When she finished, I saw Miranda wave to me from across the theater. As soon as she had, my heart sped like a freight train in my chest. I stumbled to my feet, took several deep breaths, and proceeded down the remainder of the aisle and up the side of the steps to the stage. Both of the Steinways were there. Not surprisingly, the woman from the Bard had chosen the more pristine of the pianos to play. I, on the other hand, had my eye on the Ugly Duckling.
Memories washed through me as I reached the black, plush seat. I stood towering over it for a moment, taking everything in. I was here, in David Geffen Hall. Not a student, not an audience member, but auditioning for the New York Philharmonic. The dream I’d had since I could sit at a piano. My hand trailed over the keys for a moment. Unlike the last time I’d stood at it, there was a wave of confidence overcoming me.
Finally, I fell into the seat, adjusting myself accordingly. Miranda was staring at me from across the stage. I hadn’t looked out into the audience, in fear that if I did, I’d see something that might potentially distract me. Instead, I kept my attention on Miranda. Once I’d readied myself and my sheet music, I looked up at her again. She nodded, and I steadied myself to begin. My fingers trailed over the keys, hearing each note in my head. Positioning myself exactly where I needed to be.
While the three pieces I’d chosen were all from a selection of Philharmonic performances I’d admired, the last piece was a particular favorite of mine. The first time I’d ever seen the orchestra play I’d watched Miranda play Bartok’s Concerto on the piano, and fell in love. It was a piece I’d never attempted myself. Not until Miranda had offered me an opportunity to audition. The song choice seemed perfect after that.
The concerto was unique in its combination of Western art music and Bartok’s coined “night music” style of eerie dissonances as a backdrop to sounds of nature and lonely melodies. It was a haunting set of movements, a perfect display of the vast number of things a pianist should be able to do. When I’d learned it for the auditions, I’d been surprised I hadn’t played it sooner. The song ate up the entire length of the piano, consuming every note.
It was the type of song my father would call a “whiskey shot” at a performance. One that would instantly have you at alert when you heard it. Even the very first notes flew in a booming introduction that I was sure filled the entire theater. I loved the rich, deep notes that thundered from the piano. I could feel the pounding thuds into the wood flooring of the stage. The first few minutes of the song were rolling chords in the lower registers. Another piece that demanded my entire attention.
Instead of playing the entire twenty-five minute piece, I settled for two movements. The second was calmer, and welcomed more soft and gentle higher register notes. It made for an appropriate place to stop, showcasing my ability to handle the entire length of the piano. Once I’d finished, my hands paused on top of the keys, finally having enough of a moment to take in the fact that I’d just had my dream audition. That once again, I was playing the Ugly Duckling Steinway, in David Geffen Hall. Except this time I had an audience.
The other pianists were on their feet, clapping. As soon as my gaze drifted from them, I found the selection of six panelists from the Philharmonic in the center of the room. None of which I’d given any mind to until that moment. My attention went from each of them, one at a time. They all looked pleased. Intrigued. A couple were taking notes. When I made it to the last seat, the world stood still around me.
There had never been another person who looked at me the way Juliet Hamilton did when I played. She was still looking at me, the same way she had almost four years ago now, when I’d first auditioned for the Bard. Her green eyes came alive. Her jet-black hair fell at her shoulders, straightened neatly, still cut with swooping bangs. There was a bit more grey to it now. A few more wrinkle lines across her face. She was still breathtaking—stunning—as she had been all those years ago.
After my attention turned to her, she was all that remained in the room. I could tell by the expression on her face, she was as lost as I was. Despite knowing I’d see her, and she me, it hadn’t been until that moment I realized not a thing had changed between us. That even now, she consumed every piece of me. Her attention followed me as I took careful steps towards off the stage. I begged myself not to look at her, but I couldn’t help myself.
When I finally made it back into the floor of the theater, I headed down the aisle towards the other pianists. They were all waving and cheering congratulations to me as I approached. I offered a friendly wave of thanks. Before I could sit down, I found myself continuing to walk, heading back towards the far side of the theater. It was growing harder to breathe. I needed more air now, than I ever needed in my life.
The brightness of the lobby blinded me as I made my way out. I weaved through a handful of employees, shuffling out into the courtyard in front of the building. I didn’t stop walking until I’d made my way to the fountain in the center of the pavilion sitting in front of Lincoln Hall. A small bushy tree offered a bit of shade, and there was a handful of school kids running around in the distance. I found myself watching them play, breathing quietly, as my body calmed.
Just as I’d felt myself coming back to normal, my attention turned back towards the Lincoln Center. I saw her walking, as if straight from a dream, right towards me. Nothing about her had changed. She still wore the same dark grey cardigan with her conservative white blouse and slacks. Every movement she made was just as I remembered it. She always walked so poised and confident, every part of her being demanding attention. Once I looked at her, I couldn’t turn away.
Juliet came to sit beside me at the fountain. I didn’t give her attention at first, just barely focusing on her in my peripheral. Her hands smoothed over the cashmere fabric. When I finally managed to bring my eyes to hers, I thought she’d have something to say. Instead, all we managed to do was look at one another. I begged myself to look away, yet I studied every inch of her, recalling all the details of her face. The smile lines and creases, the shape of her lips, the distinct color of her eyes. How, even though she came across so arrogant and self-absorbed, there was something so delicate and soft about her, when you studied close.
It was all I could do to maintain my composure when I saw it, dangling around her neck. The silver chain that held it catching the sunlight outside. My mother’s locket. The one I’d given her at Christmas those years ago. My eyes froze on it, hardly able to believe that it was real. That she’d been wearing it. Every emotion I’d cast aside now bubbled to the surface, at such a rapid pace, it was consuming me. Sadness and frustration came. I felt my face twist into a scowl. The only thoughts that remained in my mind were years ago at the Bard, when her father won his silent war. There had been no stopping it. Now here we were again, after years. She was still the same, but everything had changed.
“Emma,” Juliet finally spoke. I could tell by the way she was looking at me, she knew how upset I was. All my emotions had suddenly erupted from inside of me without any explanation. Juliet’s hand reached out to take mine, and I jerked to my feet before she could.
“I’m here to work,” I told her flatly, staring out at the front of the Lincoln Center. Juliet moved swiftly to stand in front of me. At first, I didn’t acknowledge her, fighting desperately to look anywhere else.
Please forgive me, Juliet signed when I finally turned towards her again. I loved the way she signed. It was so elegant and simple. As natural as someone who’d been signing all their life. Her dainty fingers were made for it, almost as much as they were made to play that priceless Vuillaume. I wasn’t quite sure why she had apologized. There had never been any blame on her. Not really, anyway. I didn’t know what to say. Instead, I stared at her in disbelief, my eyes drifting between her face and the locket strung around her neck. Unsure of what I was even feeling at that point. It had been years now. The thing that had existed between us having dissipated. We would be colleagues now, nothing more.
Three years and I’d kep
t up with her every opportunity I could. Listened to her shows at the Philharmonic. Read every news article and report that detailed her life. Every story about the Bard Conservatory. Six-thousand miles away from her, and I still longed for her in quiet moments. Waiting desperately for the phone call that Miranda had graced me with a few weeks prior. The chance to perform with her.
You left, Juliet signed to me once I’d given her attention again.
I did, I replied, unsure of what else to say. My gaze fell on Juliet’s hands that were paused in front of her. She appeared to be lost in thought. It was for the best, I added. By the look in her eyes, Juliet didn’t seem to agree.
I’m sorry about your father, Juliet finally signed to me. She seemed to be all over the place with her thoughts. Everything she said seemed uncertain and overly careful. Like she was trying desperately to avoid hurting me in any way.
It was too late for that, the damage had already been done. Her father had made sure of that. Finally, by some miracle, I managed to pull myself together. I took a step back from her and forced myself one final time to give her my full attention.
“It’s good to see you,” I managed to say, as calmly as I could. “I hope I get the opportunity to work with you and the Philharmonic. It would be an honor.” As soon as the words spilled from my mouth, I saw the torment in Juliet’s eyes. The way she was looking at me with so much desperation was destroying me. I wouldn’t be able to handle it if I stayed. I couldn’t stay. Colleagues. That is all we would ever be. “Have a good night, Juliet.”
Every step I walked away from her, back towards the theater, I thought of Chopin’s Tristesse. When we’d played together at my first private lesson. The harsh cry of the piano as it bellowed out to her in fits of anger and rage. And the soothing notes of her Vuillaume in reply. That longing song that filled my thoughts and dreams. The song that would never leave me.
25
Juliet
Bartok, Concerto for Piano No. 1
Grieg, Holberg Suite
Debussy, Clair de Lune
WHEN THE PIANIST SEAT had become vacant for the Philharmonic summer showcase, I knew she would come. Miranda hadn’t needed to tell me. It was her dream. There wasn’t anything in the world that would have kept her from it, not even me.
Still, nothing would have prepared me for seeing her in David Geffen Hall that afternoon.
Emma Harvey made her way up to the stage, wearing a long, flowing, black dress that was reminiscent of her attire at her Bard audition. It hugged at her small frame and fell all the way down to her feet. I hadn’t recognized her for a moment as she walked. She’d cut her long blonde hair, short. Her bangs fell messily over her forehead. While she usually wore very little makeup, she’d made herself up today. An alluring shade of pink adorned her lips and a smoky-black color outlined her eyes. Even still, once I’d settled into her, she was all the same to me.
I watched her walk to her piano of choice. The battered black Steinway that was often played by Miranda. It had been the one she’d chosen when I’d brought her on the stage three years prior. The one she’d so effortlessly played Moonlight Sonata from. I wondered what she had chosen today. Something show stopping, no doubt.
Not once did she look out into the theater. It was likely on purpose. The last thing I wanted to do was distract her. I knew she was aware I was watching. Neither of us were ignorant to that fact. Instead, she would occasionally turn her attention to Miranda who gave her encouraging smiles. As I predicted, her song choices were unique, far more unusual than her colleagues would have chosen. She wasn’t one to play it safe.
Bartok’s Concerto was a favorite of mine, though I rarely heard it. It had been my suggestion of a performance piece many years ago. I wondered if Emma had known it, but quickly decided that she likely wouldn’t have chosen it if she remembered. She had made it very clear the past few years that she wanted nothing more to do with me. I didn’t blame her.
The weeks after she’d disappeared from the Bard, I was lost. Worried. I’d discovered Lydia Beckham’s number and attempted to contact her. She didn’t respond for the first few calls, but finally answered after my persistence.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Lydia said flatly when she’d answered.
“Ms. Beckham, I just wanted to know that she is all right,” I had replied.
Lydia was curt, “She’s broken, Professor Hamilton. I’ve never seen her like this. She made the right decision to stay away.”
Every piece of me had fallen apart in that moment, wishing desperately I could speak with her for even a minute to apologize and explain myself. To reiterate the fact we would be better off away from one another. Distance would do us good. “Please tell her how sorry I am,” I found myself begging to Lydia.
“Just leave her alone,” Lydia replied, and then I heard the phone call end.
When Emma’s father passed away a year prior, I’d contemplated once again to go to her. Miranda and Timothy had convinced me otherwise. Instead I sent flowers, which I was certain were ignored, but I had tried anyway.
Now she was here again. For the first time in years, she was in the same room as me. My attention was on her the entire time she played. Watching her graceful motions as she fell into the piano. Imagining how she felt the notes she played. Every part of her body flowed with the melody. When she finished, she finally turned her attention towards the audience. I watched her eyes scan the panel, one by one.
My heart spilled from my chest when she finally met me. There was only her. She didn’t look away. I wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed. It hadn’t mattered. When she finally walked away off the stage, I watched her until she disappeared out the back of the theater. I couldn’t help myself, and found I was following behind her, unaware if I was being called after. There were still more auditions, but they could go on without me.
THE WEEKEND CAME, AND I found myself with Timothy, Miranda and Kira at a bistro right outside of the city. It was one of Kira’s favorite places to eat when we were in New York. They had some of the best French fries I’d ever tasted. While Kira ate, Miranda and Timothy and I got lost in conversation about our summer plans. It wasn’t long until the conversation turned to Emma, as I imagined it would. There still hadn’t been decisions about the selection for the pianist replacement.
“Emma wanted to drop out of the running,” Miranda said, eyeing me curiously as she took a bite of her food. Once she’d finished eating, she continued. “You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that would you?”
“She what?” I replied, flabbergasted. “Why on Earth would she ever do that? It’s all she’s ever wanted to do.”
“After her auditions, she told me she was considering it.” Miranda still had a questionable look on her face. I sat with my mouth hanging open in disbelief, recalling our conversation on the pavilion.
“I’ll drop out of the showcase,” I decided. “She can’t quit on my behalf. I won’t have it.”
“Don’t be silly,” Timothy said, shaking his head. “We’ll talk to her. You two will just have to learn to work together. Once she knows she has the spot, I doubt she’ll turn it down.”
I wasn’t convinced, feeling extraordinarily guilty. After I quietly finished off the last few bites of my food, I turned to Kira. Is it good? My head nodded towards her grilled cheese sandwich that was nearly gone. Kira smiled at me and took a bite of French fry. She’d grown up these past few years, nearly as tall as I was and almost ten years old.
“So, they’ve decided then? Emma will get the spot?” I looked back up at Timothy. It was obvious she would, she clearly outshined her competition, and she had a slew of orchestra members to back her. Timothy nodded as he waved down the waiter for our checks. That settled it then. I would have to do my best to give her room. She deserved the spot. Her dream. I wasn’t about to stand in the way of it.
ON MONDAY, REHEARSALS for the summer concert series began, and I arrived at the Lincoln Center early. As she usually did
, Kira came along, toting her backpack. When she wasn’t working on schoolwork or playing with the other children in the orchestra, Kira would sneak off into the empty rooms surrounding David Geffen Hall finding a spare Steinway to play at. Sometimes I’d find her late at night when we’d be wrapped up with shows or rehearsals, buried into the piano, reminiscent of the way Emma played. Kira had loved the piano ever since she’d been introduced to it all those Christmas’ ago.
I was arranging my music on the stands when I heard footsteps from across the stage. Some of the other strings and instrumentalists had come, so I didn’t give it any mind. That was until I heard Emma’s sweet airy voice ring out from across the room.
“Kira?” she called out, and I looked up to find her. Kira was busy reading her book beside me. I motioned for her attention, and when she met my gaze, I nodded towards Emma across the room. It took her a moment to place her, but eventually her eyes grew wide and she took off across the stage in a fury. They collided together, Emma wrapping her arms around her tightly. You’ve grown up. I watched her sign enthusiastically. Kira replied, but I couldn’t quite tell what she’d said. The pair wandered closer, and I felt myself growing stiff as they approached.
They continued their silent conversation for a few minutes, and I did my best not to eavesdrop, turning my attention back towards my music. When I finally looked up again, Emma was staring me down. “You adopted Kira?” It had been so natural now, I’d almost forgotten. When I nodded, there was a hint of a smile that graced Emma’s lips.
“Two years ago,” I replied, leaning back in my seat.
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