"Of course, silly. I'll talk to you about it after orchestra class tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow night or the next night."
Celia sniffed again, trying to smile, then turned and walked rapidly toward the door. Janice sighed and looked out the window at the students streaming across the lawn in front of the building. So much happening. Celia's mother becoming ill so she had to go home. The student orchestra harpist, Alice Freeman, transferring to another school. Doctor Jannison on vacation, and she'd had the full battery of responsibilities of the orchestra during the Youth Concert Week, including conducting the youth concerts, rehearsing the orchestra on the Mahler, and organizing the auditions for the cello replacement. And today was the day for the final auditions. She looked down at the sealed envelope in the papers in front of her, frowning. Alice Freeman had wanted a letter to the orchestra instructor at her next school, and she was supposed to have come by for it. Just as well that she didn't come while Celia was here, though.
Janice looked at the envelope as she tapped it against the rest of the papers. Alice Freeman, the tall, slender harpist with the hot, staring eyes. Probably lucky that she hadn't come by when Celia was here. But it was time to get to the music hall for the final auditions. She gathered the papers and put them in the attache case, along with the envelope, and turned off the lights as she left the room.
Her steps echoed hollowly in the deserted hallway as she walked toward the end of the hall, thinking. Betty had been a Godsend. Always there, always the same, and never demanding. She wouldn't have been able to make it through the past week without Betty. Janice smiled, thinking of her.
Janice glanced at a closed door as she passed it and smiled again. It had been two… no, three days before, and she'd been walking along the hall to the room for her scheduled counseling period, and Wendy had been conducting her cello class in that room. Or reigning over her class would be better word. Janice had glimpsed her as she passed the room, and she'd looked small, petite, and beautiful with her long, blonde hair and slender body. Her thin, ringing voice with its French accent had been cutting the air like a whiplash.
"…is that you have there, Mr. Carlin? A bow? A bow for a cello? Is this a bow for a cello, Mr. Carlin? What have you been doing with your bow, Mr. Carlin? Have you been rolling a hoop with your bow, Mr. Carlin? No? Yes, you are too old to roll hoops aren't you, Mr. Carlin? Perhaps you've been working on your car with it, Mr. Carlin? No? Indeed? Well, let us see if you can make a sound that approximates a musical note with what is left of your bow, Mr. Carlin. Yes, and the cello, Mr. Carlin – use what is left of your bow on the cello. I did not intend for you to strike your head with the bow to make a note. This is cello, not drum, Mr. Carlin. Yes, that's right – no, no, no, Mr. Carlin. Do not seize your bow, Mr. Carlin, merely hold it – what are you trying to do to your cello. Mr. Carlin? Are you attempting to wrestle with your cello, Mr. Carlin? It cannot wrestle back, Mr. Carlin – it is defenseless and cannot protect itself from your mauling. It can only utter the horrible groaning noises you have been making with it…"
A scathing tirade in the best European traditions, and Janice's opinion of the Sorbonne had gone up a notch as she walked on along the hall and the child-like, caustic voice became swallowed in the sounds from the other rooms along the hall. She was teaching them cello, and she was teaching them discipline. It took talent, education, and discipline to make a musician, and of the three the discipline was probably the most important. The discipline to grind away the hours in tedious practice until the notes were clear and sweet. The discipline to work on a score until a bar was perfect, and the discipline to submerge the ego as one among the many which contributed a part to the swelling magnificence of an opus. Discipline. It was vitally, crucially important. With discipline a group of musicians became an orchestra; without it they were a bank of jongleurs.
She walked out the entrance and down the steps, then across the sidewalk to her motorcycle. She had seen Wendy crossing the campus a few days before. The small, beautiful body in the print dress, and the swinging, youthful stride. The blonde hair bouncing and moving slightly in the breeze, and the achingly lovely face even when seen from a distance. Wendy had waved at her, and she had turned away as though she hadn't noticed her. She felt guilty about it. The child had asked about the auditions, and undoubtedly she had been eliminated during the preliminaries; competition was hard among symphony musicians. There were many musicians but only a few seats, and it took years of practice and experience qualify for a philharmonic. That still didn't keep the young ones from trying, and sometimes it was heartbreaking for them. A word of sympathy would have been gratefully received. But it was dangerous. Betty was physical, uncomplicated, and safe. Not entirely satisfying and occasionally creating as great a gap as she filled, but she was safe. Wendy would be everything anyone could want, but to have her and to lose her would mean despair, madness, and death.
She drove back into the center of the city, to the music hall, and parked in front of the large stone building with massive colonnades above the wide expanse of steps. The rehearsals with the orchestra on the Mahler had been going poorly, and most of the reasons for it were focused around the auditions. A couple of the other cellos were disappointed and resentful because they hadn't been moved up, and everyone was keyed up and awaiting the outcome of the auditions. The hiring of a first desk musician by a major symphony organization was rare in itself, and there was always a question as to how the newly hired individual would fit in. An orchestra was closely knit, and a personality which clashed caused many problems. But an unsettled situation caused even more. There was a possibility – a distinct possibility – that none of those auditioning would be hired, and that was something no one wanted. Hopefully one of them would be good enough.
She could feel the tension in the auditorium as she walked in. The curtains were drawn across the stage, and the footlights were turned on dim. The accompanist was at the piano, humped up on the bench and looking bored, and Charles Albertson, the personnel manager and second bassoon, was sitting on a folding chair at the center of the curtain. The lead instrument of each section – all the first desk musicians – were sitting in the center on the second row of seats from the stage. Albertson glanced at her and straightened up in his chair when he saw her coming out of the darkness at the back of the auditorium, and the pianist also sat up. The first desk musicians noticed them and turned to look, then they stood as she walked around to the front row of seats.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I apologize for having kept you waiting."
"…not long…"
"…little early ourselves…"
"…no problem…"
"…better than rehearsing Mahler without a lead cello…"
The murmur about the rehearsals got a couple of affirmative grunts from others, and she nodded as she dropped her helmet and attache case on one of the seats and sat down in the adjacent sear. "Shall we begin, Mr. Albertson?"
He got up from his chair, nodding. "All right, Doctor Wycliffe."
The place felt empty, cold, and bare, and his voice was hushed and muffled, lost in the broad expanse of the auditorium behind them. And the nerve jangling tension. The men behind her moved restlessly, and there was a shuffle of noise from the other side of the closed curtain. Janice folded her arms and relaxed, waiting.
There had been thirty-eight applicants for the cello vacancy, coming from all parts of the country and three from Europe. The ones from Europe and one of those in the United States who hadn't been able to make the trip had sent tapes, and she'd had the first desk men make the preliminary auditions. In order to have it completely fair, she'd set it up so that only Albertson knew who was playing, and he assigned numbers for the first desk men to use in eliminating the applicants. The applicants who were present had performed behind the curtain so they couldn't be seen, and they'd all been instructed to remove their shoes so a woman couldn't be identified by a rapping of heels or a man by his heavier tread. The tapes had also been played behind the screen to make it as fair as possible, even though the reproduction of a tape machine was readily identifiable. But all the tapes had been eliminated during the preliminaries, and only musicians in person were finalists.