Albertson stood at the opening in the curtain, looking inside through a crack, then he raised his hand toward the pianist and stuck his other hand inside the curtain. He bobbed slightly as he moved his hands, cueing the cellist to the accompanist, then they started.
Mozart. And not exceptionally good. Competent, but not the performance of a lead musician. Janice reflected on the gross unfairness of auditions, where years of education and practice were encapsulated into sudden death performance. But that was also part of it. That was part of the discipline involved. An audition was a grinding strain, but so was a performance before an audience. Each and every time. And if the strain of an audition was great enough to degrade the performance, then the person wasn't a musician of symphony caliber.
She turned and looked at the man directly behind her, motioning him forward. It was Frable, the high horn. "Are they all more or less like this?"
He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "There's a couple…"
"…thirteen…" came another voice.
"Yeah, number thirteen's a cellist," someone further along said.
She nodded and turned back. Apparently Albertson had followed her instructions meticulously, because all they knew was the number. And one of them would have inevitably blurted something else if they'd known what the performer numbered thirteen looked like. A bad number for the best cellist, though. But the number would be different today; there were only six finalists.
She waved her hand to Albertson, and he nodded, stopping the pianist with a quick motion of his hand, then he looked inside the curtain again. There were shuffling movements on the stage behind the curtain, and she had a fleeting mental vision of an infuriated cellist carrying his or her instrument away, enraged by being cut off in the middle of the selection. But she'd heard enough.
The next one started, and it was no better. She waited long enough to keep from being completely rude about it, then waved to Albertson again. The cellists they had in the orchestra were individually as competent as the first two. Hopefully the one numbered thirteen hadn't become disgusted with the auditioning and left. It wasn't likely, but it did happen.
The next cello started strumming, and she explored one of her molars with the tip of her tongue; it seemed to be sensitive. Perhaps it was the tension in the room, rather than a cavity. That had often happened to Lisa; when under great strain she would frequently have toothaches in perfectly sound teeth. She'd once told Janice that she'd consumed three bottles of aspirin while Abendleid Magyar was being written and scored. Dear, sweet Lisa. Janice sighed and waved at Albertson again, and once again he stopped the piano with a quick wave and looked inside the curtain. Then the curtain suddenly opened wider, and a tall, thin young man with long, greasy hair was looking angrily out.
"Well, you might at least let me finish! You might at least listen to the selection after I came all the way…"
"Shut up and get back in there!" Albertson stormed at him.
"Don't tell me to shut up, or I'll…"
"I'll tell you more than that…"
"Mr. Albertson!" Janice said sharply, coming out of her seat. Albertson wheeled away from the curtain, looking at her, and the cellist blinked his eyes against the glare of the footlights, trying to see her. She slowly walked forward to the stage and put her hand on the edge of it, looking at him. "What did you say, sir?" she snapped, her voice cutting through the air.
"I said you might at least let me finish," he muttered resentfully. "Do you perhaps have an ambition to perform as a member of a symphony orchestra during your life?"
"Well, yes, I…"
"Then I will give you some advice. Either learn to accept a critical judgment of your performance, or find another profession. A musician presumes to be capable of bearing a message of truth and beauty to others. That is true of me, and it is also true of you, sir. If this message is not communicated, then the musician must have the self discipline to gracefully step down. That is true of me, and it is also true of you, sir. And one more piece of advice. If you do not immediately go back through that curtain and leave the stage, I give you my personal assurance that you will never be employed as a member of any major symphony organization in the world. Now leave!"
He looked at her, opening his mouth to say something, then the curtain closed and he disappeared. An instant later his voice came clearly through the curtain as he spoke to someone, apparently one of the others being auditioned. "…some kraut broad out there…" Albertson's face turned almost purple as he snatched at the curtain, but Janice's clear, acid voice, made him freeze.
"Mr. Albertson, would you please inform that young gentleman that I am not a kraut broad. I am an American broad."
There was an instant of absolute silence as everyone looked at her in shock, their mouths falling open. Then the strained, taut atmosphere exploded in uproarious laughter. The men in the second row collapsed in their seats in hilarity, the pianist almost slid off the bench as he slumped across the keyboard in helpless laughter, and Albertson fell back into his chair and held his stomach as he bellowed with laughter. The curtain billowed slightly as the people behind it also laughed.
Janice sat back down in her seat, and Frable leaned forward out of his seat and put his hands on her shoulders, his wrinkled face flushed with laughter and tears streaming from his eyes. "Doctor Wycliffe, you might beat me to death with your baton, but I've got to do this," he choked, still laughing, and he kissed her soundly on the cheek. There were pats on her back and shoulders as the others leaned forward and touched her, still roaring with laughter.
She waited until the laughter died down somewhat, then she motioned toward Albertson. He got up and went to the curtain, still smiling and chuckling and the others settled down. The laughter had relieved the tension somewhat as the next cello began from behind the curtain. It took only a couple of bars of music to identify the cellist as a good average, and Janice relaxed in her seat and leaned on her elbow, waiting for a decent interval to pass before she waved to Albertson again.
He nodded, looking inside the screen, then he disappeared behind the screen. "…must be number thirteen…" someone muttered behind her.
"Yeah, he had to go back and help yesterday, too," said another voice.
Perhaps a handicapped person, Janice mused, stroking her cheek with the tips of her fingers, which was no great disadvantage. She'd been associated with handicapped musicians at various times, and in some respects they were better and easier to work with than people with full use of their arms and legs. They were usually more loyal, they had fewer outside interests, and they appreciated a chance. Jannison had never expressed his specific feelings on the matter, but he was a musician, as was she, and to a musician the important thing was music. It would be simple enough to assign some brawny member of the orchestra an additional job of moving another instrument around.
Haydn. The cello concerto. Silky, satin smoothness, yet substance. An interpretative performance. Beautiful. Apparently someone with a true feeling for it, acting as a bridge between the score and the instrument. Even the pianist was reacting, coming forward on his bench and performing rather than playing. The lyrical, leaping notes coming from the vibrating wooden body in the instrument in a breathless swirl, yet with meat and meaning. And now the theme. A lover's approach, gentle but confident. This was a cellist. This was Haydn.