his youthful appearance, he seemed younger than she was. He led her to the soloists’ room, a small space that, apart from a grand piano and a music stand, contained only a small side table and a hideous black-and-white designer couch that reminded her of the chair at the gynecologist’s. The blinds were down and two neon tubes spread a cool, diffuse light.
The conductor sat down on the couch and stretched his legs; the attitude had something a little obscene about it. While Sara took the score from her bag and adjusted the piano stool, he asked her what sort of piano she played at home. Just an upright, said Sara. Better a good upright than a poor grand, said the conductor. What was the last concert you’ve been to? Sara thought about it. She had heard Britten’s Ceremony of Carols, but that was years ago. I don’t get to listen to as many concerts as I’d like, she said, I have to teach on some of my evenings. The conductor furrowed his brow and asked what her connection to Victor was. He takes lessons from me, she said, has done for years. We’re friends. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how extremely grateful we are to his company for their generous support, said the conductor, but of course that mustn’t play any part in the decision here … Well, whenever you’re ready. He looked at his watch.
IT WENT BETTER than I expected, said Sara.
And what did he say? asked Victor. The phone connection was poor, his words sounded chopped up and kept being interrupted by brief moments of stillness.
He said he would be in touch, said Sara, and then, louder, He’ll be in touch, he said.
I can hardly hear you, said Victor, but we’ll see each other in another week. Bye.
Sara hadn’t managed to tell Victor the truth. That the conductor had ended the audition after a few minutes by saying there was no point. He had walked up to the piano, taken her score, and flipped through it, as though to check for himself what she had been playing. Then he passed it back to her and gave a little lecture on Rachmaninoff, whom he called the last romantic. His kindliness and patience with her were perhaps the most hurtful of all; he talked to her as to a child that needed to be comforted. He said she had picked an extremely difficult piece, which was simply beyond her. She ought to try something simpler. And as far as public performances went, he could imagine that an old age home or care facility would provide a grateful public. Though best steer clear of Rachmaninoff, he added, laughing, otherwise all the old folks will get coronaries. Sara smiled dutifully and allowed the conductor to usher her to the door and wish her all the best.
At home she sat at the piano for certainly an hour, shaken with crying jags, until her throat felt sore. She drank a glass of tap water in the kitchen. She dropped the score in the recycling.