She snapped her mind back and waved her hand. "Mr. Albertson, ask number five to wait in the wing. Let's have number six."
There was a restless stir behind her; they didn't like the Haydn cut rudely off in the middle. She almost smiled with satisfaction; they were musicians. The baton carried with it the burden of being clinical and calculating. She could rarely abandon herself to the sheer enjoyment of music for music's sake.
Albertson was behind the curtain again, and there were scuffling sounds coming from behind it. He came back through, cued them, and number six began. Better than most of them, but not up to the standard of number five. What was the difference? What took the brilliance of an excellent rendition and brought it that tiny step further to the sparkling sheen of truly magnificent performance? No one knew. But of the six, there were four competent musicians, one who was excellent, and one who was exceptional. So it was between number five and six. "Mr. Albertson, please have number six sight read."
The acid test. A symphony score selected at random, with the notes to be played those of the cello fill. And probably a score the cellist had never seen before. But that was also part of it. Sight reading was important. If program selections were quickly changed or if someone was incapacitated, a musician might be called upon to playa score with which they were unfamiliar. Also the Eroica. If, in the middle of a concert, news was received of the death of a world-renowned figure, the music was immediately stopped at the end of the movement in progress and the conductor made the announcement while the librarian passed out the score for the Eroica, the Funeral March. Then the hall would remain breathlessly silent while the conductor turned and waited for the musicians to open their music. Then the rolling thunder of the dirge would sound. It was always a gripping moment. And it couldn't be spoiled because someone in the orchestra wasn't familiar with the Eroica and also couldn't sight read.
And number six would be the one to absolutely shatter the majesty of the moment. Number six was far below the standard of a lead musician in sight reading.
The accompanist had stopped playing and was sitting loosely on the bench and trying to look casual and keep his eyes off her. There was no accompaniment during sight reading. Albertson was now standing by the curtain, also trying to keep his eyes off her. The men behind her were breathlessly silent. The tension was mounting again, more rapidly this time. The moment of decision was rapidly approaching.
"Mr. Albertson, please have number five sight read."
He went back inside the curtain again, and the wait seemed interminable as the music stand rattled and a chair scraped the floor. If number five couldn't sight read, what then? Possibly audition the eleven cellos in the orchestra and move one of them temporarily to the first chair for the gala. But there might be trouble with the union or with the other cellos over that. Albertson would have some ideas on that matter!
Albertson came back through the curtain, rubbing his hands nervously on his coat.
"What is the score, Mr. Albertson?"
The first couple of notes had already sounded, and the cellist abruptly stopped when she spoke. Albertson glanced at the curtain, thinking, then back at her. "Beethoven Third, Doctor Wycliffe."
"Thank you."
There was a scraping from behind the curtain as the cellist prepared to start again. One of the customs historically observed was that a cellist who was interrupted had to go through all the motions of getting ready again. The day to day relationships of an orchestra were rich with customs. And with the reputed eccentricities of each instrument. Harpists were forever working on their instruments, and it was a standing joke that the harp would be a heap of pieces of wood, bolts and nuts, and strings, thirty minutes before the performance was to begin. And the oboe. It took such force to drive the oboe reeds to full oscillation that oboists were reputed to always suffer brain damage or eye trouble from the intense pressure generated in their head. And the punch line was that no one had ever seen an oboist with eye trouble. Beethoven Third. Downbow on entrance. She waited.
The deep, whispering echoes came from behind the curtain, and Janice turned her head to one side and frowned, listening closer. Had it started upbow or down bow? She listened for a hint of a break, and the notes kept coming in a solid, unbroken drone. Downbow or upbow? She hissed with impatience at herself as she stood up and walked to the edge of the stage. "I need a score, Mr. Albertson." He looked inside the curtain and murmured, and the music stopped while he trotted to the end of the stage, where there were a couple of briefcases and several stacks of sheet music. They fluttered and one of the stacks fell over as he leafed rapidly through them, then he trotted back with a score and leaned over the footlights to hand it to her. His hand was trembling slightly. The tension was almost palpable. The decision was imminent. She nodded her thanks and opened the score on the edge of the stage.
The notes began again. Downbow, but the inflection was so slight on the changeover that it was only the smallest hint which might or might not have been there. She waited for the next traverse. And missed it. Magnificent. And the notes didn't have the raw self-consciousness of monotone, tuneless strumming: there was an orchestra in number five's head which was playing all the rest of the symphonic parts.
The air was crackling with tension. It was time for the decision. Having the lead musicians there and consulting them was a courtesy, because her word was final and absolute. But they were the first desk musicians, and their prestige in the orchestra was to be considered. She closed the music and turned. Their eyes were riveted on her. She raised her eyebrows. There were firm, enthusiastic nods from all of them, and one of them raised a thumb. She turned and looked at Albertson. His face was taut and he was swallowing rapidly. She raised her eyebrows. He gave a sharp, quick nod. On the edge of her vision she could see the pianist nervously gnawing a fingernail. Filthy habit. She picked up the music, turning to walk back to her seat.
"Mr. Albertson, would you be so kind as to introduce our new first cello?" A burst of pent-up breath came from everyone, and Albertson almost leaped through the curtain.
An exclamation of delight in a feminine voice. A woman. Good enough. She had competed fairly and won. Albertson's happy voice almost vibrated behind her as she walked toward her seat.
"Doctor Wycliffe, gentlemen, I would like to present Ms. Wendy Nelson, recently of the Conservatoire Sorbonne."
Janice froze, stunned. The spatter of applause and congratulations from the lead musicians was a murmur of sound on the edge of her consciousness as her mind raced. That music had been produced by that child? Impossible. The auditions had drawn seasoned, experienced cellists, with whom she couldn't possibly compete. A child. A thin, frail, beautiful child with the face of an angel. And Albertson had gone behind the curtain to carry her cello simply because she was too small to move it around without dragging it on the stand. But those magnificent notes. She had done that? That child?
An embarrassed, awkward silence had fallen. She was still halfway between the stage and her seat, with her back to the stage, and everyone was looking at her puzzled. Janice slowly turned and looked up at Wendy. She was looking at Janice apprehensively, her lips slightly parted, her massive blue eyes almost oversized in her small face. She wore blue jeans, sandals, and a light cotton sweater, her thin arms bare and her long, golden hair tied back in a ponytail. Janice felt fiery desire explode within her, and she was furious with herself. And with Wendy. The little harlot wasn't wearing a bra, and the tiny dimples of her nipples were standing out in the cotton pullover.