"Just take a card and get in line," he commanded in his thin, nasal voice as the students arrived. "After the first cut, we will be taking names. Until then, numbers will suffice." He scowled at some of the candidates as if to say, "Why waste your time and ours?"
Most of the girls paid no attention to him; they strained their necks and twisted every which way to get a glimpse of Michael Sutton, who was standing near the piano with his back to us and gazing down at some sheet music.
"How many students will be in Mr. Sutton's class?" Trisha asked as she took a number card for herself and for me.
"Six," Richard replied.
"Six! Only six," she moaned.
"Will, it be three girls and three boys?" one of the girls behind me asked.
"It won't be determined by sex; it will be determined by talent," Richard said and shook his head. "Where do you think you are, summer camp?"
Those students who heard his reply laughed. The girl who asked the questions shrunk down behind the students in front of her. Satisfied with himself, Richard Taylor strutted toward the front of the line and then tapped Michael Sutton on the shoulder. He turned and looked our way.
I had seen pictures of him in magazines and newspapers, of course, but nothing compared to seeing him in person. He stood a little over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a trim waist. His dark, silky hair was brushed neatly on the sides with the front flowing back in a soft, gentle wave. He looked casually elegant in his white shirt and gray slacks. As he gazed over the line of hopeful candidates, his smile widened and warmed, those dark sapphire eyes sparkling with an impish glint. He had the most glamorously white smile I'd ever seen—it was like watching someone step out of a movie.
We had heard that Michael Sutton had just flown in from the French Riviera, which accounted for his even, rich tan. I heard the sighs of girls ripple down the line in an undulating wave of "ooh's and aah's."
I thought he was easily the handsomest man I had ever seen in person. Just gazing at him made me tremble and quickened my heartbeat. I was sure 'I would make a total fool of myself when it came time to sing for him. Maybe, I would be incapable of uttering a sound and would just open and close my mouth. The thought of it made me redden and I felt my cheeks grow very hot. Agnes had been right. I was certainly glad I wasn't at the head of the line. I pitied the girl who was.
"Hi, everybody," he said. "We're just about ready to begin." He had a soft and melodious voice with just a hint of an English accent. "First, let me thank you all for coming. Seeing so many of you here doesn't hurt my ego one bit, I can tell you that," he said and there was light laughter.
"I wish I could take all of you," he said, his face turning serious, "but obviously, that's not possible. I might choose one or two of you simply for the sake of variety, so nothing that happens here is meant to be a definitive comment on your talents and abilities. If you don't work with me this semester, I'm sure you will work with other capable teachers, maybe even more capable teachers than I."
He slapped his hands together and I saw the thin, elegant gold watch on his left wrist.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen," he continued, "I'll give you a start on this, one at a time," he said, indicating his tuning harmonica, "and I would like you to run up and down the scales for me."
He asked the first student to step forward. It grew very quiet, so still I could hear the deep breathing around me. He gave her the note and she did her scales. When she was halfway through, he said thank you and asked the next candidate to step forward. The line moved very quickly and before I knew it, I was going to be next.
I noticed Michael Sutton's eyes swing from the boy ahead of me to me. Terrified, I made my eyes flee from his long, searching look, afraid he would see how nervous I was. When I looked back at him, he was smiling. He listened to the boy for a moment and thanked him. Then he spun around to face me completely, his full, sensual lips open. For a long moment, he simply stared at me, drinking me in from head to foot. Numbness tingled in my fingers, perhaps because I had my fingers locked in so tightly together.
"All right," he said and brought his tuning harmonica to his lips to give me a note.
I started to sing and felt my throat tighten. I stopped immediately.
"That's all right," he said softly. "Try again."
This time I did my scales as best I could. When I was finished he merely nodded and I felt my heart sink. I hadn't realized just how much I'd hoped to be in his class until this moment.
"Thank you, number thirty-nine," he said and I stepped aside.
When everyone in the line had performed, Michael conferred with Richard Taylor. Then Richard stepped forward and held a sheet up before him.
"These people please remain. The rest of you, thank you," he said curtly, and then read out the numbers. Halfway through the list I heard my number called out. I couldn't believe my ears. So many students had sounded better than I had, and so many weren't as nervous and looked like they would make better students and singers. Trisha squeezed my arm.
"You lucky thing," she said enviously.
"There's still the second cut," I reminded her.
"You're going to make it. Good luck," she said and left with the other disappointed, rejected candidates.
The next step in the audition was to give Richard the sheet music for the piece we wanted to sing so he could accompany us while Michael Sutton listened, sitting in the rear of the auditorium with his pen and notebook in hand. I had decided I would sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," the song I had sung successfully at the music concert when I had attended Emerson Peabody in Richmond.
This time around, we had to announce our names and our song titles.
"Dawn Cutler," I declared. "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."'
Once I began my song, the same thing happened to me that always happens when I sing. I forgot where I was and who was listening. I was alone, possessed by my music. All my vision and concentration went into the perfection of those notes. I traveled on a magic carpet of melody that carried me up and away from worry and pain. I forgot the past and the present. I was like an eagle soaring in the wind, obsessed and infatuated with her own ability to fly. Not the clouds, nor the stars, nothing seemed too far away.
I didn't open my eyes again until I had finished. For a moment there was a deep silence and then there was applause. The other candidates were clapping enthusiastically, forgetting for the moment that we were all competing for only six positions. I looked back at Michael Sutton. He was smiling and nodding.
"Next," he called.
Again, after everyone was finished, Michael conferred with Richard Taylor. This time, however, Michael Sutton stepped forward himself to make the announcement.
"I can't tell you all what a wonderful experience this audition has been for me," he said. "I am impressed with just how much talent there is here. And, very pressed to make a decision. But, alas, it has to be done," he added and turned to his note pad. "The following students will please remain so we can discuss your schedules," he said and then he read off the names.
My name was the last to be called out, but when I heard it, I felt my heart burst with joy. I had been chosen, selected out of all these other talented students to work with someone famous. What are you going to say and think when you hear about this, Grandmother Cutler? I wondered. Never in your wildest thoughts that horrible day when we confronted each other in your office did you even imagine that I would achieve so much. I was one of Madame Steichen's prize piano pupils, already practicing the piece I would play at Performance Weekend this year, and now, I was one of six special students selected to work with Michael Sutton!
Your revenge has become a double edge sword with the sharper end pressing toward you, Grandmother Cutler.
"Please give Richard the schedules of your other classes, your required classes," Michael Sutton said, forcing me out of my hateful thoughts, "so we can plan out your private lessons. We will meet only once a week as a group. The rest of the time, I w
ill work alone with each of you," he finished, his gaze resting on me for such a long moment that I got nervous and had to look away.
After I gave Richard my schedule, I started out. Two of the other music teachers had come in to speak with Michael, but he looked away from them and nodded and smiled at me as I started toward the doorway. I smiled back, my heart racing. Then, I tripped over one of my sneaker laces that had come loose and fell forward, catching myself just before falling on my face.
"Are you all right?" Michael called and started toward me.
"Yes," I said quickly and ran out, feeling like a complete fool. The blood had rushed into my face and I was so flushed and embarrassed, I couldn't wait to get away.
Trisha was waiting for me in the lobby.
"You made it, didn't you? I knew you would. You're going to have to tell me every little detail about every moment of your private lessons," she ordered. "I want to know everything he says to you."
"Oh Trisha, he probably thinks I'm just a little idiot. I nearly fell on my face just now while I was gaping at him stupidly on my way out!" I cried.
"Really? How exciting. See, something's happened already," she said. How she could amaze me with the way she could twist and turn things around. All I could do is laugh and go along with her.
Later that day, I had to return to the school for my summer hour lesson with Madame Steichen. I told her about my being chosen to be in Michael Sutton's class, but she didn't seem too happy about it. We had gotten on friendly enough terms so that I felt I could ask her why she had smirked when I told her.
"He is not classical," she said. "He is not a true artist; he is a-performer."
"I don't understand the difference, Madame Steichen," I said.
"You will, my dear Dawn. Someday, you will," she predicted and insisted we not waste a moment more of her precious time discussing nonsense.
After my lesson with Madame Steichen, I gathered up my sheet music and started out slowly, thinking that since I had plenty of time to get back to the apartment house before dinner, there was no point in rushing. Anyway, I felt like enjoying the remainder of the warm, late August afternoon. A cool breeze off the East River caressed my face. Above me, milk-white, tiny clouds looked like little puffs of whip cream dripped over a frosting of deep blue sky. I sat on one of the wooden benches and closed my eyes to breathe in the scent of roses and marigolds and pansies. The perfumed air and warm sunlight took me back to happy, carefree thoughts. I saw myself as a little girl, skipping rope and singing one of the rope skipping songs I had learned from girls a few years older.
"My mother, your mother, lives across the way, two fourteen, East Broadway. Every night they have a fight and this is what they say . . ."
I couldn't help but laugh at the memories now.
"Must be a very funny thought," I heard someone say and opened my eyes to see Michael Sutton standing in front of me and looking down at me with a slight smile over his lips. He carried a slim, leather briefcase in his right hand.
"Oh, I . . ."
"You don't have to explain," he said, laughing. "I don't mean to intrude."
"Oh, it's not an intrusion," I sputtered. "I was just startled."
He nodded and held his briefcase with two hands before him.
"So how was your piano lesson today?" he asked. I was surprised that he remembered my schedule so well.
"I think it went all right, although Madame Steichen is very frugal when it comes to compliments. She believes a true artist doesn't need to have others tell her when she is doing well; she knows it herself, instinctively."
"Poppycock," Michael Sutton said, leaning toward me. "Everyone needs to be stroked, to be told he or she is doing well. We all have egos that have to be petted like little kittens. When you do well, I will let you know; and when you don't, I will let you know that, too."
He straightened up again and looked back down the pathway. I held my breath. We were talking as if we had known each other for a long time. He seemed so relaxed and not at all aloof and full of conceit as I had assumed celebrities would be.
"I'm on my way to have a cup of cappuccino at a small café just around the corner. Would you care to join me?" he asked. For a moment I just stared up at him. It was as if I had to have the words translated. He smiled and tilted his head slightly. What was cappuccino? I wondered. Was it wine?
"Cappuccino?" I said.
"You could have a regular cup of coffee, instead, if you like," he said.
"Oh. Yes," I said quickly. "Thank you."
He waited a moment.
"You will have to get up if you are going to join me," he pointed out.
"Oh. Yes," I laughed and jumped up. We started toward the gate.
"So, you live in one of the school-approved residences nearby," he said as we walked.
"Yes," I said; suddenly feeling quite tongue-tied.
"And do you like living in New York?" he asked. As we turned a corner he took hold of my arm. I would have expected such a gesture would make me nervous and embarrassed but instead I found myself relaxing and feeling surprisingly safe.
"It's fun," I said, in answer to his question. "But it takes getting used to."
"My favorite city is London. You must see it one day. In London one walks in the shadow of places built centuries ago, and yet the modern world is all around you, too."
"That does sound exciting," I said.
"Haven't you traveled much?" he asked.
"Not outside the United States, no," I replied.
"Really? I thought all the students here were very sophisticated travelers," he said and I thought now he will think less of me. "But then again," he said, stopping and turning to me, "what I noticed most about you in the audition was your innocence, it seemed so sweet." We stopped walking and when I turned to him to see why he was staring at my face so intently, my heart began to flutter wildly. I found myself looking into his eyes and unable to pull my gaze away. "You have the look of someone about to be discovered, and about to discover," he said, so softly I could scarcely hear him. He raised his hand and for a moment that seemed to last an hour I thought he was going to touch my face. Then he lowered his hand to his side. "And yet," he continued, "there's something else behind those blue eyes, some wisdom that suggests you have had perhaps very painful experiences. I'm intrigued." His eyes still held mine and he seemed to drink me in. Then the moment passed and he suddenly turned away.
"Here we are," he said, leading me into the café and to a corner table. When the waitress asked if we wanted our cappuccinos with cinnamon or chocolate, I had to confess I had never had one before and didn't know which to choose.
"You look like you would like the chocolate," Michael said and gave her the order. "Tell me more about yourself. I like to get to know my students personally. I've read your file, of course, and I know you're from Virginia and your family owns a famous resort. I've never been there. What's it like?" he asked and I described the hotel and the ocean and the small seaside village of Cutler's Cove. He listened attentively, his eyes rarely leaving my face as I spoke. Occasionally, he nodded and asked about something else. I didn't speak in great detail about my family, except to say they were usually very busy with the work at the hotel.
"1 haven't seen my parents for a long, long time," he said sadly. "I've been on tour, as you know. The life of a performer, a well-known performer," he added, "is very complicated. Things the rest of humanity take for granted are very rare for us. For example, I can't remember when I last had a holiday dinner with my family. I always seem to be on the road when these things come up."
He looked over his steaming cup of cappuccino and fixed his eyes on mine, which were now filled with sympathy and surprise. I never imagined that someone as famous and successful as Michael Sutton would have such unhappy thoughts. In every picture taken of him, he always looked like he was on top of the world, smiling down at the envious and the adoring.
"Yes," he said suddenly, nodding, "there is something very diff
erent about you, from your name to those blue eyes that continually change shades to match what you're thinking."
I started to blush, but he reached out and put his hand over mine.
"Don't change," he said so fiercely he surprised me with his vehemence. "Be yourself and don't let others make you over into what they expect or want you to be. When you sang for me today, you became your own person, your own special person living in your music. It pumps your blood around. I know; I have the same feelings when I sing, and the moment I saw you, saw someone who reminded me of myself, I knew I had discovered my star pupil."
Was I really sitting here listening to Michael Sutton tell me I had the potential to be a singing star? I wondered. Or was this only a dream? In a moment I will wake up and it will just be morning and Trisha and I will start debating what to wear to the audition.
I closed my eyes and then opened them, but Michael Sutton didn't disappear. He was still there, sitting across from me, gazing at me with enough admiration to make my heart pound. His eyes were laughing, full of sparkling lights as he templed his fingers beneath his chin and smiled.
"You look like you're about to cry," he said. I swallowed back my tears of happiness.
"It's just nice to hear you compare me to you," I said. He nodded and leaned back, gazing toward the doorway of the café a moment.
"Well," he finally said, "I think when you have been blessed with a talent and have been able to be successful all over the world, you have an obligation to help others who have been blessed with talent.
"That," he said, turning back to me with a fire in his eyes now that made my heart quicken, "is why I have agreed to spend my time teaching at the Bernhardt School. I knew I would find not only talented young people here, but also young people who needed guidance and the advice of someone who has traveled the hard, high road.
"And that's why I think it's important for me to be personal, informal with my students, my special students," he emphasized. "If I can't give them the benefits of my experience, what good is it?
Secrets of the Morning Page 12