He laughed. “Stop, will you? It’s fine.” He revved the engine and pulled away, flinging me back in my seat. Another nerve-racking journey to endure.
Stefan wore a suede jacket and underneath a black shirt. Very fetching with his black jeans. My overt inspection caught his attention. He ran his hand along the buttons of his shirt. “Coffee colored. Safer.”
I was mortified by his recollection of the previous week’s misadventure, and a rush of hot blood struck my face. Too hot.
The interior of the car had been heated prior to my arrival. I unwound the scarf, panting under my layers. I’d dressed in clothes suitable for standing at a cold bus stop, not baking in a snazzy sports car.
“Too hot?” He flicked a switch on his dashboard before I could answer. “Can’t have you overheating.”
I changed the subject quickly. I didn’t want to agree with him. “I’ve been practicing.” I sounded like an overeager pupil trying to impress her teacher. “I mean, I’m not sight-reading tonight.” Every time I spoke to Stefan, my tongue tied itself into knots.
“Good. I shall listen out.”
Great. Now I was drawing even more attention to my playing. I shrank down in my seat and opted to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the journey.
By the time we arrived, the hall heaved with people. Chairs scraped across the floor, metal stands clattered and the volume of toots and plucking rose as the players warmed up and tuned their instruments.
Cordelia and I positioned our chairs roughly behind the flautists and next to Heather the bassoonist, our usual spot. We tuned our instruments to each other then to the oboe, which sang out nearby. Gradually, the orchestra settled and the ringing of a single note occupied the hall.
I waited, fidgeting with Nettie. I drummed my fingers up and down the holes, feeling the silver keys that made up the elaborate mechanism. My clarinet, a B-flat version, was standard and the mainstream for use in orchestras. I couldn’t afford any other variants of the clarinet—the E-flat or A type. I had to make do with transposed music if the original score had been written for another member of the clarinet family. It made for challenging playing and difficult fingering sometimes.
I blew into Nettie, keeping her warm. The familiar buzz of the reed resonated against my lips. As a child, when I’d learned to play on a school clarinet, the keys often came loose and fell apart. The sensation of the reed had taken time to adapt to at first. It had made my lips numb after a few minutes. I’d toughened up and grown used to the tingling. Years later, with my own clarinet, bought by my parents on my fourteenth birthday, I hardly noticed the pressure of the vibrating reed on my lips.
Stefan lay out his music on his special conductor’s stand, which was larger in all dimensions. He positioned the black lectern at waist height, allowing him good visibility of the whole orchestra and space to move his arms.
“Capriccio, please,” he announced with a tap of his baton on the top of the stand.
The Rimsky-Korsakov. My newly discovered nemesis. Five movements, the first being the hardest for me with a clarinet solo.
My fingers shook. I couldn’t tell if it was pure nerves or whether I was
excited at playing a demanding piece.
Stefan raised his arms, gave us a bar of beats to familiarize us with the tempo. I breathed in and out, tapping my foot, then trilled my finger for the opening note. Please, don’t balls this up.
I fluffed it. Three bars into the solo my tongue flapped about, missing the notes, and although I kept going, it hadn’t been my best rendition. The more I fumbled with my notes, the greater my anxiety. I overblew Nettie. She screeched back at me. Embarrassed at my ineptitude, I fought with clammy hands and a nauseated stomach, churning and rumbling below. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made such a terrible noise. My vibrato wobbled and any semblance of rounded tone extinguished.
Stefan rattled his baton on the stand. “Let’s go back to the start of section A.”
My solo again. Get a grip, Callie.
I rallied. Somehow, my nerves settled and I managed to play through the section without errors. Not brilliantly and it lacked elegance, but I held my own. I glanced up to Stefan during a brief pause in my playing. He was concentrating on the strings. I had no idea if he’d been impressed, relieved or disappointed by my playing. I hated not knowing.
During coffee, I had no opportunity to ask. He spent most of the break chatting to the brass section. All men bar one. A mini brass band that often met separately to play their own pieces. The same camaraderie didn’t exist in the wind section. Mostly women and many with children, it meant different priorities. We rarely met outside of the weekly Wednesday gathering.
During the second half, the pressure was off. The Sibelius. I had the chance to relax more and watch Stefan. His conducting continued to mesmerize me. He occasionally swayed in time with the music, or bounced up and down on his toes. This wasn’t a job for him. Paid or not, he enjoyed the thrill of being in control of us.
I hadn’t expected a lift back, but he appeared at my side as I twisted Nettie apart. “Five minutes?”
“Sure.” I nodded.
He strolled off to collect his things.
The car was cold this time. I wrapped my scarf about my neck and waited for Stefan to wipe the condensation off the inside of the windshield.
“You’ve been practicing.”
I started, sitting up in my seat. Was that a question or a statement? “Yes, well…”