Mortal Instruments
by Shane Tourtellotte
Illustration by Dell Harris
Tadeusz Nikisch watched through the front window as his last pupil got into the car with her mother. “I said I would call you if my schedule opened,” he remonstrated.
John Button jerked himself to his feet, nearly bumping his bow case off the coffee table. “I didn’t have any more time. My audition with the New York Philharmonic’s tomorrow afternoon. If I waited for you—”
“John, please. An hour or two more will make little difference.” Tadeusz kept calm with his natural ease. John Button wasn’t half his age, but already his forehead was as lined as his own. “You know the advice I’ve given you, and I accept that you haven’t taken it.”
“Why should I? You tell me to live with my limitations. Translated, that means give up.”
Live within, Tadeusz recalled saying, but he left it. “It means nothing like that. Please, John, sit.”
John resisted scornfully, only for a moment. Tadeusz sat by him, taking a second to nudge the cases away from the table edge.
“I’ve told you my evaluation before. You have a love of music, and there is no greater gift in the world. Your gift for playing is not as great. The violin is so dependent on a good ear for precise playing. Technical mastery can take you far, but only so far. With other instruments, it matters much less. I wish you would take up piano, as I have suggested.”
“I don’t want to play piano.”
Plain and unassailable, as always.
“And so, I suggest taking smaller steps. The state orchestra is within your reach.” John winced.
“This upsets you?”
“ ‘Our state orchestra,’ ” John recited, “ ‘is a natural repository for the broad ranks of mediocrity in today’s string players.’ ”
Tadeusz couldn’t deny his words: John probably had that magazine article framed somewhere. “Mediocrity is relative,” he maintained. “A mediocre… er… Yankees player still has greater talent than most. Is it shameful to be among the lesser of the best?”
“Doctor Nikisch, please.” John kept his eyes averted for a long moment. “I came for your help,” he said softly. “I wanted one last edge, one refinement or insight that might make the difference tomorrow.”
“One day out of a dozen years will mean this much?”
“Maybe. Would I have come this far without all that work? Can I expect to get any farther without more?”
Tadeusz looked aside. Music didn’t exist to “get far,” but perhaps his was a minority opinion. “I can’t give you instruction tonight.” He turned his eyes back, sharp and firm, before John could protest. “If you insist on a practice session, come early tomorrow, say six-thirty. I can give you two hours before my Saturday pupils.”
John smiled, but the tension stayed. “Thank you. You know how much this means to me.” He reached for his cases. “I need to brush up my vibrato. I can’t play an auditorium any other way.” The sad gaze struck him, and he held his violin protectively close. “Let’s not argue that again. It’s standard technique.”
“Yes. So it is.” Large, modern audiences demanded the fullest projection from the players, whatever the cost to the subtleties of the music. “Some people insist that birds fly on steel-feathered wings.”
John absorbed this without a flinch. “Thank you, Doctor Nikisch,” he said at the door. “I wouldn’t be where I am without you. I’ll try not to let you down,” he said in parting, oblivious to the irony.
The practice hall was thick with people and tune-up sounds when John arrived. He squeezed himself to his chair without a word, sat down, and took out his violin. He muttered “Sorry” as he jogged someone while opening his bow case.
“I said, how did your audition go?”
“Oh, Sara. Fine, it was fine,” he said, even as his stomach began twisting anew. “How are you?”
“All right.” Sara Weber leaned in closer. “Are you?”
“I said I was fine.” He flushed. “Sorry, jitters. I’ll be hearing if they’ll call me back soon.”
“Well, good luck.” John’s mouth twisted: too late. “I know how important this is to you.”
The arrival of their conductor saved him from another hasty reply. The Caledon Symphony Orchestra began its summer concert season in a month, and rehearsals were up to thrice a week. He led them straight into the first suite of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet ballet.
The knots inside John pulled tighter from the first note. The CSO was a stepping-stone, the “to present” line on his resume. He shared concertmaster status with Sara, something he couldn’t resent personally the way he might professionally. His advances left him the conviction that he could go farther. Yet he hadn’t.
His thoughts started to fade beneath the second language he was playing. The turmoil briefly colored, then submerged beneath, the music. Prokofiev now outvoiced Button, even as Button gave him that voice. It was the great consummation, the two artists silent without each other, together made briefly immortal.
The conductor stopped the music to instruct the basses, and the slender bond snapped. John was alone again with his thoughts, and when the music began anew, he could not slip away from them. The bliss was so rare, and always so transient when he found it, while others grasped the gift effortlessly.
John’s ear for pitch was average, meaning poor for a violinist. The correct intonation natural to some was a struggle for him. That fault was the drag on his ambitions—and the shut door between him and the rapture he could but touch.
To know every note, recognize it for itself, not as a string or a key… and then have their structure and harmony course over you, an open book, a secret joyously given… the daydreams John had of such a passionate rapport thrilled him, crushed him. If he could work a little harder, rise a little higher, play with those who understood…
The unbreakable cycle thwarted him. Professional success and the true knowledge of music: each needed the other, the way Prokofiev needed Button… or any other musician.
John worked the rest of the rehearsal with a hard-set frown, which most took for a sign of his dedication. It remained as he put away his violin and bow, only wavering when he saw Sara regarding it with something like condolence. He wiped it away, much too late.
“It wasn’t good,” she said, not even making it a question. “I’m sorry.”
John squirmed, started to turn, but couldn’t make himself leave. “My fault,” he muttered. “Berg’s Violin Concerto isn’t my best piece.”
Berg’s requiem was a serial composition, without specific key. He chose it in a moment of cowardice, playing away from his weaknesses, but finding no strengths in the notoriously difficult cadenza he performed. The music didn’t reach him in even the limited way that traditional pieces did… and it showed.
Sara walked past him, bringing him along with a touch on the shoulder. “I guess you keep practicing. Nothing comes easily in this work.” His shoulder dropped away from her hand. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, no.”
Sara broke away momentarily to intercept the conductor, saying something about the next rehearsal and no guarantees. “What was that about?” he asked when she returned.
“I’m going to Philadelphia, for my sister. I told you this, didn’t I?”
“I don’t… wait. Is this an operation?”
“Yes, it’s the operation. She’s getting the implants tomorrow. I’ll be there Wednesday morning, and cross your fingers, she’ll finally get to hear me say ‘hello.’ ”
“Really?” John knew Sara’s sister was deaf, but she definitely had not told him of this operation. They were “friends,” and maybe she assumed she’d tell a friend. “Uh, listen, I’m very sorry if I didn’t remember your saying all this. Can I make it up to you, by driving you to Philly and back?”