“Some joke!” Palmer shoved Groendal, nearly restarting the fracas.
“Wait a minute!” Koesler stepped more firmly between them.
“What’s this to you, anyway, Koesler? This isn’t your fight,” Palmer protested.
Koesler had more altruistic reasons than either Palmer or Groendal would comprehend. So Robert alleged a more mundane, if no less true, motive. “’Cause I’ve got a stake in this thing, too. If you,” to Groendal, “injure him, I’m out one-half of my duet and I won’t get to perform. And if you,” speaking to Palmer, “injure him, I’m gonna have to learn ‘The Flight of the Bumblebee’ overnight. You heard Sister!”
Both Palmer and Groendal found Koesler’s reasons too laughable to pursue a fight neither of them really wanted. But they were in no way over their ill feelings toward each other.
“Okay . . . but this isn’t the end of this, Ridley,” Palmer said. “You can bet your bottom dollar on that! We’re not done!”
“Suit yourself, hotshot. Any time!”
And thus they parted.
After an uneasy evening and a night filled with portentous dreams, Koesler began the next day in an exhausted state. His parochial morning Mass was marked by the sort of prayer one expected from the trenches. Still, there was nothing he could pinpoint. Just a general feeling that this day might well see an event that would have lasting and horrible consequences. He went through morning classes in a kind of trance.
The students who were to perform in the orchestra and/or one of the recital numbers were excused from afternoon classes.
Koesler’s apprehension was not alleviated when Sister Mary George announced that representatives from Interlochen Arts Academy would attend the recital. She said it with a glint in her eye that was meant for David Palmer.
Unfortunately, her ambiguous statement was intercepted by Ridley Groendal. He considered himself easily qualified and deserving of a scholarship to Interlochen. This was his chance, his golden opportunity. He had anticipated this moment. He would not let it slip by. As far as he was concerned, his entire future hung on his performance today. He was ready. His overwhelming craving for this scholarship completely emptied his mind even of all thoughts of David Palmer.
Koesler, seated near Groendal, somehow sensed Ridley’s reaction to Sister’s announcement. Koesler’s forebodings intensified. He knew for whom the scouts came. In a sense, he was happy for Palmer. David deserved the best possible musical training and his parents certainly needed the aid of a scholarship. In that, their financial situation was no different from nearly all the families of that lower middle-class section of the city.
The Groendals could have used a scholarship too. Ridley came so close to qualifying. But close was as near as he would come. Tragically, Groendal’s proximity to an Interlochen free ride put him, at least in his own mind, in competition with Palmer. It was a competition Ridley was doomed to lose.
In all, Koesler was grateful that his small talents did not qualify him for Interlochen, not even as a paying student. Not the type who was driven to win at any cost, he was better off out of the competition.
Gradually, the audience—mostly mothers, occasionally a father, of the performers—gathered in the auditorium. There were quite a few guests no one could place. More than likely, they were just interested parishioners responding to the notice of the recital in the previous Sunday’s parish bulletin. But somewhere among those strangers were the Interlochen scouts.
Their presence had different effects on different people. Nervous amateurs became more apprehensive. The more talented performers became a bit more keyed-up. But none more-so than Groendal and Palmer. If there is a single moment that dictates the remainder of one’s life, this was that moment for each of them.
The orchestra opened the program. It was as Koesler had suspected: They did not “get away” with “In a Persian Market.” Never had the beggars of that piece been more in need of help.
The recital began at the bottom with the youngest students. Some few forgot their memorized sections midway through and fled the stage in tears. Others, particularly considering their tender ages, did quite well.
“Which ones do you think they are, Bob?”
Koesler was startled. Peeking at the audience from the backstage wing, he had not heard Ridley come up behind him. “Which ones do I think who are?”
“The scouts! The scouts from Interlochen,” Groendal whispered.
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably some of the people who keep going out and coming back.”
Groendal thought that made sense. As the afternoon wore on, the performers played to a radically changing audience. Some of the adults exited as soon as their children had finished performing. Others arrived in approximate time to hear their children, scheduled for later in the program. Still others, if one cared to note, returned periodically as if to hear selected individuals.
“Nervous?” Koesler asked.
“Butterflies in my stomach,” Groendal confessed. “But I don’t think nervous. I know what I’ve got to do.”
“Too early for you to get nervous anyway. I’m the one who’s on soon; you got a while to wait yet.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.”
It was evident that Groendal had nothing on his mind but his own performance.
The time came for Koesler and Palmer to take the stage. As far as Koesler could tell, those in the audience who had been going in and out all were settled in their seats. In all truth, Koesler knew it was not to hear him.
They played “Air for the G-String” beautifully. Or, more specifically, Palmer performed it expressively, caressingly. Koesler accompanied him adequately. They concluded to enthusiastic applause. Koesler basked in the acclaim, while realizing it was his only in very small measure.
After a few more performers, it came Groendal’s time.
He exuded great presence as he came onstage, bowed confidently and spent a few moments collecting himself before beginning Rachmaninoff’s “Prelude in C-Sharp Minor.” He managed to capture the initial sound—three notes with their corresponding chords—of church bells. In the second section, he accelerated with near abandon. He brought the piece to a close in power and dignity, and received a justified ovation at the conclusion.
Groendal returned to bow for a curtain call, all but unheard-of in a parochial school recital. He came off the stage beaming with Moseslike incandescence. Whatever it was—adrenalin, the power of prayer—he had played well beyond his natural ability. He could not have picked a better time to do so. As of this moment, his future as a professional musician seemed assured.
“Congratulations, Rid!” Koesler greeted him enthusiastically. “You did it! That was great!”
“Yeah, I did! That was terrific. I don’t think I ever played it better. Wow!”
Others backstage gathered around, congratulating him. Sister Mary George was forced to shush them so the recital could continue undisturbed. But it was evident she was pleased with his performance.
It was obvious to Koesler that Groendal had completely forgotten that his time on stage was not yet over. As far as Ridley was concerned, the climax had been reached; there was nothing to follow.
But Koesler was acutely aware that the end had not come. Indeed, it was precisely the coming moment that had been the cause of all his foreboding. Strange that it seemed to so trouble Koesler while Groendal, whose moment of truth this might well be, was so unconcerned that he appeared to have forgotten entirely his engagement on stage with Palmer.
It came. After the rest of Sister’s other prize pupils had finished, the showplace of the recital was at hand.
Koesler began to wonder if he was alone in his premonition of disaster. Maybe he was. Sure, that’s the way he was. He tended to be pessimistic about things. Nothing would go wrong. Rid Groendal certainly would not pull another dumb stunt like his “Bumble Boogie” rehearsal. For one thing, he’d had his little joke. And for another, presumably he had garnered quite a few credits with the Rachmaninoff
“Prelude.” There was no doubt he’d done extremely well. The assumption was that the Interlochen scouts had heard him. From all appearances, a pretty safe assumption.
Finally, Palmer would do nothing to foul up the performance. This was his big chance. Outside of playing it beautifully, Palmer had proved little in his “Air for the G-String.” But “Flight of the Bumblebee”! Great artists could demonstrate virtuosity with that.
Groendal and Palmer entered from opposite sides of the stage. Groendal seated himself at the piano, arranged the music, and sounded an “A” as Palmer gave his violin one final tuning. Palmer fixed his instrument between chin and shoulder and glanced at Groendal. Both nodded: they were ready.
Here they go.
Palmer tapped his right foot against the floor. Koesler’s eyes popped wide. It was too fast—way too fast, impossibly fast! But Palmer cut into the melody at just that impossible pace.
The tempo was much more demanding on Palmer than it was on Groendal, who was merely playing accompaniment. Still, Palmer was the one who had established this speed. And it was he who was maintaining it.
After the first several measures, he left Groendal floundering. At first, Ridley tried to keep up. Finding that impossible, he tried playing on the first beat of each measure. But that was foreign to his practice of the piece.
Finally, shoulders sagging, he surrendered and played no more.
It became a solo.
And what a solo! The audience—those who could block out Groendal’s humiliation—sat mesmerized by Palmer’s merciless attack. If anyone had any doubt that this was a certified prodigy, all hesitation was erased by this singular presentation.
Especially at the speed he had set, it was no wonder that Palmer completed “Flight” in near-record time. The conclusion, executed with a flair, drew a standing ovation.
Few were even aware of Groendal slinking from the stage. Koesler was. “It’s not the end of the world!” Koesler put both hands on Groendal’s shoulders, halting his progress toward the exit.
“Yes it is!” Groendal tried, but was unable to get by Koesler.
“Don’t leave! You can’t leave! You’ve got to stick it out! If you just leave now, you’ll never live it down.”
“You don’t understand! You don’t understand!” Tears were streaming down Groendal’s cheeks. “It’s the end of everything! I had it. It was mine. If it hadn’t been for that damn Palmer!”
“Don’t let him see what he did to you. Come on over here and get yourself together.” Koesler led, or rather forced, Groendal into a recess of the wings.
No one else paid much attention; they clustered around the stage as David Palmer made his triumphant exit. Inspired mainly by Sister Mary George’s ebullience, everyone was congratulating Palmer.
“Excellent David!” Sister enthused. “Even I had no idea you could play that well. I’m sure our special visitors were impressed. Oh, my, yes.” And then, as if giving a fleeting thought to the accompanist Palmer had left behind, “It’s really my fault. I should have scheduled The Flight as a solo.” She looked about. “Where is Ridley? Has anyone seen Ridley?”
It was a command performance. Koesler was glad he had kept Ridley from running off in humiliation. He pushed Groendal into the group that encircled Sister and Palmer. At least, thought Koesler, Ridley’s tears were dried. Maybe nobody would notice the red eyes.
“Oh, there you are,” Sister said. “Now don’t feel bad, Ridley. You did your best. Nobody could have known that David would have been so inspired. It was my fault. I should have scheduled that as a solo. It’s not your fault. None of my other students could have kept up with David. Not today!” She could not disguise her pride in David Palmer. “Besides, Ridley, you did very well with the ‘Prelude.’ Very well, indeed, Ridley.”
“Yes, Sister.”
After several more minutes of nearly unrestrained adulation, the group dissolved, leaving Palmer, Groendal, and Koesler wordless but high in emotion.
In a moment’s fury, Groendal swung out at Palmer, who easily stepped back and away from the wild blow. Before anything could develop, Koesler grabbed Ridley, pinning his arms from behind.
“Just let me put this down,” Palmer gestured with his violin, “then let him go. I can handle him.”
“Don’t be idiots!” Koesler said in a low tone. A few stragglers were glancing back. He did not want them to return. It would only spur the combatants on.
“Palmer,” Groendal said through clenched teeth, “you’ve ruined me! You’ve destroyed my life before I could live!”
“Don’t be an asshole, Rid,” Palmer replied. “This will teach you not to fool around like you did at rehearsal. You shouldn’t try something like that with your betters. Next time you’re supposed to play accompaniment, play it. Don’t try to embarrass me.”
“That’s why you did this to me? You ruined me, you ruined my musical career because of one joke? You did this! For that?”
Palmer grunted. “Your musical career! What musical career? You’re a hack piano player! You won’t ever be more than that! Hell, Ridley, I did you a favor. I let everybody see that you’re no musician. It saved the guys from Interlochen a lot of time. And hell, Rid, it saved you a lot of silly hope. You couldn’t have cut it at Interlochen—if that’s where you thought you were heading—and it’s better for you that you know it now. Hell, that’s right, I did you a favor, Rid!”
Palmer, by his own monologue, seemed to have convinced himself of what he claimed.
“Who are you to say I couldn’t have made it?” Groendal seemed again close to tears. “I was terrific with the Rachmaninoff. Sister even said so. And if you hadn’t tried to be Paganini—”
“You’re complaining about the tempo. It was too fast.”
“Of course. And you did it on purpose!”
“But don’t you see? If you were as good as you think, you could have kept up. Yeah, I stepped up the tempo. And I did it on purpose. I did it to teach you a lesson about fooling around with me. But it also taught you your place. And your place isn’t with me or where I’m going. I’m going to Interlochen and I’m going to the top. And you don’t belong in either place. Got it, stupid?”
“We’ll see about that.” Groendal was doing his best to choke back tears. He knew he could not succeed much longer. “But just remember, Palmer: I’ll get you for this! Somehow I’ll get you. If it takes the rest of my life. And it doesn’t matter what happens to you, the score will never be even as far as I’m concerned.”
He turned and ran, stumbling, to the stairs.
Palmer yelled after him. “When you try to get even, just remember what happened here today. I’m always going to have the last laugh. Do you hear that, Groendal? I’m always going to have the last laugh!”
Nearly two months later, it was announced that David Palmer had been awarded a scholarship to the National Music Camp at Interlochen. A school assembly was held in his honor and congratulations poured in from nearly everyone but Ridley Groendal.
From the recital until the end of the school year, not a word would pass between Groendal and Palmer. After that, as they entered high school, their paths would diverge until many years later, when Groendal would have become a professional critic and Palmer a professional musician.
Palmer attended Holy Redeemer for the first two years of high school. Then, as part of an augmented scholarship, he was able to become a full-time student at the Interlochen Arts Academy, whence he then graduated.
Groendal, mostly as a result of frustration over his scuttled musical ambition, decided to become a priest. So he, along with Robert Koesler, attended Sacred Heart, Detroit’s high school and college seminary.
One incident before the end of that fateful final year in primary school would have serious repercussions many years later.
It was a fire that threatened to burn down Redeemer auditorium. The fire department termed it arson. The culprit was never identified. It was started on the stage of the auditorium but destroye
d only the grand piano and a relatively small portion of the hardwood flooring.
Shortly after the fire, David Palmer approached Robert Koesler. “I’ve got something to show you.” Palmer handed Koesler a photograph.
Koesler studied the indistinct picture, “Okay, I give up; what is it?”
Palmer ran his finger over the photo. “This is the stage of our auditorium . . . see, there’s the Redeemer shield on the back curtain. And there are the two chairs that we usually use when we need them for props.”
“Uh-huh,” Koesler agreed. The landmarks were clear only after identification.
“Okay. Then here is the grand piano. It’s on fire . . . that’s why it’s hard to see what’s on the picture: because of all the smoke.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And this,” in a tone of triumph, “is your pal, Ridley C. Groendal, starting a fire at the other end of the piano.”
“What? Wait a minute! You can’t tell that; there’s too much smoke. It’s somebody, but you can’t tell who.”
“Oh, no? Who else do you know who looks exactly like this?” He assisted Koesler’s inspection with a magnifying glass. “The baggy pants with a hole in the knee. But now, look! See on the tennis shoes: ‘R.C. Groendal.’ Oh, it’s Ridley, all right. He set the fire!” Again the triumphant tone.
“He didn’t see you take the picture?”
“I didn’t care whether he did or not. But he didn’t. He was behind the worst of the smoke. See: You can barely make out his head. It’s all covered with smoke.”
“He doesn’t know you’ve got this?”
“Nope. You’re the only one who knows.”
“So . . . why are you showing it to me?”
“’Cause you’re the only one I can trust to keep the secret. And I wanted somebody besides me to know.”
“Well . . . what of it? They put out the fire before it did any really serious damage. And Ridley probably was doing nothing but taking out revenge on the piano he thinks failed him. What are you going to do with this?”
“Nothing.”
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