Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

  “Let’s go through it once and show Miss Trimble how well you do,” said Nordstrom with the tone of someone talking to a four-year-old. Justina winced at the “Miss.”

  She was about to suggest it would be better to go over the pronunciation to avoid their reinforcing something incorrect, but Nordstrom had already started them. He looked mostly at the score, glancing at the chorus only at their entrances. His hand movements were uniform in size and tempo, doing nothing to change dynamic level or emphasize any of the phrases. He was a metronome and pointer. The students kept their eyes on their scores; a few remembered to look at their conductor at their entrances, the only times he acknowledged they were there. He went through the entire suite without going back over problem spots. Justina waited, wondering why he had not asked her to come ten minutes later. Finally he stopped and looked at her with a big white smile.

  “Not bad,” she said, turning to the chorus and giving them a smile that said, Here now, we remember each other and we like each other. “Now let’s go through it line by line and phrase by phrase and word by word, if that’s what it takes.”

  “I don’t think—” began Nordstrom. “How about if we just ask you about the words we’re not sure of.” He looked at the chorus, nodding with big eyes.

  Minnie raised her hand. “I think we need to hear it all, just to be sure.”

  Nordstrom looked at the floor and rubbed a spot with the toe of his shoe.

  “If that’s okay,” Minnie completed.

  Mr. Nordstrom shook his head and stuck out his lower lip. “Absolutely.” He stepped back with an “it’s all yours” gesture toward the music stand to Justina.

  Justina put the music stand behind her and stood by the front choristers and began. “Ecoutez,” she said, looking at the score, forgetting to do the hand to her ear gesture to make her meaning clear, “et répétez.” She read the first phrase and the students repeated, Minnie watching her carefully, trying to be a good example to the other students. Justina spent five minutes on the first song which, sung, takes only two minutes. She went on to the second song which goes by in half a minute, the tempo is so fast. She spent ten minutes having the students repeat the text, at faster and faster speeds. When she was done, Nordstrom interrupted her.

  “Great! Oh, they sound so much better! Thanks!”

  “You don’t want me to do all of them?”

  He checked his watch. “Maybe another time. Thanks. We need to move on.” He stepped up to his music stand. “Take out the Haydn.”

  Justina gave him back the score and put on her coat. As she went out the door, he called, “Thanks again, Miss Trumbull!” As the door closed behind her, she heard them sing “la mort,” and knew from the context they meant, “l’amour.” Nordstrom did not seem to care if his chorus sang “death” when the composer had written “love.” Michael would be yelling at them right now, she thought, making them want to show the world that the Kennemac Concert Chorus did not confuse love and death, ladies and gentlemen and baritones! She walked back to her office, feeling shitty. At least I’m not in the car, she thought. She scoffed at herself for the melodramatic thought. She would feel better tomorrow, she told herself, or if not, then the day after.

  The winter was old-time harsh and long. The snow record for Boston was nearly met and it snowed for the last time of the season on April twenty-sixth. The daffodils were all right with it though, and the forsythia finally bloomed the weekend after. There was a bunch of daffodils in a beer bottle on the table near the department mailboxes on the following Monday, with an envelope taped to it labeled “Justina Trimble.” Justina found it after giving her Survey final and brought it down to her office.

  She trembled as she opened the note, illogically thinking it was from Michael. No, not illogically, the semester ends this week, she reminded herself. He might be back anytime. She read, “Justina— just a little—” and skipped to the signature. She let out her breath and read the message. “Just a little something to augur a brilliantly flowering summer. Hope your research goes well. James Benn.” The “Benn” was written a little below the “James,” as though added as an afterthought. She turned the note over to see if there was more. What’s with this guy? She put the note in her top drawer and spied all the clippings from Michael peeking out from beneath interdepartmental notices and suddenly her mind brought her an image of him leading his chorus in the Fauré Requiem, then his look when he spotted her in the concert hall afterward, and his look of surprise when Pascale told him Justina had other plans for him. Shame overcame her as she stared at those clippings. She scooped them out and threw them in the trashcan. Why must she always feel bad when she thought of him? The clippings looked worse in the trashcan. She scooped them into her hands, looking for a place to put them, a ringing alarm clock that she did not know how to turn off. She got out a large envelope and put the clippings inside and tied it up and put it in her bottom drawer. Stillness returned, the shame receded for now, and she turned to exam preparation.

  An hour later, a voice startled her. “Hi.” James walked through her open doorway; he had not knocked, for once. Glancing at the daffodils on her desk, he said, “Pascale says, ‘On va bouffer. Tu viens?’”

  She got her purse and brushed past James who stayed in the doorway. “Thanks for the fleurs.”

  “You’re welcome. Justina.”

  It was a fine mid-spring day, if still a little cool, the hybrid azalea-rhododendrons bright pink against the white clapboards, the daffodils lining the walks, and a surreal circle of black tulips around the big granite boulder in front of the library. James seemed to labor to keep his bouncy stride from out-matching Justina’s shorter steps. “You going anywhere this summer?” he asked.

  “Nah, I’ll be staying here. I have some papers to finish. I got a new course in the works for next fall, so I want to clear my board a little.”

  “Me, too.” She wondered what he meant. “I’ll be staying here too.”

  “Taking courses?” she asked.

  “Just one. Down at Harvard.” A wavy-haired girl lumbered by them, hunched over. She turned her pretty face to Justina and said hi. “Research the rest of the time,” finished James.

  “You have a thesis topic already?”

  “Nope. Checking out some ideas.”

  “Sounds good.”

  James held the door for her as they entered the library, smiling, at his own gallantry, she supposed. In the dark corridor a boy banged on the candy machine, fished about in the trough, came up empty and swore. Probably his last dollar, Justina thought, poor guy. They joined the short line in the faculty dining room. James shifted from side to side. “Justina, I was wondering—”

  “Hi, turkey on whole wheat, lettuce, tomato, no cheese.” She turned to James. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

  “Ah, I wanted to know—”

  “Just a little.” The sandwich man put some mayonnaise on the bread. “Too much.” He took some off. “That’s great, thanks.” The man put her sandwich on her tray and she waited for James. He got his sandwich and they went to the cashier. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  He laughed softly. “Just a second.” They each paid and found a table. He sat opposite her. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to the Buñuel film at the Bibliothèque Française with me?”

  “Oh! Belle de Jour? Sure! I’d love to see that!”

  James beamed at this first, stunning success. “Great! Friday?”

  “Okay.”

  His request made, he did not know what else to talk about. He ate his sandwich. Justina smiled to people as they passed by. She smiled at James. His shyness delivered to her the realization that he had just asked her out. She looked around in a panic, feeling like she was floating away. Pascale came hustling up with her tray, and she came back down to the ground. Pascale would tell her what it meant. “Pascale!”

  “Are you done already?” said Pascale, putting down her tray. “No? Good.” She sat next to James and asked Justina
, “Who sent you the flowers?”

  Justina looked wide-eyed at James whose smile vanished when he saw her look of panic.

  “James!” Pascale exclaimed. “You never gave me flowers.”

  “I can’t. You’re my boss.”

  “I’m your married boss. You can give me flowers anytime, don’t be such a—” she kicked Justina, hard, under the table— “nimrod!” she completed. Justina returned her critical look with an imploring one. She finished her lunch quickly and waited impatiently as Pascale bemoaned Mampa’s absence and described what she had planned for his homecoming, putting her hands over James’ ears at the good parts. Pascale finally finished and the women left James with his pickle.

  Pascale waited till they were out the door, then laid into her friend. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. He gave me flowers, I didn’t do anything.”

  “He must have done it for a reason.”

  “He asked me out.”

  “Ah! I knew it! What’d you say?”

  “I said yes.”

  “Nom de Dieu!”

  “It happened so fast. I thought we were just going to a French movie. Then he was so weird and I knew it was a date. To him.”

  Pascale put out a hand and let the forsythia brush her palm as they walked by. “What about you know who?”

  “I know. It felt so weird. I didn’t realize. I feel like we’re still going out.” She looked at Pascale to see if she was crazy.

  “Justina, you are hopeless.” Pascale bumped Justina’s hip as she skirted a steaming, coffee-black pile of pine bark mulch “You might as well go,” she continued.

  “I said I would.”

  “Couldn’t hurt.” Pascale smiled at the daffodils, so welcome for their bright color despite their ugly shape. “Justina, tell me something. Who broke it off, you or Rourke?”

  “Rourke? I thought you were going to ask about Michael.”

  “No, I know you broke up with Michael. Now I’m asking about the cockroach. Did he break up with you?”

  “No. I finally realized that normal people want to be happy, normal people don’t like to be miserable, so I broke up with him.”

  “And the next man you dated was Michael?”

  “Yes. Why? What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.” They went back into Modern Languages, Pascale saluting the French flag pinned to the wall, Justina copying her. “Should have been James.”

  “What?”

  “Your first man after Rourke? Should have been James.”

  “Why?”

  “Rebounds are always transient.” She stopped at her office door. “You have language lab now?”

  “Not till two,” Justina responded.

  “Okay. Guess I’ll go, see if anyone’s studying for their finals.” Pascale went down the hall, her pastel scarf floating like a bevy of butterflies about her shoulders.

  Justina went back into her office. ‘Rebounds are always transient.’ She might as well finish the exam, have one done anyway. She brought the file into her word processor. What the hell’s that mean? If that’s true, then after your first break-up you’re destined to never have a permanent relationship? That woman is so full of merde. Still, I should have known he was asking for a date, I am such a tworp.

  She typed in a test question, and then three more. What if he came back today. What would I do? She stared at the fleur de lis background her computer’s windowing system displayed and saw his shoulders in the gray tweed jacket; in the blue corduroy shirt; in the burgundy jacket; in the tuxedo; bare, with fine little hairs; and finally in Kim’s gray tee shirt, hunched and flinching spasmodically with his deep, hoarse sobs. She blinked her eyes and opened the bottom drawer and looked at the neat envelope, its messy clippings preserved inside.

  Friday night came and Justina kept the date with her former T.A. James was resplendent in a black shirt and jacket and jeans and his brown oxfords. She wanted to drive, but he insisted; she remembered she needed gas and they were running late, so she relented. He was not accustomed to driving in Boston and would not switch lanes if there was a car anywhere near him. They had to circle the Bibliothèque Française three times before finding a parking space. They missed the first fifteen minutes of the film, but they doubted it made any difference, at least they had caught the all-important enigmatic ending. He wanted to go for coffee somewhere after, so they wandered down Newbury Street and found a bookstore with a café still open.

  It was Newbury Street and James was a grad student, and he had already paid for the film, under her protest, so she insisted on paying for the coffee, really, James, otherwise I will feel very bad. He was disappointed, but he did not want her mad at him, so he gave in. She bought them a couple of espressos and some biscotti and they sat at a tiny table and felt very smart, for about five minutes.

  His brain was abuzz with strategy. What do I say? What should I do? How do I build up to the goodnight kiss later? He decided to ask her what she thought the ending meant, and he would try to touch her hand, somehow, before they left the place.

  “Hm,” she pondered. “It could mean that it was all a dream. Or it could mean that she’s going to go back to prostitution. Or, my personal favorite, nothing at all!”

  “Nothing at all!” Now, take her hand now! “You don’t mean that.”

  His touch registered in her arched eyebrows. A surprisingly warm touch, it made her tingle a little, even. But it was only James. She slipped her hand out from under his.

  “Come on, James! Don’t you think Buñuel’s cracking up to think people are sitting in cafés on Newbury Street talking about what his film means? As though there’s one meaning, and if you were enough of a genius you could find it and argue its truth irrefutably?”

  “I never said it only has one meaning,” he said, looking out the window.

  “All right, no, you’re right. What’s it mean to you?”

  He did not want to talk about it anymore. She made him feel like a kid. “Nothing at all,” he said and smiled.

  He has a nice smile, she admitted. Can I go home now? “I better not drink any more of this, I’ll never get to sleep tonight.” If it were Michael sitting there, he’d be giving me a look right now. James took a bite of one of the cookies.

  “Try one of the biscotti,” he said, offering her the plate. He watched her take a bite, and thought of sex. “What are your papers on?” She told him the tentative titles, he remarked on the diversity of the topics: a comparison of terms of endearment in European French and Canadian French; a comparison of Kerouac and Villon; a survey of French language newspapers in New England. “You sending them to conferences?”

  “If they shape up enough. Otherwise they’ll be just college reports. I need to get published again, obviously, to give me more grants clout.”

  “I’ll be happy to help with the research. I’ll be going to Harvard three times a week this summer.”

  “I’ve been going there.” They talked about the wonderful Widener Library at Harvard and what their library needed, and whether it would be necessary to have so many large libraries in the future, with the Internet changing everything. Justina did most of the talking, and James watched her face intently. He’s flirting with me. It’s kind of nice, in a Jamesian sort of way.

  The college kid working the counter went to lock the door to keep anyone else from coming in. They took the hint and left. Out on the sidewalk, James walked with his hands in his coat pockets and kept brushing against her with his shoulder and she realized he wanted her to take his arm. He did not make her want to, and they finally arrived at his car. He unlocked the door and opened it for her; she got in quickly. She did not really want to talk to him anymore, but it was almost an hour’s ride back home, so she asked him about his undergraduate work. He had spent a year in France, too, in a different city than she had, but they had visited some of the same spots so they talked about that. It turned out they had been in France the same year, she as a junior, he as a sophomore.


  “We must be almost the same age!” he effused.

  “Guess so,” said Justina, tired of the age game.

  “I’m twenty-five,” he prompted.

  “Yup, almost the same.”

  “You’re not going to tell me?” he laughed, pretending to be offended.

  She sighed. “I’m twenty-six, okay?”

  “Whoa! That’s amazing!” She turned her tired face to him. “No, all this time, I thought you were thirty. Oh, no, I mean, you seemed like you should be thirty, but you couldn’t be, you don’t look that old.” She looked peeved. “Oh, God, why do I say these things?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “The whole world obsesses over my age, it seems. At least, they used to.”

  He asked her about her family, whether she had brothers and sisters. As she did not ask about his, he offered: he had two brothers, one older, one younger. She realized she had not been playing right and asking about him, so she remarked that she could have guessed he was a middle child.

  “Really? You guessed it? How could you tell?” he asked, elated.

  “You’re just so go along, I guess. Operating behind the scenes, getting stuff done, never looking for any credit.”

  “You make me sound like a drone.”

  “No, it’s nice to be like that. World needs people like that. Not everybody can be a star.”

  He went quiet.

  She was glad for the silence, the conversation had seemed like a strident, out of tune composition to her, not unbearable, just, not original, not pleasing, not inspired. They arrived at her apartment.

  He turned off the car. “Are you tired?” he asked softly, suddenly afraid to do more than sneak a peek at her.

  “Yeah, actually. Thanks for the movie.”

  “Thanks for the coffee. And biscotti.”

  She smiled, stifling a yawn. “Goodnight.” She opened the door and got out.