by JJ Marsh
“Teething problems? A few mistakes and an adjustment to the way the orchestra operates or even a bit of stumbling with the language, yes. That’s what I expected. Not to make amateur errors from the second I picked up my bow. I couldn’t even express myself correctly in English. Over lunch, one of the violinists was kind enough to reassure me that everybody goes through the wringer on the first day. She said it was a test of confidence. My confidence was at rock bottom. Even after lunch, when we played Brahms, bloody Brahms! I’ve been playing from the Double Concerto since I was six years old. Today I could hardly get through a single bar without him stopping me and asking me if there was a problem. Thank you for the tea, but I think I need a glass of something stronger.”
Leonor did not move. “I’ve been thinking. We’ve worked and worked on your technical skills and your emotional interpretation. The one area we haven’t considered is your physical and mental health. You need to be in your best condition to play with an orchestra like this one. I’m going to pay a lot more attention to your diet and exercise regime so that you can be as fit as possible. Tonight, we’re having stir fry with Pak Choi, spinach and kale. You are going to drink nothing stronger than herbal tea. Think of me as your coach. I’m going to look after you, massage your shoulders, make you healthy food, soothe your anxieties and support you in every way I can. You can do this. You are strong – not just as a player, but as a person. No one in my life has impressed me as much. The way you meet every challenge with courage and dignity makes you a hero in my eyes.”
He reached up to clasp her hand, her words already taking effect. If he had his way, he’d crack open a bottle of beer, roll a joint and block out the reality of the day. She was right. One bad day followed by a bad reaction would lead to a second bad day. He needed to regroup, keep a clear head and go back to that rehearsal room with a positive, determined attitude. It was a test, that’s all. When he turned up in the morning, all smiles and eagerness, it would show Sebastian Rahn he was not easily broken.
He looked up at her and she reached down to kiss him with gentleness, her behaviour almost maternal in the way she stroked his hair.
“Why don’t you take your tea onto the balcony and read the newspaper? Get your mind off rehearsals. I’ll cook a vitamin-rich delicious dinner and we’ll make plans. You and me against the world. Frei aber einsam.”
Rolf did as he was told, relaxing into the wicker chair and inhaling the fragrance of the flowers that climbed the wall. A sombre solo piano piece rippled in the background, he couldn’t put the finger on the composer, though it sounded German. He browsed the paper, his mind unable to fix on an entire story, but took in the headlines so that if anyone made reference to local or world events at work tomorrow, he would at least know what they were talking about. The tinkling of a small bell attracted his attention and he leaned forward to look over the balcony. A black cat padded across the grass, its attention on the apple tree against the wall, where starlings gathered to chirp and sing. Their combined voices almost drowned out the cat’s bell, but its final run and pounce added a discordant note to their evensong and they burst into the air like a cloud of bats. The cat sat at the base of the tree, washing itself as if unconcerned. Rolf could see the little collar was pale blue, and recalled their neighbour saying its name. Rolf pursed his lips and made some kissing noises to attract the cat’s attention.
“Puss, puss? Hello, Blue.”
The cat lifted golden eyes to stare at him and returned to licking its sable fur.
A second bad day turned into a third and fourth. One of his fellow cellists, a heavy-set Swiss guy called Bertrand de Salis, actually rolled his eyes when Rolf walked into the rehearsal room on Thursday. It put him on edge, and he paid more attention to his fellow musicians than to his own performance. It was the worst day yet. It seemed Sebastian Rahn was out to break him, and if Rolf was honest, it wouldn’t take much more to make him quit. He hated everything about the guy: the way he stopped to lecture them on the historical development of bowing action, the infuriating gesture of resting his hands over his eyes and sighing, even the way he dressed, like some sort of dandy with high-waisted trousers.
Not one of his fellow players stood up for him, even when they joined the rest of the strings on Thursday afternoon to perform in front of the maestro in the main rehearsal room. René the concertmaster took over as leader, which improved matters slightly, but he too had criticism for the cellos. Rolf sensed Sebastian’s eyes on him as they received their notes. The maestro said nothing. Resentment filled the room and Rolf had the impression the entire string section blamed him for the poor performance. His self-esteem was shot, and for the first time in his life he began to appreciate why so many players feared stage fright. It was crippling, like trying to play with frozen fingers and ice in your heart. He went home like an automaton, with the growing sense he might never be an orchestral cellist.
Early on Friday morning, the maestro sent Rolf a message asking him to arrive half an hour before rehearsals began. Convinced he was about to be sacked, he didn’t mention it to Leonor, just saying he was going to grab a chai latte en route to the Konzerthalle.
Jurgen Wilk invited him into his office, a place Rolf had never seen. It was very much as he imagined, with framed posters of previous successes on the wall and a vast collection of recordings.
Wilk gave him a vague smile and offered him coffee. “Tell me, how are you feeling as we approach the end of your first week?” he asked, his back turned as he attended to his neat little coffee machine.
Rolf took a deep breath “It is an education. Learning so much from performing alongside such extraordinary talents and growing to understand my section’s style.”
Wilk placed a cup and saucer in front of him, sat down and met his eyes. “Herr Jaro, honesty is the cornerstone of all good relationships. I ask you again. How are you feeling about joining the Salzburg City Orchestra?”
Several seconds passed as Rolf searched for the right words. “It’s more difficult than I expected. Using English is not easy for me. Of course, I comprehend it is the only language available, with so many different nationalities. But it is a challenge. Another thing is the constant criticism from Rahn. I feel my playing cannot flow when he interrupts every other bar. It hurts my confidence. Sorry, I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I appreciate what he is teaching me.”
Wilk drank his coffee, swivelling his chair to look out the window at the spring sunshine and blossoming trees. “There is the source of your misunderstanding. He is not teaching you. If anything, he is ‘unteaching’ you. You possess a natural talent, but I’m afraid to say that you have been very poorly trained. I am an artist, Herr Jaro. An artist is only as good as his tools. Imagine giving a painter a brush which has never been properly cleaned. It has residue within its fibres which contaminates any new piece of work. So before I can begin painting, I must clean my paintbrush. That is what this week is all about. That is what next week will be about.” He rotated his chair to look into Rolf’s face. “Sebastian Rahn is trying to eradicate every last one of your bad habits so that we can start with a clean canvas. There are two ways of doing this. He can correct you, you can fight him and the whole process will take much longer. Or he can correct the elements of your playing which hold you back and you accept his guidance. This benefits us all. You will progress as a player, the cellos operate as a well-oiled team and I gain a clean paintbrush with which to create my art.”
He looked at his watch. “We should get to our rehearsal rooms. I detest lateness. Herr Jaro, I want to say that I understand how much you have to adjust. New city, new apartment, new language, new colleagues and a new leader. It’s not easy, but if you open yourself to what people are offering, you will find the transition far easier. Was the coffee not to your taste?”
Rolf’s intense concentration on the maestro’s English had made him forget about his espresso. He emptied the little cup in one gulp and stood up. Mimicking the maestro’s own manner of greeting, he
gave a brief respectful bow. “Thank you. I am happy you said that. I’m also surprised, as I trained with one of the greatest cello masters in Bratislava. My education is not relevant, I see that now. I’m here as a member of the Salzburg City Orchestra under Rahn’s guidance and your direction. I know I was difficult this week and that will change. Thank you for your explanation, and for the coffee.”
With the faintest of smiles, Wilk gave a single nod and his eyes strayed to the door. Rolf got the message and left the room with one more bow of his head.
It would be an exaggeration to say Friday’s rehearsal went without a hitch, but there was a distinct change in the atmosphere. Sebastian Rahn interrupted frequently, but rather than kick back, Rolf listened and tried to implement his suggestions. Not entirely passive, he asked questions in an engaged manner to check he had understood what the leader meant. As a result, Rahn’s language became gentler, less impatient and more explanatory. The day took on a more positive note, allowing a certain fluency to emerge. They played several sections of Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht Op. 4 in the morning, admittedly with detailed notes at the end, but at least they managed to play something everyone enjoyed.
In the afternoon they returned to the main rehearsal room and Bartók’s Four Orchestral Pieces, which Rolf was dreading. It was the only other part besides Schoenberg that was confirmed for the City Orchestra’s main programme of the season. The previous session had ended in an impasse when Rolf told Sebastian he understood nothing about the Hungarian’s atypical potpourri of musical references. It was a huge challenge, and one which required a great deal of physical effort as well as intense concentration. Worse still, the maestro would be in attendance. After three false starts, they went on to play all of the four pieces. A frisson ran through the room the longer they played, and out of the corner of his eye Rolf caught enthusiastic looks exchanged between players. When they got to the end, there was a collective sigh – not of relief but of achievement.
Wilk’s eyes swept the room and one of his semi-smiles lifted the corners of his mouth. “Ladies and gentlemen, that was the closest thing to passable you have managed all week. I have a great many notes, particularly for the string section. However, it is Friday afternoon and you’ve worked extremely hard these past few days. Therefore I suggest you go out and enjoy the sunshine. Notes will wait until we resume rehearsals on Wednesday. Good luck with your respective performances this weekend. Thank you everyone, and good afternoon.”
His words met with expressions of delight and a gentle ripple of applause. Wilk gave them all one of his bows and left the room with a brief nod at Rolf. To his surprise, Bertrand, the big Swiss man came over to praise his performance. Before he could formulate a reply, Rahn passed by and clapped him on the back.
“You survived your first week, Jaro. It’s all uphill from here.” His words were softened by a lopsided grin. Trudi the violinist invited him to join a few of them for a drink in a nearby beer garden. It was a long time since a pretty woman other than Leonor had expressed an interest in him. Whether that interest was personal or professional, he didn’t care. He decided to say yes. Leonor wouldn’t expect him for another hour as the maestro had released them forty-five minutes early. It was time he got to know his workmates a little better.
Trudi, Jun and Bertrand surprised him by ordering four glasses of Stiegel. The three of them seemed to know each other well, and teased one another about their playing habits and repeated mistakes. Rolf noticed they did not mention his. Violinist Jun was so slight that Rolf doubted she could fit so much beer into her frame. He was even concerned about his own tolerance after a week of sobriety. Jun asked questions about his settling into Salzburg. She confessed to finding it very hard when relocating from Osaka. She was softly spoken but her English seemed fluent.
“Is Slovakia very different?” she asked. “I know very little about it.”
Before he could formulate an answer, Trudi replied. “Very different in some ways and in others not at all. It’s much easier to find your footing in a similar culture. Language, food and decent beer!” Trudi’s fist closed around her Stein and she lifted it with intent. “I spent a year in London, trying to understand the Brits and drinking their revolting lager. Never again!” Her blue eyes sparkled. “Prost!”
Bertrand added that it was even easier if you had a partner. His physicality, which had intimidated Rolf at first glance, seemed to embarrass more than elevate the Swiss man. He stooped to reduce his height and behaved with gentlemanly courtesy toward his fellow string players. “My wife not only dealt with moving country, but a bad-tempered husband, at least for the first few days.”
“That is true,” Rolf agreed. “Each night this week I went home to Leonor and complained about how hard my life was. I didn’t even think about hers.” He gave a rueful laugh and they joined him.
“What does your wife do?” asked Jun.
“We’re not married. She was a music teacher in Bratislava and she’s hoping to find some private pupils here. Today she went to a music school with our downstairs neighbour to offer her services. You might know Anton, he’s part of the children’s festival organisation team. Anton Berger?”
Trudi’s face creased into a smile. “Anton! We play in the same chamber music quartet. Of course, he’s in one of the orchestra apartments on Gerhardstrasse. That’s a lovely area to live. I guess you’re like Bertrand and hate taking part in any of our chamber music groups. Cosy couples tend to have other things on their minds during their spare time.” She gave Jun a knowing smile.
“I’ve done my bit,” said Bertrand, his French accent exaggerating the last word into ‘beat’. “It’s unfair to expect him to join in any extra activities while he’s still learning the day job. Sorry, Rolf, I don’t mean to sound patronising. Everyone’s first week was damned hard work, no?”
Trudi and Jun nodded and momentarily closed their eyes as if to blot out the memories. So it wasn’t just him, thought Rolf. Jurgen Wilk and his section principals broke everyone down and reformed them into the players he wanted for his orchestra. The knowledge he wasn’t the first made Rolf feel a great deal better – although the beer probably helped.
“Sebastian Rahn is a supremely talented cellist and a loyal principal to Wilk’s vision. But he could learn a lot about tact. You did very well, my friend.” Bertrand lifted his beer to toast Rolf.
As Rolf joined the toast, he realised the eye roll which had so disconcerted him on Thursday morning might have been aimed at Sebastian Rahn, not himself, and had actually been meant as a gesture of solidarity.
The conversation turned to previous training and orchestral experience, which made Rolf feel like the new boy all over again. Not that they treated him any differently, just that they’d seen so much more than his tiny window on the world. He was asking Jun about her training in Japan when his mobile vibrated in his back pocket. A message from Leonor, announcing a celebration in the garden. Apparently Anton had introduced her to a pastoral support teacher at the conservatoire and passed on three of his own pupils. She told him to hurry home for champagne and canapés.
The message made him uncomfortable for several reasons. He disliked the growing friendship between his girlfriend and the downstairs neighbour. It made him resentful to leave drinks with his colleagues to come and celebrate the fact she was going to teach a few spoilt kids. If he stayed here, with these kind, interesting and non-judgemental people, he could have another beer and perhaps begin to make friends of his own. Trudi was giving him a curious smile and he wondered if her overtures of friendship meant something more. It wasn’t the first time his naïveté had elicited a desire to protect, or sometimes, just a desire. Vulnerability had its advantages.
He made his excuses, left money for his beer and wished them all a good weekend. It may have been paranoia, but he sensed a certain judgement as he picked up his cello and left. They were assessing him and he had no idea of their conclusions.
On the way home along the beautiful str
eets he berated himself for his selfish reaction to Leonor’s message. Every day, she had counselled, supported, listened and planned with him to make the next day easier. He hadn’t given a thought to what she was doing all day, other than cooking and cleaning for him. Leonor von Rosenheim was never destined to be a housewife, and he should be happy she had the initiative to use her limited contacts. He should be happier still that she would have her own money from teaching hours. She was not as starry-eyed about the city as he was, and often seemed bored by the place. The friendship with Anton downstairs was only natural, as she knew no one else in the city other than him.
He inhaled deeply and expressed a long breath out, releasing all his negativity and focusing on an optimistic, upbeat mood. Today had been a good day and he had the whole weekend to spend exploring the city with the woman he loved.
It was all a matter of attitude.
In the pergola, Leonor had prepared asparagus stalks wrapped in ham and mayonnaise with tiny little circles of toast.
“Asparagus again?” laughed Rolf. He didn’t mention the champagne, but a bubble of pride swelled in him at the fact he could just about afford to keep his girlfriend in luxuries.
Anton poured him a glass. “Also known as the Austrian foie gras, my friend. And why not, because we are celebrating!”
They drank champagne and listened to a random selection of musical items from Anton’s phone via a Bose speaker. Blue appeared, yowled until he got a strip of ham from Anton and then slunk away into the bushes.
Leonor informed Rolf with great delight that one of her new pupils was the godchild of Jurgen Wilk. His boss’s godson would be in her charge for an hour every week. Not only that, but she had found stables a ninety-minute train ride out of the city which would allow her to exercise their horses.
“I have a job, at least part-time. I can exercise my first love, which is horse riding. And in the evenings, I can exercise my second love.” She gave Rolf a seductive look under her eyelashes and burst into laughter. “Even better, I’ve made a new friend!” She reached out a hand towards Anton, who took it and kissed her knuckles.