Consent

by Nancy Ohlin

  I try to ignore the fact that Dane and I are listening to this incredibly romantic song together. And that we are on a road trip to New York City. And that he is wearing his dreamy gray cashmere sweater, the one he wore at Café Tintoretto.

  Still, being in my little Dane bubble, my pretending-we’re-pianists-together bubble, is so much nicer than dwelling on the rest of my sorry existence.

  Jessye Norman finishes with a gorgeous, lingering high note. Dane points to one of the speakers. “Listen! Poulenc wrote that last note as a D-flat. But she goes above and beyond—”

  “—and hits the A-flat. Yeah, she’s definitely got superpowers.”

  “You have perfect pitch?” he says, surprised.

  “Perfect-ish. It’s still a work in progress.”

  “At conservatory you will . . . never mind, here is our exit.”

  He gets off the bridge and turns onto a road called the West Side Highway. Was he about to tell me more about my imaginary future as a piano performance major? The Hudson River continues to the right of us. To the left are high-rises, a park, and billboards advertising vodka and Broadway shows. I practice arpeggios on my lap, and my fingers make ripples in the green silk of my dress. Dane drives with one hand and conducts Jessye Norman with the other.

  We have been on the road since this morning. Dad took off for his office after breakfast, so it was easy to have Dane meet me in front of my house. If Dad had been home, he would have wondered why a strange man in a fancy sports car was picking me up, and not Plum in her parents’ Prius. I don’t know what would bother Dad more: the fact that I’m visiting Juilliard or the fact that my teacher is driving me there and back. My young, attractive guy teacher. But of course Dad is clueless about everything, so it doesn’t really matter. In any case, he thinks I’m in Boston for the weekend with Plum, so that’s that.

  As for Plum, she’s under the impression that I’m still in Eden Grove. All week I went back and forth about just telling her the truth. But I couldn’t do it. She left for Boston by herself yesterday. She promised to give me full reports on all the schools, and she’s already texted me about a million photos of Harvard, Cambridge, and her aunt Jessika’s four cats.

  She keeps asking me how Theo is.

  At some point I am going to have to sort all this out. But I’m not going to think about that now. Juilliard first, difficult conversations later.

  Dane turns right at the Seventy-Ninth Street exit, drives around a traffic circle, and stops at a light. “How are you holding up? Are you tired?”

  “I’m fine. Nervous, though.”

  “Don’t be. Si brillare.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He turns and smiles at me. “You will shine,” he translates.

  I will shine.

  And then I picture my mother at Juilliard. She was the star, the one who was supposed to shine—not me.

  “Beatrice, what’s wrong?” Dane is staring at me with a worried expression.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

  “We’re almost there. Are you ready?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe.”

  He reaches over and squeezes my hand. His touch is warm and strong and reassuring.

  I squeeze back. We hold hands for a minute, or maybe many minutes, before he has to let go to shift gears.

  Sometimes I’m sorry that he and I ever met, because it’s made my life so much more confusing.

  But right now is not one of those times.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  We have arrived at Juilliard.

  It is smaller than I expected and also more spectacular. The main entrance is all glass with THE JUILLIARD SCHOOL spelled out in silver letters. On the other side of the glass is a massive staircase that ascends up, up, up to some mysterious apex.

  Being here, I am filled with sadness and wonder. This was her place. I don’t know a lot about her years here—just what Grandma Min told me a long time ago. She said that Mom and Dad started dating when she was a freshman and he was finishing up at Columbia Law School. She said it was love at first sight, at least for Dad, who couldn’t stop talking about her to the family.

  She also said I should stop feeling guilty about her death, but I can’t seem to do that.

  Dane and I stand on the sidewalk as students come and go through the revolving door, chattering easily:

  “It’s for three-handed piano and four soloists.”

  “Three-handed piano?”

  “Two pianists on one piano, but the one closest to the audience has only a single line.”

  “Hey, who’s applying to Verbier next summer?”

  “Dude, no one gets into that.”

  “Jonathan did last year.”

  “Yeah, well, JONATHAN.”

  “Anyone go to the master class yesterday?”

  “Uh-huh. Tabitha got spanked.”

  “Why did she pick ‘Caténaires’? Her contemporary technique sucks. . . .”

  An icy ball of terror has begun to form in my stomach. “I can’t do this,” I whisper to Dane.

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I don’t belong here.”

  “Nonsense, of course you do. Come on, let’s go inside.”

  He puts his hand on the small of my back and gently nudges me through the revolving door. A gust of air stirs my hair and rustles my dress. As we start up the staircase, we pass more students—talking, texting, cradling instrument cases between their legs. I overhear bits and pieces of conversation—“Banff,” “vocal collab,” “circle of fifths,” “Horizons requirement”—and it is all a foreign language to me.

  Did Mom speak this language too? How did she manage to fit in?

  The top of the staircase opens up to a vast, starkly beautiful lobby. Security guards preside at a long desk. Several professor types confer with a man who is the spitting image of Yo-Yo Ma.

  Wait, it is Yo-Yo Ma.

  The beyond-famous cellist and Dane wave at each other.

  “You know him?” I gasp.

  “I’ve met him on several occasions. Very nice man. He’s playing with the Phil, I believe this evening.”

  “You mean the New York Philharmonic? The orchestra?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  Dane gives our names to one of the guards, who glances at a clipboard and admits us through the turnstile. A few minutes later we are on the fourth floor in search of a practice room so I can warm up.

  As we proceed down the hall, music pours out from behind closed doors: “Vissi d’arte” sung by a pitch-perfect soprano; the cadenza from the Sibelius violin concerto; an impossible passage from the piano transcription of Stravinsky’s Petrushka. The icy ball of terror grows larger. I am so out of my league here, it’s not even funny.

  “Beatrice.” Dane squeezes my shoulder. “It will be fine. You’ll be fine.”

  “But everyone here is so crazy talented.”

  “Yes, and so are you. Never forget that.”

  We find an empty practice room at the end of the hall. Inside is a Steinway baby grand with a faded mahogany finish. I wonder if Mom ever practiced in this room, at this very piano. On the floor is an empty Pinkberry container, a People magazine, and a chewed-up No. 2 pencil.

  Dane leans over the keyboard and plays a B-flat scale. “Well, it’s almost in tune. Go ahead, you try it.”

  He steps aside to make room for me. I sit down, adjust my skirt, and play a B-flat scale too. I follow this with some Hanon exercises. My fingers feel cold and stiff. I stop playing and rub my hands together.

  Dane reaches into his messenger bag and retrieves his leather gloves. “Here, put these on for a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.” I slip them on and hold them up. “I look ridiculous!”

  “You look adorable. Do you know what I used to do before performances?”

  Adorable?

  “Most musicians have pre-performance rituals to help calm their nerves,” he goes on. “I used to do maths in my head. Eight times seventeen, nine hundred minus
thirty-six, and so on. It gets you out of the panic part of your brain and into a more rational part. One of my friends, who was also a pianist, would play video games for an hour. His favorite was Plants vs. Zombies. Another friend liked to jump rope backstage.”

  “No way. Really?”

  “You’ll develop your own rituals, I’m sure. Taking a walk, repeating a mantra, eating a particular snack. Wearing lucky socks. We musicians are quite a superstitious bunch.”

  “My mom—,” I begin.

  His expression softens. “Yes? What about your mother?”

  “Nothing. It’s not important. I’m going to practice the Ocean Etude now.”

  I pull off his gloves and set them down on the bench beside me, one on top of the other. My hands aren’t totally warmed up, but I need to play. And to stop talking.

  As I plunge into the familiar piece, the icy ball starts to thaw and dissipate. The arpeggios rise and fall, one wave after another, tumbling over each other and yet producing a single line of sound. Soon the C-minor key resolves to C major, and agitation becomes triumph . . . sweetness . . . light.

  I wanted to tell him. There is so much I want to tell him. The small stuff, the big stuff, even the bottomless-pit-of-despair stuff. He understands me; he understands about music.

  But first I need to get through the next few hours. Rise to the occasion, even. Strangely, I’m beginning to think that this day actually might matter, one way or the other.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Annaliese van Allstyne kisses Dane on both cheeks.

  “It has been much too long, Gabriel,” she chides him affectionately.

  Why “Gabriel”?

  Her accent is exotic and unfamiliar, some combination of French and German and other languages I’ve probably never heard of. I vaguely recall hearing that she grew up in Switzerland or maybe South Africa. We are in her fifth-floor studio, which has not one but two grand pianos—a Steinway and something called a Fazioli.

  “Je suis désolé. Mon nouvel emploi—,” Dane replies.

  “Oui, oui. We must have a talk about your career later.”

  “Of course.” He gestures for me to come forward. “Beatrice, I’d like you to meet Annaliese van Allstyne. Annaliese, this is Beatrice Kim.”

  Annaliese extends her hand. “Enchanté. It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

  She looks exactly as she does on her CD covers and website and press photos: petite frame, piercing blue eyes, and whitish-blond hair tied back in an elegant knot. Her only accessory is a simple diamond brooch that glitters against her gray wool dress.

  This is Annaliese van Allstyne, I think, and I am so awestruck that I can barely speak.

  Dane clears his throat and touches my elbow.

  “T-thank you so much for seeing me, P-professor van Allstyne,” I stammer as I shake her small, delicate hand. I’ve heard her perform Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1; how does she manage all those insane octaves with such a limited reach?

  “Please, call me Annaliese. ‘Professor’ sounds so old, and I am still vain enough to care about that sort of thing. Gabriel has told me a great deal about you. He says you are fond of Schumann.”

  “Yes, I love Schumann.”

  “Do you know his Davidsbündlertänze? The ‘Dances of the League of David’?”

  “That’s the . . . I have a recording of it with Murray Perahia.”

  “Ah, yes, he is marvelous! Have you also heard Mitsuko Uchida’s recording?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, you must. She has an exquisite sense of the German innig marking.”

  “Innish?” I echo back.

  “Yes. Innig is a difficult word to explain. It means to perform a piece not just for the audience as a whole, but in a personal, intimate way for each individual. A kind of spiritual connection with the listener, if you will. A tenderness, a sharing of the self.” Annaliese smiles serenely and leans against the Fazioli. “So, my dear. I want to know more about you. How long have you been playing the piano?”

  “Well, um, a long time. Since I was little.”

  “Gabriel tells me that you have never had formal training.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Do you come from a musical family? Your father, your mother, siblings?”

  I fiddle with my ponytail, tightening it and then wrapping it around my fingers. I guess Dane didn’t mention my mom to Annaliese. “Well, um, my brother plays guitar in a band.”

  Dane raises his eyebrows.

  “I see.” Her forehead furrows as she points to the Steinway. “Would you like to begin with the Fantasy? Or a different piece?”

  “The Fantasy’s fine.”

  “Très bien. Gabriel, leave us.”

  “But, Annaliese—”

  She shoots him a stern look. He sighs and turns to me. “I’ll be in the hall if you need me.”

  I nod mutely. The terror is threatening to trickle back. I can’t do this . . .

  “Beatrice.”

  “Yes?”

  Dane leans over and hugs me. I can feel the heat of his palms through the thin silk fabric of my dress. “Si brillare,” he whispers in my ear.

  The door closes behind him. I stand there, a little breathless.

  “Shall we?” Annaliese prompts.

  “Yes, I’m sorry . . .”

  I sit down at the Steinway, adjusting the bench, fussing with my skirt. I try to remember everything Dane taught me about the Fantasy: lose myself, sleepwalk, wander off the map. But all I can think about is the sensation of his arms around me. He has never held me before.

  Annaliese takes a seat at the Fazioli, crosses her legs, and slips on a pair of glasses. She probably wants me to start playing already. I need to get a grip here.

  I position my thumbs on middle C and run through some scales, in opposite directions, to test the action. It’s a little heavy, and the keys resist; I will have to compensate with a quicker attack.

  Annaliese watches me intently. “So that is how you hold your wrists?”

  She hates the way I hold my wrists. “Y-yes.”

  “Interesting. Please, proceed.”

  Really, I’m supposed to play after that? With that one politely dismissive comment, I can feel my entire musical infrastructure collapsing. My wrists are wrong . . . that must mean my fingers are wrong too . . . not to mention my fingering, my phrasing, my breathing. Everything I’ve done has become undone. There is no way I can perform the Fantasy now, or “Old MacDonald,” or anything.

  I am two seconds away from a full-blown panic attack when her voice comes to me. Her voice, or at least how I always imagined it.

  I’m right here with you.

  I am not aware of when I start to play. Something possesses me, and I fall, collapse into the opening notes. It’s like I’m watching myself in a dream, except it’s not really me. I’m not here; I’m someone else; I’m completely free of my body.

  Soon my left hand becomes a constant current; my right hand becomes a passionate plea. Then the music shifts into quiet sweetness. It shifts again, exploding into desolate octaves.

  Minutes pass like seconds. I am so connected to the piece that I don’t even hear myself. The first movement flows into the second movement, which flows into the third.

  When the last chords fade away, I awaken from the spell. My cheeks are wet with tears.

  I sit up straight and swipe at them with my sleeve. What happened? Was my performance a disaster? I can barely make myself look at Annaliese.

  I feel her hand on my shoulder.

  “Oh, my dear girl,” is all she says.

  I glance up in surprise. She is crying too.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “She said I reminded her of a young Martha Argerich. And that my technique is quite extraordinary—those were her exact words, ‘quite extraordinary.’ I thought she didn’t like my wrists at first. But then it turned out she did like them; she just wasn’t expecting someone my age, with my background, to know how t
o position them properly. She wants me to check out this one Chopin étude to help me with my reach—she says it’s all about rolling through thirteenths, can you believe it? Thirteenths! She also wants me to learn a concerto. She suggested Brahms One—is that the one in D minor?—or maybe the Grieg. Have you ever played the Grieg? Oh, and I almost forgot, she said that my Beethoven was ‘spot-on’ . . . that’s a good thing, right, ‘spot-on’? . . . and . . .”

  I can’t stop talking, I am so keyed up. It’s like I’ve had ten espressos. Dane walks beside me, his hands clasped behind his back, just listening. It is Saturday night, balmy for October, and the Juilliard neighborhood is bustling.

  I am babbling on about Annaliese’s views on Ravel versus Debussy when I realize that he is laughing at me. I stop in my tracks, causing a minor traffic jam on the sidewalk.

  “What is so funny?” I demand.

  “Not funny. Delightful. I’ve never seen you so elated. One would think you’d won the lottery.”

  “Well, of course I’m happy! I mean, Annaliese van Allstyne. She’s . . . she’s . . . I can’t believe she liked me! Liked my playing! I was sure she was going to throw me out of her studio, you know, all ‘Please don’t waste my time with your amateurish regurgitations.’ ”

  “Amateurish regurgitations? Really, Beatrice.”

  “How long have you known her? How did you end up with her as a teacher? Has she always been this awesome? Why does she call you ‘Gabriel’? Tell me everything!”

  “Yes. But first let’s get some dinner. I’m famished—aren’t you famished?”

  “I’m too excited to eat!”

  “Nevertheless. And she calls me ‘Gabriel’ because I didn’t start going by ‘Dane’ until after college.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He leads me around the corner to a little French restaurant. There seems to be thousands of restaurants in New York City. The maître d’ guy directs us to one of the outdoor tables, next to a glowing patio heater, and hands us a couple of menus. I touch a pink rosebud that sits in a vase next to a flickering white candle. When the waiter comes by, Dane rattles off a bunch of stuff to him in French.

  “Excuse me, what?” I ask as I try to decipher the menu.