by Amy Lapwing
Upstairs Justina was singing a song from the last James Taylor album. Her voice registered on Michael’s unconscious and he hummed with her as he went into the kitchen. He sliced a bagel in half and put it in the toaster. He took down two of the greenware mugs Justina had bought in Santa Ana a few years ago on one of their trips home, filled one with hot water and put it in the microwave. His singing broke through his humming as he buttered the bagel.
“But love grows old
and waxes cold
and fades away
like summer dew.”
He put an English muffin in the toaster for Justina and set the table.
Justina came down, all dressed, her hair dried and brushed, and got spreads from the refrigerator: cream cheese, apple butter and raspberry preserves. Humming the song’s chorus, she brought them to the table whose red legs she had painted like a Sarchí oxcart, in a swirling floral pattern of greens, bright blues, pink, orange and white. She got their breads and Michael brought her tea and his coffee and sat with her. He sang, “a boat that can carry two—” and she sang the last line with him— “and both shall row, my love and I,” crazily wobbling her voice and shaking her head on the last note. She picked up her knife and spread one half of her muffin with apple butter, while he began to spread cream cheese on his bagel.
“How’s the chorus shaping up this year?” she asked, smearing the other half of her muffin with raspberry preserves.
He stopped spreading and scowled at his bagel. Picking up the tub of cream cheese he read the label, and squinted at her.
Justina raised her eyebrows and lowered the corners of her mouth.
Michael went to the refrigerator and brought back another tub of cream cheese, harumphing, “It’s Wednesday, real day,” and he scraped off the emasculated healthy spread and retreaded his bagel with genuine cream cheese.
“Got any stand-outs?” Justina persisted.
He topped the delicious stuff with glops of raspberry preserves. “Maybe. Orsini and Calix,” he answered, opening the arts section and folding it on the table to read as he ate. “And Grace Hardy, when she’s not in one of her moods.”
“What do you mean?” said Justina.
“You know how she is,” he said, trying to read.
“I know how she is with me. She’s a smart girl, she has good insights, sometimes. She makes me work hard at defending my interpretations.” Justina waited for him to respond. “How is she with you?” she prompted. He kept reading. “Hello?”
He came out of the story about an up-and-coming baritone who was managing to find enough work in Boston. “Hm?”
His eyes were so big as he looked at her, his face looked shrunken, almost wizened, in comparison. She felt a touch of misgiving: he was getting old. No, he isn’t, she corrected herself, fifty is not old. But some people do look old at fifty, have to admit.
“I’m sorry,” he said in response to her silence, “what did you say?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
He sat back in his chair and looked at her. She wanted him to talk to her. They had been talking about Grace. He did not want to talk about Grace. “Have you talked to Pascale? Did she go home yesterday?”
“Yup,” said Justina, snapping at her muffin. “I invited them over for Sunday.”
“For dinner?”
“Yeah, but she said the morning might be better, so I thought we’d eat around noon.”
“Did you give them the present yet?”
“We’ll give it to them on Sunday.”
“Okay,” he said and sat looking at her, trying to gauge her mood. She was staring out the window, cradling her mug of tea. He sighed. “She arrives late, she doesn’t like the pieces I give her to learn.”
“Does she have to?”
“And she talks fresh to me.” At her look of surprise he said, “Sometimes.”
“Like what? What does she say?”
“I don’t know, only, she doesn’t care what I say. Really, I start to wonder why she takes lessons.”
“How does she do, when she does sing?”
“Wonderful. Really, really, remarkable. It’s very, very gratifying, when she is working.”
“Then, give her a reason to work.”
“Her voice is her reason to work. And because she loves to sing. What other reason there is?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s forgotten it. Remind her.”
He sat hunched over, his lips compressed, wondering how to remind his student of her own passion. He raised his eyebrows and jutted his chin out: who knows? He took a sip from his mug, his eyes falling to the paper and then flicking back to her.
She snorted and smiled at him and asked for a section. He gave her the first pages, and turned the page of the arts section. “Oh,” he moaned, “that’s too bad.”
“What?”
“They have Vlatil doing Otello this weekend.”
“I thought you loved Otello.”
“I do. But Vlatil, please!”
She asked, “Is he one of the Spanish tenors?”
“No! If you knew any Spanish at all, you would know that Vlatil is not a Spanish name.”
“I know manzana,” she retorted.
“Only because we live surrounded by apple orchards.”
“Everybody studied Spanish in high school.”
“Everybody except you.”
“I wanted to be different.”
He resumed reading, or pretending to. “You study languages that you don’t speak them with nobody,” he said.
“I speak French with Pascale.”
“And Portuguese, Romanian? Dalmatian?”
“That’ll be real handy when Croatian refugees hit Southern New Hampshire.”
He turned the page. “You’re an exoticist.”
“No,” she said, batting her eyes at the ceiling, “that’s not a word.”
“Spanish isn’t exotic enough for you. Just happens to be your husband’s mother tongue. The language which it is he is the most at home in.”
She shrugged. “One of these days.” He was reading. “So what don’t you like about Vlatil?” she asked, knowing he wanted to tell her.
“His lower register, it’s like,” he said, searching, “spitting pebbles at a window.” He imitated the ugly sound: “eh-eh-eh-eh!” He looked at her. “Five minutes, that’s all it would take—”
“Here we go,” she interrupted.
“Vlatil, listen for five minutes and enthrall us all forever and ever after.”
“Don’t tune in, then.”
“What do you mean, ‘here we go?’” he said with annoyance.
“Whoops.”
“I’ve seen it before, what Vlatil is doing. I’ve fixed it, in other singers.”
“I know, you’ve told me.”
“It’s such a simple thing. And no one has showed him. It drives me mad.”
She turned the page and tried to read a story about the post-Luis rebuilding efforts in Antigua. “‘Enthrall.’ Now that’s a word,” she said, hoping she was funny.
“You don’t understand. It’s a shame. I could sing this better than Vlatil,” he went on, giving her another chance to respond satisfactorily.
“So could I!” she said, to be loyal.
“No, I could,” he persisted. “I mean, musically, it’s the perfect role for my voice.”
“Right. Fifteen years ago, maybe.” Shit. He was looking awfully interested in whatever article he was reading, examining it intently. She saw he was not really reading, he looked too earnest, too vulnerable, his shoulders hunched as he grasped the paper, his eyes on the print and his mind far away. She went to stand behind him and put her arms around his neck. “You are a superb teacher, Michael. Really, I think you are brilliant with the students.”
He stiffened at her obvious attempt to placate him. “Don’t you have a class or something?”
She hanged her head at her failure. He turned the page noisily and she took her plate to the sink. “Wan
t some more coffee?” she mewed.
He tsked at himself and put the paper down. “Come here,” he said and pushed his chair away from the table. She was still rinsing the dishes. “Come here,” he coaxed. He had her sit on his lap and circled her hips with his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, it’s me,” she said, trying to look contrite.
“No, it was my fault.”
“I hurt your feelings, it was my fault.”
“Okay, it was your fault,” he conceded.
She laughed, “Unh!” and he pulled her close. “Are you still crazy about me?” she murmured.
“Off the deep end,” he answered. “Do you still try to love me a little bit?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I think I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
“You are improving?”
“Don’t you think so?”
He let his gaze wander over her face. “How long it has been?”
“You mean how long have we been married? I believe we’re coming up on five years.”
“So long?” He sat back and yelled, “Oh!”
“It’s not that long,” she said.
“Oh, yes it is! If we make it to our anniversary, I will buy you a wonderful present. A very costly present.”
“A normal, moderately costly present will be fine.”
“What else I will do with my prize?”
She looked at him out of the sides of her eyes. “What prize?”
“The prize I will win from Charles.”
“You have a bet with him?”
He opened his eyes wide in mirth and greed.
She got up from his lap. “You are a dead man.” She got her briefcase and floated down the hall to get her jacket.
He grinned and got his briefcase and followed her. “Who drives?” he called.
There was no putting it off any longer. It was the reason she had come here. On Wednesday morning, after returning phone calls and planning in her mind the day’s work— re-run test cases to verify bug fixes new in today’s code, meet with her manager to discuss testing progress, meet with her team to decide what new test cases to develop— Teresa sat down with her dark blue ODB— “Quality Sells!”— mug of coffee and composed an email message on her computer. It was a short note, just informing him that she was here, not asking to meet him. She would wait to see how he responded to this pebble upon his window. She reread the text of her note and felt convinced that she sounded cordial and friendly, no more. She verified she had spelled the “Send to” line correctly, and pressed the Enter key. An information box popped up on her screen: “Message sent to [email protected].”
Chapter Three
Odd Gift
“All right, all right.” Mr. C was clapping his hands to quiet the chorus. Paul Fortinbras could barely hear the clapping; it was the shushing of the voices around him that stopped him. He was glad to stop, he was getting lost. And he was still wondering if he really was a tenor, as Mr. C had decided upon hearing him the first day. Paul thought he had sucked on the high notes. He liked how he sounded on the lower notes, he could feel them coming out of his mouth and hovering in the air. He wished Mr. C had pronounced, “Baritone,” it was a much better-sounding word.
“People, this is a love song!” Mr. C was looking at them as if they had just said three quarter notes added up to a whole note. “Ladies,” he continued, “you have ‘Pleasant is the season, O maidens; now rejoice together, young men.’” He was smiling angelically; he abruptly switched to a scowl. “You are moribund! Are you at a funeral? Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice about what?”
A few people giggled, but nobody said anything. Paul looked over at the sopranos; they were trying to hide their smiles in their necks. Except Grace; she had on a tired expression, her lids half-closed, waiting. She did not wait for Mr. C to lead her. Where would she want to be, if she were not here, he wondered?
Mr. C continued his pep talk. “It’s spring! The season of love! Men—” He turned to the tenors and baritones and basses, lessening the wide-eyed look he had given the women, coming across more business-like. “You sing, ‘Oh, oh, I blossom now with pure love. I am on fire.’” He drove his fist into the air. “I am on fire!”
Paul glanced at Grace; she pursed her lips and lowered her brows as her friend Magda giddily whispered something to her.
“You are on fire!” exhorted Mr. C, both fists in the air. “Tenors, at one thirty-eight, you have—” His voice rang through the room, stunning them with its brilliance and volume, as he sang the tenors’ part. “Sing it!” he commanded.
Paul sat up straighter and sang with his section, pushing his voice with a greater volume than he usually used, not convinced that loudness was what was required. Yes, Mr. C’s voice was loud, but something else. Beautiful. Paul knew his own voice was not beautiful, at least not at a high volume. He did not really know how to sing. He dared to look away from his music as he sang the easy “novus, novus, novus amor est—” ‘love is new—’ and glanced at Grace. She was whispering hurriedly to her friend. He hoped he would learn, this year.
“Quo pereo! Quo pereo! Quo pereo!” sang the tenors. I die of it! I die of it! I die of it!
Mr. C’s loud clapping interrupted them just before the finish. “You two!” he called with irritation. He was looking at Grace and Magda. Grace seemed surprised for a second at the scolding, before her expression settled in its usual blasé mask. Magda opened her mouth and shook her head, she looked like she was going to say something. Mr. C said, “Let me hear you!” He nodded to the affrighted accompanist who played the soprano note at number one thirty-eight. Grace and Magda flipped through their scores, looking for their place.
“Where are we, gentlemen?” asked Mr. C.
“One thirty-eight!” answered the tenors, except for Paul, who kept his eyes on Grace. She will be glorious.
Grace found her place, set her mind on the starting note as the accompanist played it again, and sang at the soprano entrance. Magda joined her a note late, but it did not matter, Grace carried them both. Her tone was clear and neither light nor dark. Her voice made Paul think of a piece of cake he once tasted at a wedding. He had expected it to be all right, but it had been wonderful, sweet but not cloyingly so, with a texture that his mouth never quite learned so that each bite tasted new. The part ended and she stopped; her breathing was rapid, she kept her eyes on her music and did not dare to look at her director until he said, “Brava!” his eyes fixed on her, as though he was trying to remember where he had seen her before. His bonhomie returned and he praised the two of them.
“Che brave! As were the tenors, had you cared to listen.”
There, she looked properly chastened now; Magda was looking guilty as if she had gotten Grace into trouble. But Grace did not look disgraced. She studied her music with a focused air. Paul marveled at the change in those brief moments, from jaded and impatient to inspired and tractable. Was it simply the music?
“Let’s do the children’s chorus,” said Mr. C. “‘Amor volat undique.’” The chorus ruffled pages as they looked for the spot. Someone called out the page number and the ruffling soon stopped. Mr. C turned to his right and looked at the visiting children sitting together, their music on their laps.
“All right, people, first of all, sit up straight and hold your music up, as high as you can and still see me.” Some wise-acres held their music over their heads.
“Very funny. You are very funny fellows. Now, shall we get to work?”
The children stifled smiles as they looked at each other and complied, holding their music in front of them. “Do we know what this song means?” The children stared wide-eyed at him. “It is about dancing. Dancing is fun, isn’t it?” Some of the children nodded. “And if you want to dance and someone says, no, you can’t, it’s not much fun, is it?” A few shrugs. “All right, I translate, I don’t tell it very well.” He turned subtly to the young adults and translated the text for their benefit. “‘Love flies everywhere and is seized
with desire; young men and women are matched together; if a girl lacks a partner she misses all the fun; in the depths of her heart is darkest night; it is a bitter fate.’” He turned again to the children. “There, now you understand?” A few slow, shy headshakes. “Doesn’t matter. Just pretend it means your mother said you can’t go to your best friend’s birthday party.” The children, surprisingly, sat up and exchanged serious looks and then looked at Mr. C with grave, intelligent expressions. Mr. C raised his eyebrows to the accompanist then interrupted himself, “No, wait!” He looked to the children and said, “Joshua, could you give us the soprano note, please?”
Paul looked up and down the rows of children to see who Mr. C had spoken to. He heard a young voice sing, “Ah!” and found the source: a boy on the far end of the first row, with dark brown bowl-cut hair and over-big brown eyes and round cheeks. He was a beautiful little boy, with a solid, stocky build.
The children almost inaudibly hummed the note furnished by the boy soprano and Mr. C led them on their song. Their tone was refreshingly free of the breathy quality common to most children’s choruses. Suddenly the boy soprano clapped his hands over his ears and pressed, his elbows out at right angles to his head, bumping the girl next to him, his music falling to the floor. He glared at Mr. C who simply pointed to him with a reprimand in his eyes. Joshua took his hands off his ears and picked up his music.
When the children had finished, Mr. C enthused, “Good! Good! But you are a little under the pitch on the D, on the a-mor and on the vo-lat.” He sang the line for them. A few of them hummed the correction. He had them sing it again, twice. Paul thought he could hear Joshua sing louder than the others, trying to haul them all up to a perfect D, and two notes later the B-flat, with him.
“All right,” said Mr. C. He glanced at the wall clock and turned to the rest of the chorus. “Practice—”
“Practice, practice!” completed the choristers.
“And when you’re done—” prompted Mr. C.
“Start practicing!” shouted the chorus and they scraped their chairs and slapped their scores onto their other books and prepared to leave, a chattering hubbub growing in the room. Paul descended the risers and made his way around people to the soprano section. Today. No pain, no gain. Now, right now. He stopped a short distance from Grace as people passed in front of him. He overheard her conversation with her accomplice in mayhem.