The Rising Star of Rusty Nail

by Lesley M. M. Blume

  “Not again!” Franny wailed. Then she noticed something, and her heart gave a hopeful little leap. “Hey—it looks funny. Is something wrong with it?”

  Lorraine examined the garment with concern. “I don’t think so,” she said falteringly. “What do you mean?”

  Franny stepped into the dress, pulled it up over her shoulders, and tried to zip it up. She was thrilled to discover that the dress was at least three sizes too small. “Mom—you shrunk it in the wash!” she shouted gleefully.

  “You’re kidding!” Lorraine said. She gave the zipper several hard yanks, and it tore out of the dress. “Ohhh! I don’t believe it! Isn’t that just my luck!”

  Ho, ho, thought Franny happily. That’s a lucky break. This was as good an omen as she could have hoped for. She ran into her bedroom and pulled on the perfectly normal-looking skirt and shirt that she’d been planning to wear all along.

  A pale gray light washed the eastern sky as she and her parents drove out of Rusty Nail in their old Chevrolet. All of the houses looked dark and solemn in the early-dawn shadows. Franny half envied the other kids sleeping snugly in their warm beds behind the closed curtains and shades. Soon they’d wake up to the certainty of eggs and bacon and Saturday-morning radio shows while Franny’s fate was determined many miles away in a strange city.

  The car ride to Minneapolis would be the longest trip Franny had ever taken. The farthest she’d ever been before was a visit to her aunt Lillian and uncle Gustave’s house in Decorah, Iowa, just an hour away. She took a deep breath and opened up one of her music books. For many minutes and miles, she just looked at the first page, not really seeing the notes at all. Wes looked at his daughter in the rearview mirror.

  “Don’t worry, Mozart,” he said. “Just go in there and do the best that you can. No one can ask more than that, can they?”

  Then he turned on the radio and found a station playing a Glenn Miller song. Wes sang along quietly to the music:

  Standing there alone by the ashes

  Of the fire we said would never die …

  Will I ever find an ember

  Burning from the days gone by … ?

  He stopped singing and looked back at Franny again. “But you know what? I’m sure you’re going to win. I’ve got a hunch. You’re going to stomp Nancy Orilee into the ground, and all of those other kids too.”

  “We-es,” said Lorraine. “That’s not exactly the sort of attitude you should be encouraging.”

  “I speak the truth, my darling wife,” Wes said sassily. “I just know that my girl’s the best out there. Oh yes, she is.” And he hummed along until the song dissolved into static.

  Franny gave up on reading her music and watched the cornfields whiz past. She wondered how many cornstalks grew there every year. Ten thousand? A million? Ten million? The fields stretched to the horizon on both sides of the car. Eventually, Franny grew drowsy and fell into an uneasy sleep.

  She woke with a start when her father yelled from the front seat: “Lorraine! You’re reading that map upside down! No wonder we’re lost! Give me that.”

  They had arrived in Minneapolis. Wes parked on the side of a busy street to study the map while Lorraine giggled with embarrassment. Franny sat up and rolled down the window. She had never seen so many cars or people all in one place. Everyone was in such a hurry, as opposed to in Rusty Nail, where both time and people seemed to move to the slow tempo of growing wheat.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Lorraine,” Wes bellowed. “We’re on the wrong side of the city entirely, and it’s already onefifteen.” According to the contest schedule, Franny was to play for the judges shortly after three o’clock.

  “Oops,” said Lorraine sheepishly. “Well, at least we know where we are now. Can we stop at that gas station over there? I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  “Mo-om!” Franny wailed in the backseat. “We’re going to miss the contest! Can’t you hold it?”

  “No, I can’t,” said Lorraine crossly while Wes yelled at Franny not to yell at her mother. They nearly caused a four-car accident as Wes pulled the Chevrolet into rushing traffic. Several drivers honked at him.

  “What’s your hurry, fellas?” he shouted out the window. “Boy, people are impatient up here,” he added as a chorus of angry car horns filled the air.

  It was almost two o’clock when they finally arrived at a gigantic yellow-brick university hall, the site of the competition. After cruising around the building three times, Wes parked the car illegally in front of it, and Lorraine and Franny ran inside.

  After following dozens of paper arrows posted around the maze of hallways, Franny saw Olga waiting impatiently outside the main auditorium.

  “You are late, Dyevushka, ” she said, scowling. “I thought that perhaps you changed your mind about coming.”

  To Franny’s enormous annoyance, she saw dowdy old Svetlana standing behind Olga, reading papers on a notice board. Why had Olga brought her to the competition?

  “Ohhh,” said Lorraine. “We’re late because of me. We had a … a problem with the map. I’m Lorraine Hansen, Franny’s mother. It’s so nice to finally meet you—I’ve heard so much about you around town.”

  An embarrassing silence followed this last blundering comment. But then Olga broke the tension with a small, formal smile.

  “Yes, it is very nice to meet you too,” she said. “Frances resembles you.”

  That’s right, Franny thought. They’ve never met before! It seemed impossible to her that the two most important women in her life had never overlapped, even in a town as minuscule as Rusty Nail.

  “Ugh,” said Svetlana to no one in particular. She was examining a roster of contestants. “I hope that nobody plays Bach—so dreary.”

  “You must practice a little before you play,” Olga said to Franny brusquely. “Come with me.”

  She swept down the hallway. Franny trailed after her, leaving her mother to make awkward small talk with Svetlana.

  Olga led Franny into a little room that contained nothing but an old, scuffed upright piano and a plastic chair. Olga flipped a switch on the wall, and a dingy fluorescent light flickered on overhead.

  “I know it is boring, but I think you should play some scales to get your hands and fingers warmed up,” said Olga.

  Franny scraped the plastic chair over to the piano and flexed her fingers. Starting in C major, she began to play, up and down three octaves. Then she stopped.

  “Madame Malenkov, why did you bring Svetlana to the competition?” she said, trying to sound casual. “And why did you let her sit in on my lessons?”

  “Why—did that make you nervous?” Olga asked.

  “I guess so.” Franny resisted the urge to tell Olga how vexing the Russian visitor had been, with all of her scratching, coughing, and humming.

  “That’s good, Dyevushka, ” Olga said. “As I keep telling you, it is good for you to learn how to play the piano while you are nervous. All fine performers must learn how to play under enormous pressure. And audiences can be so annoying.”

  “Do you think that I’m a fine performer?” Franny asked, fishing for a compliment.

  “We will find out today,” said Olga, and then she smiled gently. “Let me put it to you this way: I think that you are a fine pianist and could become a great one. Why else would I spend so much of my time teaching you? Do I seem like the kind of person who likes to waste her time and energy?”

  “No,” said Franny, nearly blushing. “But I had to work hard to get you to teach me in the first place, you know.”

  “Yes, that is true,” Olga said. “But all things that are worth having are also hard to get. I am proud of your determination to overcome the odds. It is very impressive for such a young girl.”

  They practiced until it was nearly time for Franny’s performance. She took a deep breath and followed Olga out into the hallway.

  Just then, Franny saw Nancy Orilee come out of a practice room down the corridor.

  “How was the
warming up?” asked Olga. “Perfect,” said Nancy. “I’m all ready.” She looked over at Franny smugly.

  “Hurry up, then,” Olga said. “Judges hate latecomers. Nancy—you play at three. And Franny, you go at three-twenty. You’ve both worked hard and this is your big moment. Now go show the judges that there is nothing small-town about you girls when it comes to playing the piano.

  “Oh,” she added as she walked down the hallway. “Oudachi. That means ’good luck’ in Russian.”

  Franny and Nancy met their families outside the auditorium and went inside to find seats. Franny had never been in such a grand room. Dark wood paneling covered the walls, and thick, plush, red-velvet curtains framed the stage. Several photographers loitered at the foot of the stage, and one of them set up a heavy tripod.

  “Look at that,” said Wes, pointing it out to Franny as they took their seats. “Do you know what that’s for? A television camera! Look—the case has a CBS sticker on it! Whaddya think of that, Mozart! Your genius is going to be immortalized on film!”

  Olga and Svetlana stayed in the back and talked to each other in Russian. The Orilees sat across the room from Franny and her family. Makeup spackled every inch of Mrs. Orilee’s face, and she dabbed some bright raspberry gloss onto Nancy’s lips.

  Franny rolled and unrolled her music in her hands. About ten other contestants sat in the auditorium with their families. As Olga had promised, some of the pianists looked about seventeen or eighteen years old.

  Then the three judges came into the room. As they walked down the main aisle, Mr. Orilee rose and marched up to them, shaking each of their hands assertively. They all began a quiet but animated discussion.

  Wes eyed them suspiciously.

  “Looks like Roger Orilee’s pretty chummy with those judges,” he said darkly. “I wonder what he’s up to. I’ve never trusted that man, not since we were in kindergarten together.”

  The judges finally walked up onto the stage, where they sat in a row like three crows on a wire.

  “Welcome to Minneapolis, contestants,” announced one of them. “My name is Mr. Pilskog, and I’m the head of the judging committee.” He nodded toward his colleagues and added: “This is Mr. Fauskanger and Mr. Skadberg.”

  The other two judges nodded sternly and took out their pads and pencils.

  “When we call your name, please come up onto the stage and start playing immediately. Each contestant will play two pieces. We’ll announce the winner in an assembly here at eight o’clock. Good luck to everyone, and let’s begin. Now, who’s first? Nancy Orilee of Rusty Nail!”

  Nancy’s parents clapped as she flounced up onto the stage. She curtsied to the judges and set up her music.

  “Welcome, my dear. You’re playing Schubert and Brahms, right?” asked Mr. Pilskog, looking at his list.

  “Yes, sir,” Nancy said, and gave the judges a big beauty-queen smile.

  “We’re looking forward to it,” said Mr. Pilskog.

  Nancy gave her skirt one last little ruffle and began to play. Franny listened critically. Sandy had been right when she said that Nancy sounded like a player piano. Her music had no feeling, and she played like a robot. To Franny, Nancy’s recital was like listening to someone make an exciting story into a dull sermon.

  “That girl might as well be playing a typewriter,” whispered someone in the row behind Franny.

  “Maybe she’s better in private than she is onstage,” answered somebody else. “Poor thing.”

  Ha ha! Franny thought jubilantly. So I’m not the only one who hears how boring she is! Prancy’s going to lose! Even though there were eight other contestants to worry about, Nancy’s delicious mediocrity filled Franny with confidence. She wished that Sandy and Runty could have witnessed this long-overdue downfall.

  Soon Nancy began her second piece. Franny turned her attention to the judges, expecting them to appear as unimpressed as the rest of the audience—but instead, they were watching attentively. Mr. Fauskanger even smiled encouragingly at Nancy and nodded.

  “Dad!” Franny whispered urgently. “Why do you think the judges are being so nice to Nancy? She’s nothing special—everyone can hear that!”

  Wes put his arm around his daughter. “They’re probably nice to all the contestants, to make them less nervous. Don’t worry—you’re going to blow her out of the water.”

  “Shh!” someone hissed behind them.

  Finally, Nancy plunked her way through her finale. She stood up and bowed to the judges, who beamed at her. The audience clapped politely as she collected her music and pranced down the stage stairs, where her parents cooed and petted her.

  “Next!” called out Mr. Pilskog. “Frances Hansen, also of Rusty Nail!”

  Franny shot up out of her chair and charged up the stage stairs.

  “Knock ’em dead, Mozart,” called Wes in a loud whisper. Franny cringed with embarrassment.

  “What are you playing again?” asked Mr. Pilskog indifferently, leafing through his papers and not even looking in her direction.

  “A Mozart variation in C major and Chopin’s Etude in C Minor,” Franny said.

  “Go ahead, then,” said Mr. Pilskog. “Start with the Mozart.”

  Franny sat down at the piano and arranged her music in front of her. The greedy determination that she’d first felt during the Eunice Grimes concert came back to her, and she couldn’t resist sneaking a defiant look at Nancy.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” said Mr. Skadberg.

  Franny closed her eyes and took a deep breath. In her imagination, the room around her began to shift and change, and so did the people in it, like a dream. Crystal chandeliers unfurled like vines down from the ceiling, and in the wall lamps, candles appeared where lightbulbs had once been rooted in their sockets. Fine dresses and whale-bone corsets wrapped themselves around the ladies in the audience, and powdered wigs fluttered down upon their neat modern hairdos. The men no longer wore modest cotton button-downs, but instead donned fine waistcoats and shirts with cascades of ruffles down the front. In her imagination, Franny wasn’t sitting in Minneapolis in 1954 but in Vienna in the 1700s, about to play for a royal court—like Mozart himself.

  She put her hands on the keyboard and began to perform. The music filled her mind, and Franny’s notes were clean and light as crisp morning air. Her timing was perfect all the way through to the end of the piece, like a clear stream that rushes here and lulls there. She played the last notes with great flourish and pushed back from the piano in triumph. The audience clapped enthusiastically.

  “Go ahead with the second piece, Miss Hansen,” said Mr. Fauskanger impatiently.

  Franny immediately searched the crowd for Olga’s face. The Russian nodded in encouragement, and Franny’s heart pounded proudly in her chest as she put her hands on the keyboard again.

  She began playing the Chopin. The music was very different from the first piece. While light and hope filled Mozart’s music, the Chopin piece was darker, trickier. Franny felt like she was having conversations with two very different people. She smiled impishly to herself as she navigated the hard parts, as though answering Chopin’s riddles and leaping over hurdles. When she finished at last, she pushed the piano bench back again. As the audience applauded, she stood up to face the judges and waited for their praise to pour over her.

  “Thank you, Miss Hansen,” Mr. Pilskog said rather dully. “Next! Astrid Arnbjorg of New Ulm.”

  And that was it: the most important moment of Franny’s young life had only lasted twenty minutes, and ended with such little fanfare! In a state of disbelief, Franny walked down the stairs and sat with her family.

  The last of the contestants finished at seven o’clock. Everyone stampeded out of the auditorium and milled around nervously, waiting for the judges to make up their minds.

  “You were definitely the best one there,” said Wes, stretching. “I don’t even know why they called it a contest, when the winner was so obvious from the very beginning. This is it, baby girl
! Now I’m going to check on the car.”

  Just then, Olga and Svetlana walked up to Franny and Lorraine.

  “You played very well, Dyevushka, ” Olga said. “I am very confident that you will win.”

  “Really?” said Franny happily. “Do you really think that?”

  “Yes,” said the Russian. “The Mozart was perfect, and judges love that piece. I used to play it for all of my competitions. In fact, it was one of the first things I learned at Juilliard.”

  “Juilliard?” asked Lorraine. “Where’s that?”

  Olga looked shocked at the question, but then composed herself. “The Juilliard School in New York City is the best music school in the country, if not the world,” she said. “I began when I was fourteen years old and stayed until I was sixteen.”

  “Fourteen years old!” Lorraine exclaimed. “Goodness! Isn’t that awfully young?”

  “Certainly not,” said Olga. “In fact, I was embarrassed by how old I was when I got there. All great pianists are prodigies. Mozart went on his first tour when he was six years old. Many of them have written concertos and symphonies by the age of ten. Luckily, there was someone there who was still willing to take me on at Juilliard—a master who gives me brushup sessions even today.”

  “Really!” said Lorraine uneasily.

  “Yes,” said Olga. “Naturally, it did not take me long to catch up, and I began performing almost immediately. But I hardly consider myself a prodigy, as all of the newspaper articles say about me.”

  Svetlana blew her nose. “You had other things on your mind when you were very young,” she interjected phlegmily. “Like survival.”

  Olga nodded solemnly. “Yes, that is true. Now please excuse me.” And she walked down the hallway, with Svetlana shuffling along at her side.

  Lorraine smoothed down Franny’s hair. “Fourteen years old,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “Call me old-fashioned, but it just doesn’t seem right to end one’s childhood so early.” And she seized her daughter’s hand protectively.

  Time slowed down to a crawl as they waited for the awards assembly. Wes ambled back to his family after making sure that no one had stolen their ancient Chevy. Franny sat with her parents on rickety plastic chairs in the hallway and watched the second hand circle the face of a yellowing old wall clock in the hall. Around and around it went, ten times, twenty times, sixty times.