by Jessie Tu
At Circular Quay, the girl eases off her seat and turns. We exchange brief smiles.
The entrance to the backstage area is manned by a technician in a black T-shirt who waves at me with his walkie-talkie and smiles like it’s his first day on the job. He tells me to sign in at the desk inside and warm up in a studio room.
‘Don’t we get a practice room each?’ My voice is small.
‘It’s a quick in and out I’m afraid.’
The studio; carpeted walls, upright piano. I unpack my violin on the piano stool and play a few scales, moving my torso about, closing my eyes to focus on the sound. I spot the pretty girl making her way towards the concert hall. Her back is erect, face a measure of calm. Involuntarily, my mind turns to Mark’s face. Thin lips. Wet lips. His scent imprinted on my senses.
I adopt the same attitude I’ve had since I started performing almost two decades ago. I’m just telling a story. Everything is inside me. Emotions belong on the fingerboard. Steady, breath, flight.
A woman with a black lanyard emerges beside me, hands clasped in front of her. ‘They’re ready for you.’
I follow her through a series of narrow corridors. Framed black-and-white photos on the walls. Nobody’s face resembling mine. At the end of a long corridor the woman pushes open double doors. I follow her in. A black chair sits lonely in front of a music stand on the stage. White partitions, two metres high erected a few metres away. Presumably, the panellists are on the other side. The woman recites my number aloud—‘This is candidate B-R-4-5’—and disappears through the door.
I take my seat, place my music on the stand, tune an A. Bach’s Sonata for Solo Violin. The first. The stock standard. The basic. But the basics are hardest. The basics are stripped back. There is no orchestra. There’s just you and your violin. No elaborations. No mask to hide behind.
I melt into a bodily stillness inherited from my grandpapa. My arms feel weightless yet heavy at the same time. Like I could caress the cheek of a newborn on one hand, while lifting a car with the other. My bow strokes are confident and wide. The sound flies across the stage, through the hall. My mind wanders into a clear blankness. I close my eyes during the final phrase, letting my corporeal memory take over. The last chord hangs, lightness, in the hollowed, open space. I relax, pushing my shoulders forward, collapsing them for a few moments.
‘Thank you,’ a voice on the other side. ‘The excerpts, please. From the top.’
I take deep breaths. In and out. Close my eyes. I hear the tempo in my head, lock it in and begin.
I use a slower bow for the first excerpt, a slow movement. Sixteen notes to a bow. I tilt the bow on its side to catch the least amount of hair across the strings. The white powdered dust of the rosin clouds the space between the bridge and fingerboard. I pull back, ease on the pressure. The violin whispers. I breathe in small, shallow inhalations.
Twenty minutes later, I play the final note of an excerpt. I tuck my violin under my right arm and feel the damp cotton on the back of my dress, stuck like honey against my shoulder blades.
In the green room, I notice my hands are still shaking. Banks calls as I’m leaving the Opera House—wanting to debrief, no doubt. I let it ring out. We’re encouraged to talk after an audition. What went well. What could have been better. Trauma counselling for musicians.
I am always good at these post-performance talks. I conjure another version of myself. One where I am able to relay most of the good parts of the playing. I never make a mistake, so there is really nothing to speak of in terms of failures, but maybe I moved too much this time and they could hear the sound of my torso adjusting to the weight of my bow. Maybe I rushed the allegro section. Did I exaggerate the dynamics? Why couldn’t I just have played with more control? More restraint? They want a malleable, reliable musician. Why did I have to show off?
Instead of calling Banks I text Olivia, expecting her to respond immediately. Her audition was in the morning. I watch my phone for the three white spots jumping up and down at the bottom of my screen.
How easily these feelings of rejection and abandonment fold into my existence. How easily they form, coagulate and surface, contaminating everything good about my life. There is nothing. I board a train back home and begin listing the boys I can call tonight.
At the pharmacy, I buy cream for the sore beneath my lip. The man behind the counter looks at my chin and tells me it is a fungal infection, which makes me feel like I am something to be discarded. I thought fungal infections only happened between the toes or legs. I swear never to kiss a man with a stubble again.
But then I do, the following evening. This time, he draws blood. We find each other between the sheets. In the shower, he holds my face between his two large hands.
‘Would you mind shaving?’ Mark asks.
‘What?’
‘Shaving your pussy?’
Something hard clamps in my throat. He begins lathering soap on my breasts.
‘I don’t like furry pies.’
17
I’m sitting in the waiting room of a local salon, waiting to get the hair between my legs waxed. Olivia finally texts. We haven’t seen each other since before the audition; nearly a week ago. She doesn’t mention it, so I don’t either. In the past, we’ve always debriefed post-performance, either in person or on the phone, but this time it’s like the audition never happened. She speaks rapidly into the phone. An electro-pop duo from Sweden is in Sydney for a music festival and Noah has tickets to an exclusive party. I hate the rave scene. I hate the sound, the bodies, the noise. The darkness, the smell, the liquor. On the other hand, I need to let loose. I am trying not to think about what I’ll do if I don’t get the position with the orchestra.
I’m in the waiting room alone, cupping the phone to my ear. ‘I hate dancing.’
‘Please come,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to be stuck alone with Noah.’ She sighs into the phone. ‘Last night he accused me of cheating. He counted the number of condoms in my drawer and said that two were missing. Can you believe that?’
‘That’s a bit neurotic.’
‘And apparently he’s been tracking me on his phone.’
‘Is that legal?’
‘I don’t know. So where are you?’
I hesitate. ‘At a cafe waiting for coffee.’
‘You don’t drink coffee.’
‘I felt like one today.’
The wax job is painful, much the same way pap smears are painful. Awkward, showing your genitals to a complete stranger who tries to make conversation. The woman, a hundred piercings and sleeves of tattoo, tells me to lie back and not look. This is the third time I’ve been waxed down there and I’m not sure why I am doing it.
Afterwards, at home when I pee, the liquid runs down my thighs and then all over the toilet bowl, making a mess.
I practise the excerpts for a few hours without a break, ignoring the pain in my wrist. I make some toast and eat it standing up in the kitchen, phone in hand, mindlessly scrolling through Facebook. I get dressed and Uber into the city, settling on a black skirt and silk blouse. It’s late by the time I reach the CBD. Olivia is waiting outside the club in a line twenty people deep. She’s wearing a leather jacket with pressed-on roses, a red miniskirt and calf-high boots.
‘Where’s Noah?’
‘He’s on his way on a bus.’
‘You guys didn’t come together?’
‘I was in the mountains with Mum.’
Inside the club, it’s a tropic, smoke-filled dungeon of bodies throbbing to a radiant electronic track. The strobe lights needle through the dark space, slicing faces in half, then quarters, a wide beam from a shuttered lamp on the ceiling shadowing faces, then exposing them in micro-second pulses.
Olivia grabs my hand and takes me to the bar for a few shots. Between our fourth and fifth drinks, she tells me she’s not happy. She and Noah are becoming two different people. She is weary of his indifference to her mother. He doesn’t seem to care for her the way he used t
o. I wince each time she says he doesn’t care, because it always seemed to me as if he cared. He always seemed to behave with great sincerity and gentleness. Was Olivia mistaking his kindness for passivity?
At some point, we look at each other and it’s clear that we are both waiting for the other to bring up the audition.
Finally, I do. ‘You know, there’s only one spot. One of us might get it.’
Her tone is bland, careful. ‘Or neither of us will get it.’
‘It will be one of us.’
Noah arrives, hair uncombed, shoulders slumped. He is wearing a white T-shirt and dark jeans. We down more shots then slide into the mass of bodies on the dance floor. I forget the rest of the world exists and move my body the way it yearns to move, grazing my flesh against a man with small eyes and gropey hands. My body becomes a porous thing, pushed and pulled by the convulsion of other people’s desires. The whole room vibrates.
I pound my fist in the air when the bass twists into a rhythmic pulse. The low tenor of its intonation hits me across the chest, like I am coughing each time it thrums through the space, dense with flashed torsos weaving in and out of shadows and beams of light.
Noah and me. We are thrusting our bodies together, gazing at each other as though entranced. At one point, his lips sink into mine, and all the noise disappears. Something in me wants to be found out. It scares me to discover this; makes my heart scream at a decibel nobody can hear.
In the bathroom, I find Olivia standing by the sink. She leans towards the mirror to check her hair. ‘Have you seen Noah?’ she asks.
‘You look fine,’ I say. ‘Go!’
I take her place at the mirror. A white bulb beams from above. Shadows fall on my face in all the wrong areas. It’s just bad lighting. It’s just bad lighting. I want Olivia’s glassy skin. I want to go out and find her and carve her face off with a penknife and put her skin over my face.
I take my lipstick out of my clutch and reapply it. I wonder whether Olivia will notice the shade of Spring Pink! on Noah’s lips.
In the mirror, I see the pale mounds of my breasts exposed. When I lean forward, a hint of nipple. I take a step back and pull my dress down.
Outside, blue lasers flick around the room like police sirens. The thrashing beat of music on my chest. Someone grabs my hand and pulls me close. Noah.
He looks at me with wild eyes. ‘Don’t tell Olivia,’ he breathes into my face. Hot alcohol.
‘Don’t.’
‘She’s looking for you.’
He lowers his eyes until they reach my breasts. I feel his left hand grip my hip.
‘What’s going on here?’ Olivia doesn’t know how to wear confusion on her face.
‘Noah’s being a dick,’ I say.
‘She was just trying to hit on me,’ Noah says.
Their hands find each other in the darkness. I call after them, squeezing through strobing bodies. Someone pinches my arse.
When we reach the entrance door, the bouncer tells us there’s no re-entry.
Olivia turns and holds up a hand.
‘Don’t follow us.’
On the street, they hail a taxi.
I climb into the next one and arrive home just after five. I check my phone. No texts. When I call her, it rings out. I leave messages. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. I give up after the thirteenth.
I think about Noah’s lips. Something inside me wanted to be found out. Ruin Olivia’s life so I can feel better about my own deficiencies. Lying in bed, alone again.
18
A bruised grey sky hangs low over the harbour as I walk towards the Opera House for morning rehearsal.
The concert hall is empty. I arrive early hoping to practise without the stage crew knocking around chairs and equipment. I check my phone; an email from Bryce, the orchestra’s manager.
Late afternoon, I am in his office. He enters dressed in a suit. A few moments later, Banks.
I sit up straight, trying to convey confidence and ease. An adult.
‘Jena, I know you weren’t expecting to see me here,’ Banks clasps his hands behind his back, relaxed.
Bryce leans forward.
‘We’re offering you a permanent position with us.’
The news doesn’t surprise me. They’d have been stupid to pass on someone like me. Though it occurred to me in the days following the audition that my history as a soloist might make me fundamentally unfit as the second desk of the firsts. An orchestra player is the most reliable and emotionally steady of all musicians. I’d only been doing a few concerts a week. How could they know I’d be suited to the rigid routines of playing four nights a week, four daytime rehearsals? Olivia might have seemed like the better choice on paper. She’d been playing with orchestras since she picked up the violin in year six. If her mother wasn’t sick, maybe she would be the one being offered a permanent position. In many ways, she is more deserving.
I smile a painted-on smile. ‘Thank you. I’m really happy.’
I text Mark the news. After a concert that evening, I wait for him outside his office. Twenty, twenty-five minutes. When he emerges from the revolving doors, he strolls slowly, arms swinging by his side, smiling with the ease of a fifteen-year-old boy who’s just aced a chemistry exam. He stops a metre from me and waits for me to take the final steps towards him. We walk to an Italian restaurant between two office buildings. We have margaritas and share a pepperoni pizza. After the meal, I think about Ubering to the studio to surprise Val and the boys. I’d promised to go to their exhibition opening but then told them I had a concert. Which was true. But my concert is done and I could see them now. I could still make it. I think about how I am going to tell Val. Olivia. My thoughts foam, and then crust into something fragile and cracked.
When the waiter brings us the bill, Mark rolls onto one butt cheek to fish out his wallet. He takes out his card and throws it onto the small padded tray. ‘Thanks,’ I say quietly.
He nods, looking at his phone.
Later, we check into the Hilton on George Street. ‘A treat, for you,’ he says.
We have no bags, no luggage. The man at reception looks at me while I wait beside Mark who is filling out a form on an iPad. I smile weakly and turn my back to him.
The room is on the forty-second floor.
We fuck like we always do. Hard. Callous. Quick. Afterwards, we lay in bed, our bodies loose, resting against the headboard. We are characters in a French film yet to be made. I tell him we should be smoking. That’s what you do after a tremendous fuck.
I look at his face, impassive and grey. It must be the shadows in the room. He is staring at the television screen, which is switched off.
A calmness settles over my body. I move closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed my new youth, even when he went down on me.
He has many flaws.
And yet.
And yet.
And yet.
19
I am pleased that now I can tell people I have a full-time job. I am legitimate, finally. Normal. This is what I’d wanted, during the period before my breakdown. To stop touring. To stay put.
We have rehearsals four times a week, evening concerts from Wednesday to Saturday and matinees on Saturdays.
The weeks pass in a steady routine. Soon, I find the late evenings suit Mark too, and I stay over each night after a concert, except when he’s in Melbourne. Occasionally, he takes me out to eat, though mostly we just fuck. On Mondays and Tuesdays, he doesn’t call. I stay home and practise, read, and occasionally drop by the studio to see Val and the boys. I try not to think about Olivia, who does not call.
I don’t know how Noah explained what she saw to her. Would she really think that I would seduce her boyfriend? I wonder what she’d think if I told her about Mark.
May threads into June. I feel myself grow weary of the new reality, the routine. When Mark is in Melbourne it is especially hard. I crave his body and nobody else’s. On a cold Sunday afternoon, weeks after I’ve jo
ined the orchestra permanently, I get a text from Olivia. It’s brief, asking me if I’m going to the White Cocktail at the end of the month. No congratulations. No apology. I feel petty anger stirring. I wonder whether I’d treat her the same if she’d been offered the position instead of me. I send a brief text; yes, I’ll be there. Then, nothing else.
Social functions are a test. I know how to charm the elites. I’ve been doing it since I was a child. The Russians threw the best parties. In St Petersburg, the conductor would hand me a shot of vodka and I’d down it when my mother’s back was turned. In America, it depended on the city. In New York City, the parties were like Gatsby’s. Over the top. Beautiful people. I was part of this world because they made me stand at its centre, but I also understood that I was completely outside of it. I did not return home to a mansion with a fridge stocked with French champagne.
I wear a backless, halter-neck gown to the dinner. Dark blue.
At Bennelong, I am greeted by a waiter who asks for my name. He leads me to a table at the front of the restaurant with the best view, close to the principal leaders. I am seated between a flautist, and Trumpet, who I knew from the college orchestra. Throughout the evening, we bond over our shared distaste for caviar, which is served alongside each dish in the à la carte menu. He tells me about his long-distance relationship with an opera singer in Germany.
‘It’s hard. The worst thing is she’s based in Walldorf, which is a tiny village in the mountains with no internet.’
‘How do you guys keep it together?’
‘Love, I suppose, and trust.’
The conductor makes his way over and wedges himself between us. Tonight, he is not the Maestro. He is dressed down, a simple grey suit. He’s pasted a slab of grey hair across his high forehead and left a small soul patch below his bottom lip.
‘How’s your night going?’ His eyes are intense.
‘We’re good.’ I turn my body to include Trumpet, who looks slightly alarmed by this.