It was Bach’s Cello Suite, No. 1 in G major. Everyone knows it. Even people who aren’t musically inclined would recognize the piece within the first measure, if they didn’t already know it by name. I scrunched my forehead, trying to figure out why he would be playing such an easy piece, given what I knew he could play. Hell, if I had a little bit of time with a cello, I could probably play it.
By the third measure, it was shockingly clear. Suddenly there weren’t any other students in the class, and I could barely register that Nathan was standing, unmoving, next to me. I was locked on Gregory’s hands. His face. The way his body swayed each time his bow moved seductively across the strings. Inside ten seconds, he was a musician. Just like the rest of us. Screw that—he was nothing like the rest of us. He was perfect. It was perfect. His eyes were closed, and as the song slowed before the last twelve seconds, or so, he hung onto the pause with his eyebrows pulled together. I held my breath, my throat tight with anticipation, and with tears stinging my eyes at the absolute beauty of this seemingly elementary song he’d just taken to a level I didn’t know existed.
Exhaling only when he carefully ran through the end of the song, I cleared my throat and looked up at Nathan, who was still standing and completely slack-jawed. It wasn’t that we just watched some groundbreaking performance, and that was the cause of the dead silence in the room. It was that we just watched a musician with one of the sternest reputations live up to it in a classroom full of students who could only dream to play with a fraction of the greatness he possessed. Right before our eyes.
Resting his bow against the top of his thigh, he opened his clear blue eyes. “Class dismissed.”
Gregory
Just one semester. That was all I had to deal with ... one semester of dealing with arrogant, disruptive teenagers bent on wasting my time in a class I didn’t want to teach in the first place. I was hoping Madeline would be able to pick the class back up before the end of the semester, but given the extent of her wrist surgery, it didn’t seem likely. She would be spending her free time in physical therapy to get back to playing. That I could understand. Turning the corner to walk down the long hallway of practice rooms, I shuddered at the thought of not being able to play for a few months, as was going to be the case with Madeline.
The practice rooms are mostly soundproof, so it took me off guard to hear the high-pitched melody of a flute floating through the hall. The tone was solid, the sound itself was beautiful, but the notes were disorganized. It didn’t sound like jazz—which I could appreciate on a technical level, if not a sound and composition level—it sounded like rock music of some sort. Suddenly the notes stopped and the hypnotizing melody of Entr’acte from Carmen took over my senses. While this was a fairly simple song, note and rhythm-wise, to be able to play it beautifully was the challenge. It was largely in the upper octave and played between piano and mezzo-forte—especially challenging for under-trained throats that tend to lean toward blaring through the upper-most octaves as though they’re in a marching band.
As I made my way toward the end of the hallway, the song started again as soon as it was finished, sounding even more beautiful than the time before. I knew it wasn’t Madeline, even though it sounded keenly like her. It had to be one of her students. Madeline was thorough and demanding in the physical instruction of her students—coaching their throats to stay open and strong. While that was good practice for all flutists to learn, Madeline was able to train her students in such a way that gave them great endurance. Approaching the room, drawn by a curiosity that didn’t usually strike me with woodwinds, I began to think maybe it was another instructor. The sound, though, was too familiar to be someone I didn’t know. When the second run of Entr’acte ended, that unfamiliar rock song started again.
Normally, it’s poor form to spy on someone as they are practicing, but their sheer inability to stay on task irritated me. How could one jump from classic opera, to that uncultured noise, and back again? I raised my eyebrows when I saw Savannah Marshall, her back to me, playing as she stood in front of an empty music stand. Her control over the notes is what held my ears captive. Despite her playing music I had no use for, I couldn’t look away. While I remembered her audition nearly three years ago like it was yesterday, since I’d never heard a seventeen-year-old flutist with such skill in all of my years, I chalked some of it up to her ability to audition.
Some people get stage fright. This is why, increasingly over the years, musicians have turned to anti-anxiety medications and beta-blockers to calm their nerves. Some musicians, however, do their best work in an audition, and can’t ever maintain that level of skill. I’d assumed the latter was the case with Savannah. I still remembered her almost cocky attitude for her audition, and her constant chatter during my lectures led me to believe she simply did not take music seriously.
The young woman before me, however, was certainly a musician. Her posture was perfect, and she swayed just enough to show she felt the music, but not so much that it looked forced. Suddenly, as if she sensed someone looking in, she dropped her flute from her lips and turned around. She didn’t seem startled as she took me in with large brown eyes that seemed to be misting over.
“You really should close the door, Ms. Marshall.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep any praise off of my face as I placed my hand on the handle.
She cleared her throat and shook her head. “Sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald. You can leave it open, though. I’m finished.”
I dropped my hand as she walked toward the chair by the door and started taking apart her flute, cleaning the inside of each piece before putting it back in the case. The instrument was gorgeous. It had a rose gold body with silver keys, and a gold mouthpiece that was engraved with scrolling designs. Quite a high-end piece for a student—even one in the conservatory. Someone certainly believed in her a great deal, as this professional-grade flute was easily ten to fifteen thousand dollars.
“That’s a beautiful instrument you have there.” I tried to keep my tone ambivalent, not wanting to let on that I was most interested in how she acquired such a piece. I’d mortgaged my late grandmother’s home in the most expensive neighborhood in Boston to buy my cello. Because when you play an instrument at this level, you gave it whatever it took. Your entire life.
“Thank you,” she replied. “My father gave it to me over winter break. I’m still getting used to it, but I love it.” Her face brightened as she spoke.
“Well, he must think a lot of your ability, Savannah.”
Her eyes flickered straight to mine, and her brow furrowed as she seemed to process my statement.
“I’m here at the conservatory, aren’t I?” she shot back. “This isn’t just a hobby of mine, Mr. Fitzgerald.” She chuckled to herself as she snapped her case shut and placed it in her instrument bag.
“That piece you were playing…” I started.
“The Entr’acte? What about it?” She shrugged on her green wool peacoat and matching scarf.
“It’s a bit of a simple piece for you, isn’t it?” I held the door open as she walked through and met me in the hallway.
She turned on her heel to face me once again. “So was the Bach suite you played in class last week.”
Inexplicably, I followed. She was wearing some kind of floral perfume. It wasn’t overwhelming, but for a brief moment it lingered in each step she took.
“Yes, but that was the piece that made the cello worth playing, for me. It was the first real classical piece I tackled that made it all worthwhile.” I cleared my throat, shocked at my own honesty with a student. “I certainly didn’t waste my time, though, on rock music.” I arched my eyebrow in her direction.
Savannah stopped in her tracks. “And the Entr’acte is mine. It was the first piece of substance I mastered. I was ten…” Her gaze trailed off with her voice as she ignored my jab at her other musical selection.
“Ten?” I questioned. “It has a pretty ambitious octave for a young flutist.”
“My
mother was in Carmen at the time. I heard the song and wanted to learn how to play it immediately. So, I learned it. It was like I was playing along with her.” Her voice sounded distant, still.
Ah, so her mother was a flutist. It certainly made sense, of course. Most students here had at least one parent who was a musician—or who tried to be.
“So your mother plays for the opera? Which one?” I asked as we reached the door. I loved the opera.
Savannah’s eyebrows pulled in a bit before she gave a relaxed smile. “I have to get back to my dorm. Sorry about the door, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’ll remember to close them from now on.” A blast of frigid cold air hit me as she quickly exited the building.
“It’s quite all right, Miss Marshall,” I mumbled to the closing door. She hadn’t answered the question about her mother.
Two years before, I’d been in Washington, DC for a concert at the National Arboretum. I vividly recalled the sun shining in through the glass at an angle, the slight sound of water from a fountain, the beauty of the music as we played. Most of all, I remembered the faint smell of lilies drifting over me, almost intoxicating, as I played.
That’s when it hit me, the perfume that I couldn’t identify before. I’ve never been an aficionado of gardens or flowers, but I remembered that scent. That’s what she wore.
The faint smell of lilies lingered in the air behind her as the door latched closed and I stood alone in the hallway.
Savannah
I slid into my seat in music theory and leaned toward Nathan. “Feeling better?”
He looked at me with bleary eyes. Hung over, and it served him right.
“Not really,” he mumbled, his voice only as loud as I assumed his headache would let him speak.
We’d gone out the night before, intending to have dinner and a couple of drinks, and he’d had more than just a couple. That led to a strange moment late in the evening as we were walking back toward the school. He’d stopped, his feet skidding on the snow, and looked at me.
“Savannah?” He slurred his words.
I raised my eyebrows, turning back toward him. I met his eyes, and he met mine. He looked as lost as I’d ever seen him. I felt like I should say something—he looked angry, sad, and confused all at once. Before I could open my mouth, he shook his head.
“Never mind,” he finished.
I didn’t press. We had walked on, returning to the dorms.
This morning, he looked a little better, but just a little. His skin was washed out, pale looking beneath the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, and his eyes were red-rimmed. It was out of character for Nathan to drink that much.
The door to the classroom burst open, and in marched Fitzgerald. He carefully leaned his cello case against the wall, then shook off his jacket and ran a hand through his hair. A few snowflakes evaded his effort to brush them away.
Ignoring all of us, he walked to the white board and began writing on it. Contrary Motion. Mirror. Proportional. Spiral. Accompanied.
He turned around. His blue eyes slid right past me, fixing on Nathan for a few seconds, then to the other students in the class. His face was set in a rigid frown, and his posture highlighted tension, restrained motion, intensity.
“Mr. Connors. Please remind the class what are the three requirements for a musical composition to qualify as a strict canon?”
My eyes darted to Nathan. This morning he was lucky to remember his own name. He was so obviously hung over; I could only think Fitzgerald had singled him out deliberately.
Nathan shifted in his seat, and his face actually managed to go a little bit whiter. He coughed. “Um … the second voice … can’t vary from the first … or its um … contrapuntal variations ... um ... the second voice enters later ... except for …”
Nathan’s voice trailed off and he closed his eyes.
“Mr. Connors, I explained during the first week of class that I expect you to show up for class prepared. This is material we reviewed on Friday, and you had the entire weekend to review it. How are you supposed to understand today’s lesson?”
I raised my hand. Fitzgerald ignored it.
Nathan kept his eyes closed and took a deep breath. “Sir, my apologies, I am not feeling well this morning.”
Fitzgerald continued to glare at Nathan, and so I finally spoke up, hoping to distract his attention from the too obviously suffering Nathan. “The three requirements are: the second voice must be an exact repetition of the first, or a contrapuntal variation. The second voice enters later than the first, except in proportional or retrograde. The riposta is generated by the proposta.”
Gregory’s gaze shot to me, and for three long seconds he stared, causing my stomach to flip as I stared back. Swallowing once, he pursed his lips dismissively. “That’s very good, Miss Marshall. Or it would have been if I had called upon you, which I did not.”
I breathed a sigh of relief when he waved toward the board, then picked up a stack of paper and began handing the sheets out.
“This week we’re going to talk about some of the more unusual forms of the canon. Your assignment for the week is to compose your own brief form of canon. You’ll work in groups of two, choosing whichever instrument you wish. Each composition must be no longer than four minutes, it must strictly follow one of the forms of canon we have gone over, and you will perform it two weeks from today.”
He paused when he got to my desk, placing the assignment sheet on it, then his startling blue eyes met mine as his hand remained on my desk. “Miss Marshall, when I say I want strict adherence to the assigned structure, I mean it. If you wish to get away with breaking the rules, you must first understand them thoroughly. Am I clear?”
I nodded, but he hadn’t waited around for an answer, moving on to the rest of the class. I scanned the paper, which contained a detailed list of the criteria he intended to use to grade the assignment. It had been a challenge. Writing a canon, any canon, and making it sound good, was difficult, and beyond the scope of what most musicians could accomplish. I closed my eyes, the beginning of an idea forming in my head.
He didn’t want us to break the rules. We were required to adhere to the formal, stultified rules of strict canon, rules which were in place four hundred years ago. That was fine. But he didn’t say we couldn’t combine rules. Bach had done it more than once, as had a very few other composers. I tuned out the classroom, letting a melody form in my mind, visualizing it, then adding layers, one on top of the other, until I felt a loud tap against my desk.
My eyes flew open. Fitzgerald stood there. His eyebrows were squeezed together in irritation, a furrow running right down the center of his forehead. I could feel the heat coming from his body he stood so close.
“Are you still with us, Miss Marshall?”
I blinked a few times, my heart racing as I stared into his eyes. “Yes. I was thinking about the assignment. Sorry.”
He turned and walked away, returning to the lecture as I once again found myself needing a cleansing breath.
Thank God his attitude sucked, or I could have been in real trouble.
Gregory
It grated on me how Savannah continuously challenged me in class. I would never have tolerated it from any other student. Ever. But I’d watched her for the previous two years, and she was an accomplished musician and incredible student. That required some special consideration, but my patience only went so far.
Not to mention that her behavior encouraged others to do the same. Nathan hung onto her every word, apparently enamored with her radiance, and he’d followed her into challenging me in class earlier this week.
Nathan was unlikely to question me again. He left defeated at the end of class, tight-lipped and angry after showing up to our intellectual gunfight with a knife. But the fact was, they were both in for much tougher challenges than me if they intended to be successful. It was my job to help them prepare. I wasn’t enthusiastic about teaching this course, but I’d agreed to it, and I intended to do my best.
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Savannah though ... she was impressive. Two weeks ago I had assigned the class a difficult challenge: to compose a four-minute strict canon. She had followed the assignment to the letter, but then turned it completely upside down, by composing an accompanied canon in contrary motion. Complex. Layered. Exquisite. One of my cello students, Marcia, accompanied her, a flute and cello duet which captured all the complexity of some of the best Baroque music, but also expressed a longing, and a depth of emotion I rarely felt hearing students play.
Her music, even her movements, were imbued with an inherent grace, a beauty I’d seen a hint of during her audition, but had pushed to the back of my mind. I’d never encountered an undergraduate with such depth of skill. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the music blaring from the speakers in the restaurant, instead focusing on the string of notes she’d played.
“Are you even listening to me?”
My eyes flew open. Karin—my date—stared across the table at me, her face twisted in annoyance.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking about something that happened in class.”
I spotted our waiter, a poorly shaven young man. He had a tiny brown spot on his shirt. I waved him down. “Excuse me. Perhaps someone could shut off the ghastly noise coming from the speakers?”
The waiter stood there, dumbstruck. I jerked a finger at the speaker for emphasis, and he said, “I’ll, uh ... talk to the manager.”
Karin said in a teasing voice, “The girls at the office are right ... you really are insufferable sometimes.”
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