She filled the kettle and put it on the stove, then looked out the window, thinking. Jannison was well known and well liked by music lovers throughout the state. She would be at a disadvantage from the moment she walked on the stage, because they were expecting him. They would be disappointed, critical. What comprised an average performance by him would be judged a poor performance by her.
The kettle was boiling. She took a cup out of the cabinet and made the tea, then she went back into the living room, took the scores of Symphonie Fantastique and Mahler's Fifth out of her attache case, and carried them to the piano. "Tonight we shall conduct a gala, darling," she murmured, smiling at Lisa's portrait as she opened the top score and sipped her tea.
Time passed slowly. Late in the morning the telephone rang, and it was a reporter who'd heard about Jannisons' abrupt departure from the city. He wanted a statement from her, and she slammed the telephone down and walked back to the piano. It rang again, and it was Bailey. He wanted to discuss the performance with her, and she slammed it down again. The third time it rang she seized the cord and jerked it out of the wall, went into the kitchen and made another cup of tea, then returned to the piano to continue reviewing the scores.
At two she went into the kitchen and heated a couple of cans of soup, and she poured the soup into a large bowl and sat at the piano, still looking over the scores as she slowly drank it. When the soup was finished, she closed the music, put the bowl in the kitchen sink, and went into the bedroom. She slowly undressed, then pulled the covers back and lay down. Sleep evaded her for several minutes, then she curbed her racing thoughts and consciously blanked her mind. A moment later she was breathing with a slow, deep rhythm.
Her eyes flicked open, and she turned her head and glanced at the electric clock. She turned her head back and stretched luxuriously, then she slid off the bed and walked into the bathroom, yawning. The water began drumming against the wall of the shower stall as she reached in and turned it on, and she stepped into the stinging spray, raising her arms over her head and turning as it spattered against her and ran down her naked body in rivulets. She reached out and took the bar of soap from the dish, and she began soaping herself.
She dried herself off, brushed her teeth, then walked back into the bedroom, opening the bureau. There was a stack of body shirts in the top drawer. The body and sleeves was a plain, unadorned synthetic which resembled linen, and there were ruffles at the cuffs and a thick, matching ruffle around the neck. She took out panties and a bra and put them on, then put on one of the body shirts and tossed two more of them onto the bed. The dress she picked from the closet was black, a moderately heavy material with a dull gloss, with a fitted bodice and a draped skirt which hung to the floor. She put it and a pair of black, low-heeled shoes on, then took a black leather bag out of the closet and put the two body shirts on the bed into it. Walking back into the bathroom, she stopped at the dresser for her keys and wallet, tossed them into the black leather bag with the body shirts, then continued into the bathroom and brushed her hair out.
She stopped to glance at the portrait on the piano as she started out the door, then she went back into the bedroom. She opened one of the small drawers in the dresser and slid her hand under a stack of scarves, groping. The garnet ring with the Grevenburg arms was in her hand when she drew it back out, and she slid the ring onto the ring finger on her right hand as she snapped the light off and left the bedroom again. She went back into the living room, picked up the black leather bag, then blew a kiss at the portrait on the piano and left.
The street was congested with traffic for blocks on each side of the music hall. There was a long line of limousines slowly inching along and stopping in front of the music hall, with women in gowns and furs and men in tuxedos climbing out to go up the steps. The traffic signals had been turned off the policemen were at the intersections directing traffic, and detours had been set up on the side streets to channel through traffic around the congested area. Janice approached through a side street, and when she came to the detour she turned right and eased the Camaro into a parking place. She took the bag out of the front seat and locked the car, then she crossed the street and turned down an alley toward the music hall.
The door at the top of the steps in the alley opened a crack when she rapped on it, and an old, weathered face almost hidden by the peak of a cap peered out at her. The door opened wider, and the old man gave her a broad, toothless grin as she entered. There was a distant, blurred sound of the orchestra noodling, and a rumbling murmur of thousands of feet and voices.
Bailey, Christina, Carleton, the other trustees, several reporters, and other people were in the corridor in front of the dressing room at the end. There was a movement, then a surge among them. "There she is!" Strobes flashed blindingly. Scuffling footsteps running toward her. Reporters rattling questions. Christina's face was white with concern. She kept her footsteps firm and determined, not looking to either side.
"Doctor Wycliffe, I have to talk to you," Bailey said, pushing his way through everyone and taking her arms as she reached for the doorknob. "Listen, I have to…"
"Symphonie Fantastique and Mahler's Fifth is still the program for this evening, isn't it, Mr. Bailey?" she hissed, wheeling on him in fury.
He recoiled, surprise shock, and fright on his face. The strobes continued exploding in her eyes as he nodded rapidly, swallowing.
"Have any of the first instruments become incapacitated?"
"Well, no, but…"
"Then I shall conduct the program as scheduled," she snapped, turning the knob. "There is nothing to discuss."
She opened the door, went in, and slammed it solidly behind her. A babble of shouts and conversation broke out on the other side of the door, and someone knocked on it. There were more knocks as she crossed the room and went into the dressing room, slamming the door behind her and glancing at the clock. Five minutes. She dropped the bag on the dressing table, then walked across the room to the bathroom. There was a thick stack of clean towels on the shelf. She took one of the towels and dried the sweat from her hand, then tossed it onto the floor and went back to the dressing table, sitting down. Four minutes. The hair brush had been forgotten. No matter. She turned her head from side to side and pushed at it with her fingers, loosening and tucking the light curls. Satisfied, she got up from the bench and took the body shirts out of the bag. Three minutes. She crossed the room to the closet and took out a couple of hangers, then shook the body shirts out and put them on the hangers. The other hangers in the closet rattled as she hung the body shirts up, and she picked a tiny bit of lint from one of them and dropped it to the floor. Two minutes. She stood in the middle of the room and looked at herself in the mirror, turning from side to side, and she tugged at the waist of her dress, straightening it across her back. Walking closer to the mirror, she plucked at the ruffles at her wrists and around her neck. She lifted her right hand and adjusted the heavy ring on her finger. One minute. She turned and walked back out.
The crowd outside the door was thicker, and Bailey again tried to get her attention as she walked out and slammed the door behind her. Strobes exploded in her face, and the people parted in front of her as she walked along the corridor. Reporters plucking at her, asking something as they trotted along beside her. There were stairs with a steel rail at the end of the corridor, and more people gathered around the foot of them. The crowd at the bottom of the stairs parted. More strobes exploded. The stairs ended at thewing on right stage. She walked along the wing at the same pace. A hiss of good luck from the light engineer. She motioned with her hand. He threw his weight against the heavy rheostats. The glare coming from the stage began changing as the house lights started down and the footlights came up. Everyone in the orchestra was rigidly straight, their instruments ready, the men's tuxedos a flat black and the women's dresses a shimmer of white. She stopped as the first box in the balcony came into view. She lifted the ring to her lips and kissed it, then she walked onto the stage. Polite applause. The footlights were blinding, and the audience a hazy mist of mottled black and white. Slight movements, hands clapping, a few still getting into their seats. The loud murmur of conversation dying. She reached the podium and stopped, turning toward the audience. Back straight, chin up, head high. She slowly bowed, then turned and mounted the podium. A hush fell. Her fingers found the baton and she grasped it, lifting it and her left hand. Now it was quiet. She glanced over the orchestra. They were poised. Every eye was riveted on her. She snapped the baton down.