The Metropolis Case

by Matthew Gallaway

  “Not exactly,” Lucien admitted, obdurate for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. “I did look through some of his books.”

  “Imagine,” Codruta mused, “the son of one of France’s most accomplished scientists refusing to ask his father for help.” She focused on Lucien. “What’s the problem here?”

  “I’m not sure,” Lucien began unsteadily. “I wanted to ask him—I really did—but then it was due and I knew he would be angry because I waited until the last second, and then …” He trailed off as Codruta beckoned toward one of her domestics to fill her cup.

  “Lucien, please—I’m not your teacher or your father,” she said. “I understand you don’t want to follow in his footsteps, and I wouldn’t recommend it if you did.” She paused to dip a slice of pineapple into a warm bath of chocolate sauce. “This kind of adolescent sabotage is not becoming of a young man of your abilities—and I don’t just mean for singing.”

  Lucien felt his cheeks flush as he fixed his gaze on a cluster of jade grapes that served as the centerpiece on the table. “I just wish he understood what it’s like for me!”

  She nodded. “I don’t blame you—as we’ve discussed, academic studies were never my forte, either—but you have to view the situation from his perspective. His concern is for your long-term welfare, and while countless others share your love of the opera, only the very best can expect anything resembling a civilized existence in return.”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Lucien insisted. “As I said to him—”

  “Please don’t upset yourself,” Codruta interrupted. “It’s your father’s passion for music that makes him suspicious. He loves to hear you sing, of course, but as a scientist, he is inclined to want an objective validation, which as we both know doesn’t exist.”

  “Shouldn’t your opinion count for something?”

  “You flatter me, but no—my opinion here counts for nothing.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  She waved at a domestic, who lowered the blinds a fraction of an inch, effectively eliminating the glare while allowing the room to maintain a most pleasant shade of amber. “I am not a miracle worker,” she said, “but I have a plan, which—assuming you’re amenable—may prove suitable to us all.”

  EXACTLY ONE WEEK later, Lucien arrived at 3 Place d’Aurifère, the home of Manuel García, who was probably—as Madame de Vicionière had remarked the previous spring at Codruta’s mercredi—the leading voice teacher in Paris, if not in all of Europe. Codruta had arranged the audition for Lucien on the condition that if the professor felt anything less than certain about his prospects, Lucien would return to lycée in the fall. It was a deal Lucien had accepted with something approaching glee but that he now considered with some terror, given what was at stake. With close to an hour to spare, he peered over the stucco wall into the mansion’s courtyard, where boxwood mermaids posed seductively above reefs of flowering azaleas and hawthorns, but this occupied him for less than two minutes and led him to cross the street into the Bois de Boulogne, where he sat on a bench to watch the cherry blossom petals drift down like snow flurries. He watched a couple smile at each other as they strolled past, their hands discreetly locked together, and felt jealous; everything and everyone around him seemed to have given over to the fervor of spring, while he was left with nothing but questions.

  A few days earlier, at an outdoor café on the Boulevard St.-Michel, a girl with high cheekbones and curly golden hair had smiled shyly at him from her table, where she was sitting with an older couple, probably her parents, and though he could easily have taken a seat nearby and flirted with her—she had essentially issued an invitation—he had ignored her. It was not until later that it occurred to him that his reluctance was rooted in the same ground as his desire to leave school, as if to return such a predictable gesture would have placed him among the throngs who populated the most generic, mundane sectors of society, the very ones he wanted to escape with a career in the theater. More intriguing had been a man near the Pont Neuf who in the dusky twilight had looked at and through him while touching the brim of his hat with one hand and suggestively shifting his other in the front pocket of his trousers. Though Lucien had again walked past, not acknowledging the gesture, he understood that he had witnessed a type of code, one that he had first become aware of at the theater and that left him wanting to know more.

  With the hour almost up, Lucien drove all such thoughts from his mind; the last thing he wanted was to appear confused or lonely to Manuel García. He reminded himself that he was only fifteen—with his life ahead of him—and after gently slapping his cheeks and jumping up and down a few times, he walked with renewed determination to the mansion. After he rang the bell, a footman in scarlet livery appeared and led him through the front entrance into a huge reception foyer, where Lucien asked for and was given a moment to admire the vaulted ceilings some three stories above before he was ushered into a smaller if no less formidable drawing room, and here left with a promise of the professor’s imminent arrival.

  Minutes came and went. Lucien worried he would wilt like a parched flower in the white light that caromed off the mirrors and crystal, but he dared not remove his jacket, since he had yet to meet Monsieur García and wanted to make the most of his first impression. When he finally heard footsteps, he drew himself to attention but could not restrain himself from smiling rather too broadly—almost gawking—at the professor, who in contrast to the huge dimensions the man had taken on in his mind, was quite short, slender and balding, with the droopy eyes of a hound. Lucien felt more composed during an exchange of pleasantries as the professor led him down a hallway and into the music salon. This room also featured twenty-foot coffered ceilings but was less formal, thanks to a faded oriental rug, an old armchair—threadbare in spots, as though someone actually used it—and endless shelves of musical scores, books, and stationery.

  García sat down at the piano, lifted the cover, and tossed off a few chords with an ease that announced the presence of a musician of serious ability. “On commence?” he asked as he flattened the sheet music against the stand. Lucien nodded slowly but intently, wanting to convey his appreciation for the jolt of adrenaline that prefaced any performance of meaning. But just before his entrance—and apparently less focused than he thought—he detected a sound, not so much a knock as a light tap, something that distracted him enough so that—putain de merde!—he missed his cue and instead offered up something between a gag and a cough.

  Wearing the shocked expression of one who has just seen the tip of an arrow emerge through his chest, Lucien contemplated whether to hurl himself out the window, even as the knocking resumed with greater force. García, who had also heard the knock but, presumably less nervous, had chosen to ignore it, stopped playing and yelled that whoever or whatever was there would have to wait. A garbled but impassioned female voice responded, and with a sigh of resigned frustration that Lucien understood conveyed the sad fact that even the best voice teacher in the world could not conduct an audition without being interrupted by annoying trivialities, García got up and, in one quick motion that sent the piano bench stuttering back along the wood floor, took three compact steps to the door, which he opened just wide enough to allow one of his professorial eyes to peer through. “Pauline?”

  “Oui—c’est moi.” There in the foyer—thanks to his height Lucien could see over the professor—stood Pauline García Viardot, one of the city’s most famous sopranos and—not coincidentally—the younger sister of Manuel. Lucien admired her pale, oval face, framed by a single strand of hair that had come loose from her bun; she had her brother’s large, intelligent eyes, but on her they seemed fragile and sensitive. She leaned forward over the bulk of her crinoline to place one of her weightless hands on her brother’s forearm and in hushed tones begged him to assist her with something.

  Lucien felt a pang of dread as he wondered if she had somehow detected his missed entrance, or if perhaps she was annoyed that the au
dition had even been scheduled. On the verge of a mea culpa, he stopped as she raised her eyes in his direction and smiled, a ray of serenity that contained no trace of seduction but—just as he would have hoped—only the reassuring condolence an established singer might give to a younger one beginning a climb toward the lofty peak where she now stood.

  The professor and his sister disappeared, leaving Lucien alone in the music room. As he waited, he parted the drapes with a thought to open the window, but the casing was stuck and he dared not push too hard for fear of breaking a pane. He pressed his palms against the cool glass as he regulated his breathing and decided that he preferred the heavier, more expectant air inside, suffused with the sweet scent of the burning lamps and the long shadows of the room.

  A few minutes passed before Manuel García swung open the doors. “You’re still here?”

  “Shouldn’t I be?” Lucien replied thickly, as if he had swallowed a jar of ink.

  “Most of my singers are not in the habit of missing their cues,” the professor addressed him curtly. “As I explained to the princess, you are quite a bit younger than I would normally consider, and your lack of concentration seems to validate my suspicion that this audition is premature.”

  It had not occurred to Lucien that the professor could be so merciless, but as soon as he recognized the trait, he realized that he would have to respond accordingly unless he wanted to return to another year of classroom drudgery. “Professor, I understand your concern,” he began, “and whatever dismay you felt a few minutes ago is not only one that I share but one that is compounded for me by having made the mistake.” As Lucien spoke, he thought of Pauline Viardot and knew that he would do anything to join her ranks. “With your indulgence, I’ll sing without the piano this time.”

  The professor’s expression remained stern, but he relented. “That won’t be necessary,” he said as he took his seat and began to play. “But this will be your last chance to impress me.”

  LESS THAN TWO hours later—after an exuberant dash through a dusty field of construction adjacent to the Rue de Rivoli—Lucien was back on the Île, where he found his father in the garden. “I have important news,” he began in a rush, before describing the audition with the famous professor and how he had managed to redeem himself. “I think you’d be very impressed,” he barreled ahead. “He’s extremely scientific—after he listened to me sing, he took measurements of my chest and waist and he looked down my throat and up my nose, all of which he declared to be in the proper proportions for a singer.”

  Guillaume barely lifted his eyes from the table, where he was comparing two leaves and entering figures into a notebook. “So you’re going to be his student?”

  “Yes, exactly!” Lucien cried, as if to make up for his father’s lack of enthusiasm, “and if all goes well I can expect to enter the conservatory in two years.” He stood facing Guillaume for several more seconds and realized that he had yet to deliver the most important—or at least controversial—element of the news. “Which means I don’t have to return to lycée this fall.”

  “Is that so?” Guillaume responded quietly as he folded his hands in front of him and looked directly at Lucien. “And what if I said you did?”

  “Do you understand who Manuel García is?” Lucien challenged. “I would be one of his youngest students ever—it’s practically a guarantee.”

  “Surely he doesn’t expect you to train with the same rigor as a more mature singer, much less drop out of school,” Guillaume pointed out, with a degree of insight Lucien found maddening because it was exactly what the professor had said; that he was not to sing too much—beyond basic exercises and the occasional recital—and instead should focus his attention on learning as much theory as he could, to provide a sufficient foundation for the conservatory.

  Lucien tried to explain all of this, but Guillaume interrupted him. “Lucien, my objection has nothing to do with your desire to sing or to learn everything you possibly can about music. I love your voice, not only because it’s yours but also because it reminds me of your mother. But she was married to me, most obviously, and so could afford to fail—singing was a passion, not a necessity.”

  “It’s a necessity for me,” Lucien insisted.

  “I mean an economic necessity.” Guillaume shook his head and waved at the mansions that loomed up behind them. “As we’ve discussed many times, despite our surroundings, I’m not a rich man, and—”

  “Codruta has already promised to be my patron,” Lucien responded. “She’ll provide whatever I need.”

  “Yes, she mentioned something to that effect.”

  This information rendered Lucien speechless for several seconds. “She did? When?”

  “A few weeks ago, before she arranged the audition.”

  “So you knew about it?” Lucien felt betrayed by both of them.

  “Don’t be angry. It was the right thing for her to do—”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I encouraged her to set up the audition, because I didn’t want to deny you the opportunity to meet and possibly work with the famous professor, but I also told her that you’re too young to accept her patronage,” Guillaume replied more gently. “I know it’s difficult, but try to think of yourself at the age of forty, and what you would do if singing wasn’t enough. Think of the thousands of young men and women who come to Paris each year with the same dream—you’ve seen how they line up outside the theaters for even the smallest roles—and most are starving! Half the drunks and beggars in Paris are failed singers.”

  “Most of them don’t know anything, and none of them has Manuel García—or Codruta!”

  “I understand the man’s reputation,” Guillaume said, “but what if you lose your voice? Or what if something happens to Codruta?”

  Lucien steeled himself. “Do you really think that three years of lycée will make a difference?”

  “Yes, I do,” Guillaume insisted. “It’s a natural breaking point; it establishes that you attained a certain level of scholarship—”

  “Only because of you!”

  “That’s what parents do.” Guillaume sighed. “We work to give advantages to our children.” He focused more intently on his son. “You need to be able to support yourself without relying on your voice—at least until you’re older.”

  Lucien stared at the ground as it swirled in front of him. As much as he wanted to leave school, he knew Codruta would never help him if he made a rash threat to disobey his father. He wasn’t sure if he was angrier at Guillaume for being so stubborn, at Codruta for conferring with Guillaume, or at his mother for not being alive to help; but as this last thought crossed his mind, he stumbled upon a third option, as though she had whispered it into his ear. “What if—what if I get a job at the theater?” he ventured, tentatively at first but then with more enthusiasm as the idea materialized. “With props or costumes, maybe even with the stagehands! I could begin as an apprentice—it wouldn’t cost anything—and then I would earn enough. And just like you said, I wouldn’t rely on my voice.”

  Guillaume pondered this for a few seconds. “Well—it’s a thought.”

  “I could become a carpenter!” Lucien begged his father as tears of relief and certainty escaped his eyes. “Please—I’ll go tonight and speak to some of the men. I’m sure I could do something.”

  After considering him for a few more seconds, Guillaume nodded. “Okay, go see what’s available,” he said. “If you can get an offer at the theater—in carpentry or some other area; it hardly matters what, as long it’s a skill or a trade—I’ll consent.”

  13

  Spiderland

  NEW YORK CITY, 2001. Martin entered his office building with enough time to buy and then drink a double espresso from the coffee shop in the lobby, and then—because the first went down so well—a second, along with a chocolate-chip muffin that unfortunately looked much better than it tasted and—because he was trying to eat less junk—a banana and an apple. While this br
eakfast vanquished all remnants of his hangover, he considered the hordes of the nine o’clock rush with less enthusiasm as he tried to remember what had prompted him to agree to a conference call at this ridiculous hour, especially on his birthday. After easing himself back into the lobby—and perhaps there was a god—he spied not one but two empty elevators, the closer of which he ran to catch in the hope of avoiding a clump of office workers chattering away not far behind him. He reached it at the same time as a tall, excessively thin woman in a business suit whom Martin recognized from another firm. She pressed the Close Door button so that the doors clunked shut only millimeters beyond the zebra-striped fingernails of a secretary attempting to trigger the sensor. “Oops,” she said to Martin as she extracted her cell phone from her bag and flipped it open. “Wrong button.” He smiled benignly at her but felt queasy as he observed her dark hose, closed-toe leather heels, thin pinstripes, and network-anchor hair; while they rode up in silence, he could not shake the feeling that she might turn on him with some sort of perfectly constructed opening statement that would expose him as woefully unprepared for the day ahead.

  He was reminded of his ex-wife, Amanda, whose appeal had been similarly imperious and unreal. Before they met, during Martin’s junior year in high school, Cranbrook had offered Martin everything he—and his parents—could have wanted (except for his actual presence, in Jane’s case): as a sophomore, he had made the dean’s list and the varsity hockey team, and as a junior, he was well positioned to be the starting goalie. Living away from home had also made him more forgiving toward Hank and Jane; as his roommate, Jay Wellings, pointed out, there wasn’t much point in rebellion when your parents lived three hundred miles away. But for all that was good, he could not escape a longing for something more than schoolwork and hockey, or even getting high, listening to cool bands with Jay, or messing around with girls, all of which he had done with varying degrees of success and satisfaction. After considering the problem, he concluded that it might have something to do with having a more “serious” girlfriend; while the thought of becoming a drooling, love-struck dimwit held no appeal, he began to scan the crowd more earnestly, with the hope of finding the perfect girl staring back.