A Roman Rhapsody

by Sara Alexander

  A male teacher shifted on his seat beside Celeste, observing the students over the rim of his glasses. How much could he actually see beyond the cloud of white beard puffing out from his face? Several others appeared to find the whole process a painful display of mediocrity. Another tanned professor with a tailored sharp suit, white hair scraped back off his face, twiddled a gold ring on his little finger. After a while he stood up and walked to the center of the stage. He welcomed the new intake of students to the accademia. The remainder of his speech was a fuzz of names. Lists of classes, instructions on how to find out information, directions that wove around Alba like a thread of stave-less notes, her head too giddy to claw them from the air and put them into any succinct order. She felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “We are together, Sunrise! I knew it.”

  Alba smiled, wishing she could have memorized everything as quickly as her new shadow.

  “Signora Celeste Agnelli’s group, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “You alright? You look dizzy.”

  Alba nodded her head with a smile.

  The crowd dispersed to find their tutors out in the courtyard. Natalia wasted no time in leading the way. Soon a group of twelve students huddled around the blaze of silken colors floating around Celeste’s frame. Her arms raised in welcome, inviting the students to follow her. They wove into the main building, leaving the arched cloister walkways of the central courtyard. The wide stone staircase rose several flights before their footsteps echoed along a corridor tiled with granite, splotches of deep reds, creams, and blacks grouted with a bronze-colored caulk, the arched ceilings stretching the length with large glass lanterns hung at regular intervals from the apex. Celeste’s office door opened and they each took a seat on the twelve chairs arranged in an oval, flanked by deep shelves of scores, biographies spanning musical history, and several huge black-and-white framed photographs of Celeste mid-performance. Her face in those shots had the same feline outline as now, hair swept up and off it, body angled toward a piano like a dance partner.

  She lifted herself onto the edge of her desk, swinging her legs. “So! Here we are. I am delighted with the musicians in my group. We have a lot of work to do. We have a lot of fun to do too. There are some professors amongst us who like to terrify students into good work. That’s not how I work. But I will not put up with laziness of any sort, of that you must be clear. Now, let’s get the painful part out of the way. We’ll take it in turns to say our names and what our majors are.”

  Alba’s fingers curled inward toward her damp palms. She heard her name.

  “You may start, Alba,” Celeste encouraged.

  Alba ran her dry tongue over her lips and croaked her name, then mumbled something about the piano. Going first was a blessing she soon realized, because it meant she was free to focus on the others. Beside her, Natalia poured out a carefree introduction with a pepper of self-deprecation that made the others laugh. There were two other violinists, a bassoonist, a trumpet player, all of whose names flitted in one ear and out the other. Opposite Alba sat a young man with a mop of black curls. He surveyed his competitors, chin lifted as if he knew who had already won. His turn came. He ran a hand through his locks that sprang back over his forehead.

  “Vittorio,” he announced, his voice warm but his delivery a flat line, piercing the space without target. “Cello.”

  A couple of international students followed the cellist and at last the room returned to be led by Celeste.

  “So is that clear?”

  Alba realized she hadn’t heard the first part of what had been spoken.

  “Alba dear, you’re looking terrified. I reassure you this is a necessary evil. I like to get the initial performance for one another out of the way before we’ve had time to work and share our development. I want everyone to hear one another in their raw form before the work begins. It’s the start of a steep learning curve for us all. We will continue to learn by watching others throughout our time here together. Before we talk, we listen. So too, when we play. Onward, my troupe! We will meet at the rehearsal room downstairs in half an hour. That’s enough time for a swift break and to warm up.”

  The group filed out of the room. Alba was thankful Natalia appeared to have switched her attention away from her new audience and toward preparing her violin piece inside a small practice room. Alba retraced her steps back down toward the courtyard, then followed the signs toward the rehearsal room. She looked through the glass toward the empty space. In the corner was the piano beside the three double windows that lined the wall. Only a hint of the city wafted up into the room, not the incessant whiz of scooters and trams. She opened the door, reached the beautiful instrument, and adjusted the seat. Her finger traced the lip, feeling the warm polished wood beneath it.

  Signora Elias’s voice was in her head now. Her breath widened. Her fingers eased down onto the notes. A buttery tone lifted from the vibrating strings as the hammers hit. She’d never heard that tone. Her scales flew out of her. Everything was foreign about the day, the disorientation of the trip, the terse farewells, her best friend’s tears, his unswerving support, but now all the pictures fell into white space as the new instrument sang. It was like coming home.

  The door swung open.

  Her hands flew off the keys.

  “All the other rooms are taken. I’m going to warm up in here,” Vittorio announced, leaving Alba wondering if it was his way of asking her to stop or reassure her to continue. He didn’t wait for a reply, hauling his large hard case into the opposite corner, laying it gently onto the polished parquet. He popped open the catches and cradled his cello out of its repose.

  “Give me an A?”

  Alba didn’t move.

  “You never helped someone tune up?”

  Alba shook her head.

  “Just press A. Surely you know that much, no?”

  She poked an A.

  “Lower.”

  She lifted her finger.

  Vittorio drew his gaze away from the bridge back across to Alba. “You always look like you’re going to hurt someone or shall I take it personally?”

  She plonked a different A.

  He plucked a string again. Alba listened to it twang up through the narrow space between tones. She’d never heard so many subtle shades between notes before. Much to Alba’s relief, Celeste appeared, followed by the other students. There was a flurry of chairs and instruments and nervous preparation. At last the group was ready.

  “So here we are,” Celeste began, standing in front of the piano. “The worst part of your time here will be over in a heartbeat. I am not judging you on today, nor will you be judging others. This is simply setting a bar—for yourself. I want you to notice what emotions surface as you start to play today. Witness where your mind goes. After you’ve finished, consider how your body dealt with the stress, where it stored its tension. Today we start our journey as witnesses, this will be your superpower as you train—your ability to really see yourselves, your playing, under the incisive light of day. I will always be brutally honest with you. I will ask you to do the same of yourselves.”

  Celeste turned toward Vittorio. “Strings first, I think, Vittorio. Would you open?”

  He rose, not a quiver of nerves evident. He took a seat at the piano for a moment and played his A himself. He drew his long bow across several strings at once, twiddling the tiny black knobs toward the base of the instrument, altering the pitch in minute increments. The sound was assured. It filled the space. Alba felt the notes vibrate across the front of her body.

  He took a seat, the wooden curves fitting into his body like a lover. His long fingers cradled the bow now, arm weighty and loose. His other hand wrapped around the neck. A breath. Then his bow lengthened into life, caressing the strings with confidence. Alba heard a palette of earthy colors fly out of the instrument, mournful reds of grief, ochre tones of hope. The song sent a light through her middle to the stony gap where her tears hid. The piece ended, an
d she was glad; her eyes grew once again dry.

  The students applauded.

  “Wonderful start, Vittorio, thank you. We’ll take it in turns to talk about our sensations in a moment. I want only the music, first,” Celeste explained.

  That’s when Alba felt all eyes turn on her. She didn’t realize Celeste was looking straight at her. The echo of the strings still sang somewhere in her bones.

  “Scusa,” Alba said, shifting her attention back to the room.

  “Take your time, Alba,” Celeste reassured, reaching out an arm toward the stool.

  Alba sat. The eyes upon her became wallpaper. The light from the Roman street danced shadows across her keys. The fringe of a breeze lifted the hem of the net curtain beside her. Silence rose from within. She remembered little of Liszt’s music after that, save the reassuring disappearance of everything around her. The blues and sweeping metallic tones of love and loss filled her, rising out of the strings that crisscrossed ahead inside the wooden body of the piano, like a cleansing waterfall. She walked through the piece she’d played a thousand times before, assured steps, like a wanderer tracing a well-remembered forest path, witnessing the subtle changes in air, the temperature, the different heat and angles of the light streaming through the ferns. At last, the final steps toward the open plains of the ending. The notes resonated, a hum of possibilities and, when it felt like the song had said all it needed to, she released the foot pedal and the piece was swallowed back into the empty space where it began.

  The silence smacked.

  “O Dio,” Natalia whispered, puncturing the stillness.

  Everyone turned to look at her. Natalia wiped her wet face. “Signora Agnelli, please tell me I don’t play after that.”

  The class laughed, dissolving the trepidation on how their new professor would react to the interruption she had told them not to offer.

  “Let this be our first lesson then,” Celeste replied, without missing a beat. “That which terrifies you the most is the very thing you are being drawn to overcome. Have I answered your question, Natalia?”

  She sighed a laugh. “Thank God I’m a violinist is all I can say!”

  The room rang with laughter. Alba stood in the glow; her colleagues’ genuine congratulatory smiles filled her with song. Vittorio locked eyes with her for a snatch as she crossed back to her seat. She might have decoded his expression, but there was none, save a wisp of gray indifference.

  10

  Toccata, Quasi Improvisando

  a rapid keyboard composition for organ or harpsichord, dating from the baroque period, usually in a rhythmically free style

  Alba stepped into Celeste’s office. A memory of fresh coffee hung in the air above the papery smell of scores lining the shelves, hundreds of dormant notes folded into silence between the sheets.

  “So tell me about this first month, Alba.” Celeste sank back into her armchair, looking expectant. The leather squeaked beneath her skirt. Alba would have liked to describe the wrenching ache during her one-to-one sessions with the piano department deputy, Dimitri Goldstein, a Greek Jewish man who reeked of filterless Gitane cigarettes and the faint waft of last night’s whiskey. She wanted to tell Celeste that she felt the school had made a horrendous mistake in inviting her. That her first month had felt like everything she thought she knew was being defragmented before her eyes and she had no idea how it would ever cement back together.

  “Am I right in thinking that the experience is a little overwhelming at times?”

  Alba nodded.

  “I only say that because all the students I’ve seen today tell me that they think they are underqualified to be here. Is that something you’re feeling also?”

  Alba nodded again.

  “Very good.”

  Alba cocked her head.

  “Your time here is a process, Alba. Development of a musician means pushing into the unknown, their unknowns. We have a plan for you, but sometimes growing as a musician and seeing how far music will take you is not going to feel comfortable. It has to push beyond your comfort, otherwise you will leave the same as you arrived.”

  Celeste’s words felt like swirling questions.

  “Anything in particular that you’re struggling with?” Celeste asked.

  Alba thought back to her lesson with Goldstein, the way he huffed into the hidden beats at the end of the grand piano, sighing with frustration. She shook her head.

  “This week we will begin work on your first quartet, you know that, yes?”

  Alba’s smile papered over her nerves.

  “You will be working with Vittorio and Natalia, joined by Leonardo on viola.”

  “Yes,” Alba murmured.

  “Professore Giroletti would like you to work on Brahms Piano Quartet, number three, opus sixty.”

  The words wove around her, twisting her back to the record player in her bedroom, where she’d spent long evenings letting the music spin worlds around her. This was one of the pieces she’d loved best amongst the collection that Signora Elias had lent her.

  “You appear to be delighted with our choice,” Celeste purred with pride. “This is a good start. Here is your part.” She reached over and placed a wide score into Alba’s hands. “You may practice before class in the practice rooms by making sure your name is on the sign-up sheet by the end of this week.”

  Alba straightened in her chair, expecting to be dismissed.

  “What about your living arrangements? Have you found a job yet? Is your room comfortable?”

  “Si, everything is comfortable. My landlady has given me the name of her brother who owns Bar Calisto in Trastevere. He’s looking for some evening and weekend help.”

  “Good. Just be sure it doesn’t interfere with your studies, that’s all I would caution.”

  “Si, Professoressa.”

  Celeste nodded and stood up. Alba mirrored.

  “Lastly, woman to woman, I’d like to remind you that you are not here to be intimidated by any of the other students or teachers, do you understand? Feeling daunted is perfectly normal, but it will require great discipline to not give in to despair. Most of the women studying here have had to make bigger sacrifices than the men. Music is still a world which appalls many. We receive the message that there are fewer opportunities for women in this world, and over the years I’ve watched that story breed a vicious strain of jealousy between the few of us who succeed, as if we all have to fight over what meager offerings there are. We can choose not to propagate that belief, which suits everyone but those very women carving out their journey in the music world, nor give in to the sensation of not feeling good enough, should it ever arise. Do you understand?”

  Alba smiled, unnerved by the way Celeste had grasped what she was feeling, as simple as a wipe away of condensation from a cold windowpane to peer inside.

  * * *

  Goldstein must have had a rough night. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses from the beginning of Alba’s lesson. His movements were more jerky than usual. He seemed like a lion in chains, every now and then giving a flick of his beard mane, running a frustrated hand through his wiry mop of hair.

  “Do you sit there hearing anything I have just said?” he barked with his cigarette husk. “Again. You stay on the surface of the notes”—he twisted his wrist in the air now, a marionette’s wooden hand on a loose string—“plonk plonk, a skimming stone on water. No! This is a piece which can be confused as naïve, yes, but it is not. Stop playing it like a nursery rhyme.”

  Alba felt her neck become rigid. She sent it a breath, hoping somehow her body would comply to the request of relaxation. It did not.

  He interrupted her almost immediately, swinging down onto the piano beside hers. “Stop, for the love of God, stop. Now listen.”

  He lifted his hands and let them fall deep onto the keys. The sound was like a bell, ringing clear and free, startling in its simplicity and depth of tone at the same time.

  “Now you.”

  Alba echoed.
r />   “Are you listening to yourself, Alba?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. You are imitating me. I want you to understand. There is a great difference.”

  He stood up from the piano, flicked open his cigarette packet, and lit up. The filterless cigarette filled the space with thick smoke. Alba sneezed.

  “What is my job, Alba?”

  “Your job?”

  “That was the question, yes. You are hearing some things, I see.”

  “You are the deputy head of piano.”

  “That is my title. What is my job?”

  Alba took a breath, longing to play, longing for silence to experiment with the task at hand.

  “My job as your maestro is very simple and complex. I am to discover who you are and show it to you.”

  “Who I am?”

  “That is my point exactly. Right now you are a naïve little Sardinian girl full of the countryside with a talent for music. I’m asking you to connect to this piece in a profound way. You are pressing the notes. Liszt wrote this because he couldn’t put into words the great longing that drove him, the insatiable fire that ate at him to create, to say what we can’t with letters alone. You have to express something eternal. You never felt anything in your life?”