"NO!" Jenny screamed. "I have to go on! There are people waiting out
there!"
"Honey," I replied, "you have to see a doctor right away."
"Daddy--people paid _money_ to see me play tonight..." She started
crying again. "If I don't go on I'll be humiliated forever!"
Under his breath, Rossi was making ecstatic noises in a thick, and
quite ineffable, European accent. He sounded like a bad Italian wine
with a French label--bottled in Austria and shipped via the
Trans-Siberian Railway to Alaska where it was smuggled south on a
Canadian ship. "She eez a true artiste..."
Try as I might, I could not convince her to come away with me. She was
stubborn in that way--more stubborn than her mother had ever been. Mr.
Rossi was no help at all in the matter either: he seemed to agree with
her!
"But you can't stand up," I added, still trying to convince her.
"I'll sit," she replied curtly. Her tears had all dried up by then.
"Oh yais, eets no problaim," Mr. Rossi interjected, "we'll seemply yoos
ainuther baow." I shot him a look that shut him up immediately.
Jenny insisted on performing. She always carried another bow, and now
the wisdom of that practice was proven. Unfortunately, it would have
to suffice, though she had repeatedly decried it as being "quite an
inferior stick" for playing anything serious. She got her elitism from
her mother, too.
Mr. Rossi clapped his hands, entirely relieved. "Ah, but ZEES awdiense
weel nevair hear souch subtle deefferense!" I knew what he meant
too--the auditorium was filled with hundreds of glassy eyed parents,
siblings, and tiny tots; half of them probably could not even spell
"viola". Mr. Rossi practically pranced away--off to see the numbskull
and make another announcement: the soloist was unharmed; the show would
go on.
Jenny had only one further thought: she'd had enough time to stop
shaking, but she was so unnerved by the experience that she decided she
could never trust herself to play from memory. "I really must have the
score, Daddy. I should."
The ladies of the green room were bustling around, trying to fawn over
her, but keeping a respectful distance from her father, whom they
correctly perceived to be an ape in a touchy mood. Oh, yes, they all
agreed whole-heartedly that it would be no disgrace at all. Plenty of
soloists had played before with the music in front of them. And
considering the state of her nerves, the audience would be so
relieved--and honored--to have her play at all, that they would forgive
the minor irregularity of playing from the music. By all means, she
must have the score.
Reluctantly, I finally gave in and knelt down to tie her shoe-laces.
She could not stand unassisted--we tried a few experimental steps and
she collapsed immediately under her own weight. One of the ladies
produced an ace bandage, so we tied up her ankle, which had swollen so
much it looked like a baked yam. A chair was taken onto the stage for
her to sit. And of course, since she would be playing from the score,
she needed a page turner.
It was the hand of fate: I knew the music, and I was wearing a black
suit. "Honey--I'll turn the pages," I offered boldly before anyone
else could volunteer. "Just like we used to do."
She gave me that little-girl smile--I'd hardly seen it in ten years,
but it made me feel like a real father again. "Oh, Daddy, would you?"
"Come on," I said, putting my arm around her. "I'll escort my princess
to her throne." She laughed, and we left the green room with her
limping along beside me.
Now, I'm not much of a theatre person. I never attend plays, and the
last time I was on stage I was in the third grade. By the time we
reached the wings, I knew my face had already turned the color of a
ripe tomato and I was sweating. I should have let one of the bustling
ladies turn pages for her. How I could face an audience, I had no
idea. I concentrated on keeping my daughter's weight off her sprained
ankle.
As we sat down, I had a brief moment to look out and feel terrified.
The auditorium was dark, so I could only see the first few rows. And I
could sense the breathing masses beyond the lights, hovering
expectantly in the shadows, ready to slash me to ribbons. A hot wind
was blowing in over the bobbing heads in the front; their forked
tongues wagged angrily as they coiled slowly. I could almost see the
sand whipping across the dunes. They were pretty damp dunes, though,
since it was a rainy night. I could feel the intense humidity in the
breeze. The conductor gave a nod, with a broad smile in our direction,
and the orchestra struck up with the soft introduction.
I panicked at first, shooting my eyes across the page of music, trying
to remember what I was supposed to be doing. Where was the first page
turn? I couldn't even remember how to read the little black dots. The
page took on the look of an obscure foreign document splayed out across
the music stand, filled with incomprehensible ink blots. It was a
Rorschach test for the incurably insane. The whole scene was backed by
the restless, peering faces of the audience. I closed my eyes briefly,
trying to calm myself. I snapped them open immediately, however. If I
had my eyes closed, I would miss Jenny's signal. If that happened, I
knew all would be lost for certain. I'd be laughed off the stage, and
she would be ruined before she had even begun.
Only an eccentric maniac like Rossi the Terrible would have picked
"Harold in Italy" for the finale of a Christmas concert. It's not
seasonal in the least--what was wrong with something seasonal that
didn't require a viola solo? But I guess, the orchestra was ready,
Jenny was ready--maybe under his mop of stringy and vaguely European
hair he thought it would be an exquisitely quirky touch to perform it
for Christmas instead of waiting until spring.
The first few page turns passed without incident, and my heart-rate
steadily decreased toward normal. She nodded knowingly at just the
right instants, and I managed to turn the pages without spilling
everything all over the floor or uttering a primal scream. After that,
each page turn became easier, and I found that by the time we were well
into the piece, I was breathing again, and I could follow the score. I
began to get cocky too, and took a few glances at the audience out of
the corner of my eye. I could feel the rapture, starting up out there
somewhere like a wisp of cool air. She was playing beautifully,
passionately. Mr. Rossi was conducting as brilliantly as he could--at
least his expansive gesticulations looked fervent. I had heard the
piece so many times--the solo passages anyway--that I knew it by heart.
But hearing it then, pouring from Jenny's viola backed by the
shimmering of Berlioz' orchestration, it took on a sublime quality that
I had completely forgotten. It had been a long time since I had really
listened to "Harold in Italy", and all the old memories started to come
back.
The second movement has a quality like a caravan painted in broad,
colorful strokes. It starts out very softly, and builds up as the
caravan approaches, passes by the listener, and then eventually recedes
into the distance. It's a striking section, and personally I think
it's the best part of the whole work. By that time, I was alert again,
and was trying to gauge the audience reaction. I had started to
recognize individual faces, and remember where they were--I had been
turning pages for more than fifteen minutes. I kept track of where
people were looking, whether they folded their hands, how they tilted
their heads at certain points. I didn't hear a lot of coughing and
shuffling either. As my eyes grew accustomed to looking at them, I
could see further, beyond the first few rows. They really were--I
suppose a Victorian might have said "transported"--by the music. I
flipped the page again at Jenny's nod.
I had noticed previously one rather large woman near the front row.
She was all dressed up with several long strings of pearls and a long
dress of medium golden-brown shades with lacy white frills and a high
collar. She had pale, white skin, and her brunette hair was tied up in
a hideous bun and topped with a white flower. The whole outfit made
her look like an overdressed turkey dinner with all the trimmings and
those little white caps on the drumsticks. She seemed for a long while
to be even more "transported" than anyone else. I could see the rouge
on her cheeks; her lips were parted and she bent forward. The next
time I chanced to look her way, near the end of the second movement,
she was crying into her handkerchief.
At that moment, as the caravan was fading into the distance, I had a
kind of revelation that I'll never forget. This is what it's all
about, really, I told myself. This is Jenny's life, and the kind of
emotions she can evoke in an audience are her special gift. Maybe I
had never really come to terms with the direction she had chosen. I
started to feel tingly and blurry eyed. If she, with her playing,
could bring tears to even one large woman in a worse-than-average
audience, she must also be bringing joy to another, and at least some
feeling to someone else; maybe everyone else. If she really wanted to
do that with a viola instead of a violin--bringing a new kind of life
to a little regarded solo instrument--I felt I could finally accept it.
Somehow, over the past three years, my opposition to her taking up the
viola had completely blinded me to the fact that she was actually
succeeding. It felt like her destiny beginning to unfold. I was
sitting on stage with my seventeen year-old daughter, actually
participating in her debut as a soloist. How many fathers have that
opportunity, I wondered. I felt a growing sense of privilege attending
the event, and I was elated by the time the third movement was over.
Jenny would fly away from me, of course, into some concert career,
climbing ever higher--the inevitable result of a child growing into an
independent woman with a great art to unleash on the world. Whether
she ever became a famous soloist or not, I thought at that moment, was
irrelevant. It was really the ambience that she lived for; not only
the brief moments of performing, but also the people around her--the
friends with whom she played and passed her time, the practicing, the
dedication; even Mr. Rossi, whether I really liked him or not. I could
hardly keep tears out of my eyes long enough to turn pages through the
end of the fourth movement.
When the music finished and the last blast faded into the walls, there
was fully ten seconds of absolute silence in the auditorium. What
happened to all the tiny tots? I almost wondered if the audience had
gone to sleep! The applause began from the front--the large woman held
her handkerchief between two fat fingers, and was applauding wildly,
ecstatically, leading the crowd. I had never seen such fervor in a
spectator. She was shaking her head, back and forth--I could see the
tears glistening on her cheeks--she threw kisses. In an instant, the
applause grew to a tremendous roar that crashed against the front of
the stage... and then the audience, en masse, were on their feet. I
could almost not believe it--a standing ovation for "Harold in Italy"?
No, it was all for Jenny.
The reception afterwards was gorgeous. I stood back, still hovering
close to Jenny while she took the greetings of her friends and random
members of the audience, including the large woman with the
handkerchief. I sipped a California white wine that was far too young
and sassy, and let her bask for nearly an hour. She still could not
stand up, of course, so they had brought her a padded chair from
somewhere, and she sat straight-backed like a little monarch, with a
big bouquet of pink roses nestled in the crook of one arm, nodding and
smiling. The other hand was perpetually extended to receive other
hands--and on a few occasions to receive a kiss from some lecherous
old geezer.
It ended all too soon for Jenny, I could see. But when I glanced at
her face as the last of the stragglers were leaving the room, I could
tell she was dead tired. The pain in her ankle could not be masked any
longer either. She winced and stretched out her legs when I approached.
"Daddy, let's stop by the hospital on the way home, OK? Just to make
sure it's not broken or anything."
I laughed. "Sure thing, Jenny." She had always been small, like her
mother, and had never grown too big to carry. I lifted her up, and
holding her viola case in one hand, carried her out to the parking lot.
The rain had stopped, and half the clouds had dispersed. The moon lit
up the remaining clouds like big silver scoops over the far hills--and
a few stars twinkled overhead in the cold air.
I whirled around, and around as I walked. "Let's see," I kept saying,
"was it this way?" And I would whirl her one way. "Or was it that
way?" She was in giggles, with her arms clasped behind my neck.
We found the car--I knew where it was all along, but I was having fun.
When we reached the car, I set her down on her feet for a moment to
fish my keys out of my pocket. Meanwhile, I handed her the viola case,
and she took it absently. She turned around then, and seeing the front
of the car for the first time, burst out in a squeal. "What the hell
happened to your car?" She limped to follow me to the door.
"Little mishap on the freeway," I replied, unlocking the passenger
door. Her eyes went from the front grill back along the side of the
car. I couldn't help smiling when her eyes stopped at the trunk. It
was half open, with big sprigs of fir tree bulging out all over.
"Oh, Daddy..." she whispered, clutching my shoulder. I heard that warm
tone come back into her voice and she embraced me. "You said we
weren't going to have a tree this year..."
"Changed my mind, honey," I replied. "Besides--it was too cheap to
pass up." I grabbed her viola case out of her hand. "Got it from mah
ol' frenn CJ," I drawled.