by Jane Lebak
I rolled my eyes. “The Village Voice, remember? He’ll be more offended by my brown hair.”
Harrison burst into the kitchen. “How’s Monday?”
Josh was shaking his head. I jerked my thumb toward him.
Harrison said, “I’ll handle that. I promised I would.” He looked from me to Shreya. “Monday? Ten-thirty?” When Shreya shrugged, he confirmed it, then hung up. Then he shouted, “This is so cool!”
Ashen, Josh said, “I c-c-c-can’t—”
Nonchalant, Harrison handed back my phone. “I’m not asking you to talk to him. We’ll think of something, but whatever we come up with, you won’t have to talk.”
My hands shook as I put the phone in my pocket. “And what do we say to a reporter?”
“We talk about whatever he feels like asking, that’s what.” Harrison beamed. “You’ve seen interviews with other groups. How did you guys meet? When did you start playing violin? What’s the difference between a violin and a fiddle? Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Shreya said, “Huh. Where do we see ourselves in five years?”
“On the cover of Rolling Stone fighting off crazed groupies,” Harrison said without missing a beat. “You’ll run your own music school. Josh will be fighting six paternity suits, and Joey will be moonlighting with her own viola-based girl-band.”
I snickered. “And you?”
“I’ll have launched a red-hot solo career that stuns—ow!”
I applauded Josh’s direct hit on Harrison’s head with a pretzel. Harrison rolled his eyes and picked up the pretzel to deposit it in the trash.
I said, “What do you wear for an interview?”
Harrison opened his hands. “Wear what you would to a job interview.”
Small problem there. “I took my civil service exam in torn jeans and a t-shirt that said ‘The Party’s Over.’”
Harrison blinked. Hah—stopped him cold. “Oh. Yeah, not that. Try casual afternoon wedding.”
So the same boring outfit I used for meeting clients.
I said, “And if they twist everything to make us sound terrible…?”
“We’re not politicians.” Harrison spread his hands. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity. If they paint us as hateful kitten-killers, then at least they stirred up controversy. In fact, it’s better if they do because then people will remember. Trust me. This is going to work out great.”
I kept thinking of a reporter saying, “Ms. Mikalos, how did you end up with the viola?”
The answer wasn’t easy, not like I imagine Harrison’s would be. Gee, he’d say, I started getting season tickets to Carnegie Hall when I was three, and when I was four my chauffeur would take me from preschool to the conservatory....
But me, I guess it starts in fourth grade when I didn’t realize you shouldn’t pry apart frozen chicken with a steak knife. One stupid mistake later and I’m scrunched on the floor with a three-inch gash in my palm. I couldn’t reach my parents, couldn’t remember the number for Viv’s dance studio, so I called Josh. His dad flew right over in five minutes, and he raced me to the ER to get stitched up while Josh and his kid brother tried to put direct pressure on my hand because Josh saw it on a cartoon. Like two hours later my dad came for me, and Ed escorted him out in the hallway.
I have no idea what he said, but that night Mom confiscated my house key. After that, I got picked up from school with Viv and got benched outside her dance class. When the other moms asked about my bandages, Mom said, “Little Miss Independent got herself in trouble again,” and they would glance at me, shocked, and change the subject, like it was too embarrassing.
The first day I read a stack of Baby Sitter Club books in the corner, and a couple of the moms talked to me. But on the way home, Mom was furious. “At home you never need anyone.” She glared at me in the back seat while the light turned green. “Over there you’re bothering everyone.” So I tried not even to talk anymore.
After a week of this, Viv bitched during Sunday dinner about having to be a whole half-hour at the doctor to get my stitches removed.
Rubbing my brand-new scar, I snapped, “Like it’s a picnic to sit forever while you pretend to dance.”
Mom said, “Josie, quit starting trouble. Vivvy needs us.”
I slumped in my seat, glaring at my drumstick.
Across the table, a clink as my grandfather set down his silverware. “Why are you going with them?”
I drew figure-8s on the table cloth with my fingertip. “Grandpa, I have nowhere to go.”
He didn’t say anything else, so it was a shock when he fetched me from school Monday in his menthol-green Duster that reeked of vinyl and gasoline. He brought me to his airless house, where the dust made my eyes water, but it beat the dance studio by a mile. I cleared debris off on the counter so I could make toast. He boiled water and unearthed some yellowed tea bags. I chatted with him while I did my homework, then watched cartoons. He drove me back home at six.
It was like a party—and I’d get to do that every day! Grandpa, driving his brontosaurus to the school, and me, getting swallowed up like in a cave while my friends all stared—and seriously, I don’t think any seventy-year-old man ever learned so much about the fourth grade as he did by the end of the month.
But the important part: I practiced my violin there (back then I played violin) and he gave pointers. I couldn’t figure out what he meant, though. He kept talking about positions. He kept adjusting the way I held the bow. He said I rosined it too much, which in retrospect he did have a point about. When you play, it shouldn’t make a cloud.
After one frustrating Friday, he brought me home Monday to find his windows open, the air crisp, the counters cleaned—and on the table, a black coffin case.
I crept closer. “I didn’t know you played violin.”
“That’s a viola.” He patted the case. “I haven’t touched it since your grandmother died.”
Ten years.
Grandpa unsnapped the rusted clasps, worked the hinges open, and pried up the lid to reveal the world’s most amazing work of art. It didn’t gleam like my half-size. Timeworn, the finish caught the mellower tones of light, golds and oranges I’d never seen until just then. He turned it over so I could trace my fingers over where the wood grain fanned out like a flame. He muttered in dismay at the bugs clinging to the bow hair. But me, I cradled that “big violin” and raised it, sighted along the belly. In a moment that divided my life like a crease down the center of a book, I fit my cheeks into the waist and pressed my lips to the rib, nose above the F-hole, intoxicating myself on the perfume of old wood and powdered rosin: the scent of time.
Then the viola’s sound enveloped me, a throatiness I’d never drawn from my violin, the soothing depth, the purr of a contented cat as the instrument sang under my grandfather’s hands. Who knew wood and metal, hair and chalk could create a voice?
I switched instruments. I never looked back.
On interview day, Harrison and Josh wore Oxford shirts and ties. You couldn’t beat a guy in a tux, but standing together, they came close. While I was admiring them, I noticed Harrison looking me up and down, so I turned to Josh with a comment about the weather. Except he was staring, probably terrified, and when he focused on my face I had to repeat it.
Shreya? Wore a gauzy grey skirt and a burgundy silk blouse with a gathered scoop neck and an empire waist. She’d dusted her blue hair with glitter.
On arrival, the skinny flannel-shirted reporter shook Harrison’s hand, then got one look at Shreya and couldn’t take his eyes off her. Immediately he wanted to take her picture. He said he wanted a picture of the group, but really, he wanted her.
He chatted while positioning us for the photos. His blue eyes lively, he moved the couch away from the wall, then arranged Josh and Harrison on either side of me, seated, with Shreya poised on the arm. He said, “I can’t decide which you look better with,” and Harrison said, “Me, of course. Everyone looks better with me,” and we laughed
. Me too, but it stung.
Through all this, Josh said not a word. So far, all he’d done was shake the reporter’s hand, nod, and pose. I wasn’t sure we’d pull this off, but Harrison had formed a plan, and I’d move more than couches to make it work.
When we settled for the interview, it was the reporter on the leather chair, Harrison on a folding chair, and Shreya, Josh, and me on the couch. Harrison had choreographed the seating so we’d “naturally” fall into position to bury Josh. Harrison had his violin on his lap, and as he spoke, his fingers stroked the scroll or ran along the F-holes.
The reporter started a digital recorder. Fingers poised over the laptop, he said, “Let’s start by telling me about yourselves.”
Harrison introduced all of us by name and instrument, making sure to sandwich Josh in the middle.
The reporter frowned. “Help me out. What’s the difference between a viola and a violin?”
Harrison said, “The viola burns longer,” even as Shreya said, “No one cares if you spill beer on a viola.”
The reporter looked up, wide-eyed. I gave him a mild, “The viola is the butt of a hundred jokes, and the violin isn’t.”
Chuckling, the reporter leaned back. “I like you guys. How long have you been playing together?”
Harrison seized control of the interview, although every so often Shreya or I interjected with a clarification or a contradiction. Josh sat back while I perched on the edge of the seat, and Shreya used her hands as she talked. Overall (to no one’s surprise) Harrison proved the most effusive, riveting the man’s attention on himself. Violinists lived for a hit of the spotlight.
The reporter said, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” and Shreya cracked up.
I said, “Harrison wants us on the cover of Rolling Stone.”
The reporter shook his head as he typed.
Harrison said, “Really high caliber weddings.”
Shreya said, “I see us moving up from weddings to concert halls.”
I shrugged. “I’d like to quit my day job.”
The reporter glanced at Josh. “And you?”
“You’ll never quit your day job,” Harrison said to me, then turned to the reporter. “Ask what her day job is.”
“Hey, not fair!” I flushed. “He doesn’t need to know that!”
“I think it would make a terrific story.”
“I think you’re out of your mind.”
Harrison faked a sad look. “What if it kills you?”
I mimicked the look. “I hope it does.”
The reporter sounded amused. “What is your day job?”
I exclaimed, “No comment!” And Harrison snickered.
The reporter said, “It can’t be that bad, can it? But fine, let’s talk about your fusion mixes.”
See? That was Josh right out of the crosshairs. Go us! I said, “Shreya does an awesome version of ‘Hotel California.’”
“Um—” Harrison’s demeanor changed in an instant. “I forgot to tell you guys: their agent got back to me this morning. He said no.” His cheeks pinked. “No rights.” Then he looked up. “We’ll find something else. Don’t worry.”
The reporter hummed. “Can I hear it anyhow?”
Harrison handed Shreya his violin, then asked the reporter to shut his laptop and turn off the digital recorder.
Shreya checked the tuning while I opened my laptop to bring up the video. “She improvised this whole performance.”
After the video finished and the reporter was saying, “Wow” and “that was terrific,” Shreya played the riff. He fell silent.
She’d changed it again: this time she played the final guitar part, and she used the entire length of the fingerboard to keep all four strings ringing, doing as much string-crossing and position-shifting as humanly possible—and maybe some that wasn’t.
I knew the song was about being suckered into a place you could never get away from, whatever you wanted to interpret it as. They say it’s marriage or the California lifestyle or materialism—but damn, the way she did it now, you could feel the chains around you, the way the notes formed prison bars and kept ringing with one note not gone yet before the next took over, as if you’d never forget the song the way she played it, never hear it any other way again.
For four minutes, but maybe it could have stretched into eternity, Shreya captivated the reporter in a private concert, her motion and the magic that gathered for her and an instrument.
When she finished, the reporter sat open-mouthed. What’s the sound of one reporter clapping? This.
Taking back his violin, Harrison said, “It’s a shame. But we’ve already gotten the rights to two songs, and more will come. Plus, we can still perform it live.”
The reporter reached for his computer. “Well, you never know. You may get the rights eventually.”
On Thursday, Josh and I took a service elevator to the corporate luncheon’s function room. I’d learned right away that some of these places didn’t want the feet of the hired help gracing the same carpet as their guests, so we got the conveyance with the metal gate. In our prep room, we found Shreya straightening her wig in the mirror.
“It’s like you’re two people.” I removed my jacket and tried to ignore the thought of all those highly-paid men who’d be following our songs with their critical ears and frowning eyes. “What’s going to happen when the Voice prints you with blue hair in one photo and black in the other?”
“They’ll cope.” She gave her head a shake. “As long as the people signing the checks don’t have a problem, we don’t have a problem.”
“They might not have a problem with blue hair at all.”
“Harrison would rather not take chances. Except for magenta.” She grinned. “Apparently magenta’s fine.”
Josh said, “But why dye it if blue might get you cr-riticized?”
She shrugged. “After a while, don’t you get sick of people’s attitudes? Enough to dare people to show who they really are?” She studied him. “Have you ever deliberately stuttered, just to see how someone would react?”
Josh started. “I nnn-never tried, no. But maybe I should just start t-t-talking and letting everyone deal with it.”
“Do it!” Shreya’s eyes brightened while I fought disbelief, as if she’d suggested we all get comfortable with wetting our pants in public. “Since it’s going to happen anyhow, and there’s nothing wrong with it, quit hiding and just let it happen. Or would you rather get to the end of your life and say, ‘I’d have tried that, but I might have stuttered’?” Shreya turned. “And here’s our fearless leader.”
Harrison shambled into the room looking as if Death was holding the door.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, and Shreya exclaimed, “But wait, Josh didn’t drive you!”
Josh muttered, “I’m not-not-not that bad.”
Harrison set his violin on the couch, then dropped beside it. Laying his head against the cushions, he gasped, “I’m dying.”
I pressed my wrist against his forehead. He had a fever of about a hundred and ten. Shit.
Harrison gripped a travel mug, and he roused himself enough to drink from it. Then he pulled off his coat, handed it to me, and lay prone.
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. “Have you taken anything?”
He choked out, “I’m mainlining Motrin.”
Shreya’s eyes were wide. Josh bit his lip.
Shreya’s verdict: “We’re screwed.”
My mind raced. “Who can we call?”
We had a roster of replacements in case someone was sick, hurt, dead, or pissed off enough to perform in Broadway musicals. But not fifteen minutes before a performance.
“I can play,” Harrison rasped. “I just won’t sing.”
I wasn’t sure in what universe Harrison could play, but we were about to find out. I tried to sound glib as I paraphrased Isaac Stern. “Keep that thing tucked under your chin, and you won’t have to sing.”
He should have laughed. Instead he closed
his eyes.
With start time breathing down our necks, Josh and I checked the setup. I tried stacking music for us all, but I dropped the papers and Josh had to help. In ten minutes, we’d be playing for seventy-five stuffy executives, minus a violinist.
Back in the prep room, Harrison was out cold while Shreya played warm-ups. Sitting on the floor, I tuned, and then because it felt wrong not to, I tuned for Harrison. The A string behaved; maybe his violin was worried.
Like most musicians, Harrison had trinkets in his case. Behind the second bow he kept a family photo with worn edges and a Carnegie Hall ticket stub, but nothing more. It shouldn’t have surprised me. My case contained viola detritus (an old C string, a cracked bridge, fossilized rosin) and a red feather I’d found on the sidewalk before one of my recitals. In the compartment with my real rosin, I kept a black and white photo of my grandfather, a candid shot where he looked serious. I also had a dried flower dating from our grammar school’s first public performance. Josh’s father had brought me a corsage, and I’d saved the carnation.
Shreya settled beside me, murmuring, “Are we now a string trio?”
I pitched my voice to match. “We can daisy-chain a bunch of solos and maybe play a few pieces in unison. You can’t play two violins at once, can you?”
She smirked. “If only I’d brought my other violin.”
I struggled to keep it light. “The one that matches your hair?”
The banquet manager knocked. They were ready to let in the guests, and music should be playing as they entered.
Our dead man arose from the couch.
“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Cough in tune?”
He rolled his eyes, but even that pained him. “I can play. Trust me.” Then he broke up coughing.
We wouldn’t work the crowd now. Playing before anyone even entered, we took up our role as background music. With all these half-listeners, maybe no one would care how we sounded. Although they’d notice if Harrison collapsed.
We began with the first movement of Mozart’s string quartet “The Hunt.” The hall was smaller than most wedding receptions: eight tables set for ten, plus a dais with a microphone stand. The burgundy carpet and padded chairs possessed excellent acoustic-destroying properties, but banquet rooms don’t care about acoustics because the musicians aren’t booking the location. At least this place didn’t have drapes.