fugue for thee voices chapter 2

[figureofdismay]

Roman hadn’t gone down to breakfast the next morning. He didn’t want to hear more of his mother’s cajoling and scheming. He knew that the housekeeper wouldn’t bring anything to him because Caroline had strict orders to keep him from actually playing the invalid now that he was physically recovered, so he was starving but willing to wait until she finished her meal and went back up for her long morning routine of creams and sprays and self-admiration to steal a banana and a protein bar and collect the post. He’d taken his prizes, snack, bear, gameboy, gushing get well letter from the daughter of the Julliard recruiter lady who had a crush on him and thought he was the sweetest and most pathetic little puppy of her mother’s collection of potential talents guiltily half crumpled in his pocket, and camped out in the sitting area of his room.

He remembered her, Jessica, thin and mousy with blushing cheeks brushed with glitter, with designer jeans practically falling off her hips in that way that made his mother scoff and complain about the tactlessness and brazenness of young women these days. She’d been 2 years younger than him but two inches taller, which had made him prickly and uncomfortable at the time, as had the way she’d tried so earnestly hard to flirt, whispering and touching his arm. She’d smelled so strongly of strawberry body spray and teenage hopes, he’d been able to taste it and feel something like sympathetic embarrassment. In retrospect, though, he was flattered, and he wished he’d been nicer to her, less sarcastic. He kept her letter thinking maybe he’d write back and maybe she’d talk to her mom for him, and maybe… the vague hopes had clashed with his current impossibility, but they lingered. He left the letter in his dressing gown pocket as he draped it over a chair in his room and settled in for a long day of doing absolutely nothing.

He put the TV on, a Dawson’s Creek marathon on cable with the volume down to hide their annoying whiny voices, and sat halfway upside down playing Zelda while the blood rushed in his ears. The squishy soft pajama bear was tucked in the crook of his arm, because it made a good rest for the gameboy, he told himself. His feet dangled over the arm and the back of the small sofa in his sitting area, his heels tapping and twitching idly against the blackwatch chintz upholstery as he jammed the buttons of the game.

It was this thoughtless sprawl that Caroline and Gerri Kellman found Roman as they came sweeping in without warning.

“Oh, Roro, why can’t you sit up like a human being sometimes, you are a nice young man not a monkey,” complained Caroline. “I know you’re in a funk but you mustn't be churlish. I did tell you I'd be bringing you some help. This state of affairs can’t continue indefinitely, dearest, you know that. You can’t languish forever, no matter how embarrassed you may be, or secret yourself away in the wilderness.” Caroline turned from scolding her son to posing with ingratiating poise towards the polished yet hesitant woman she’d brought with her, “I’m sorry for the state of my son, Madam Kellman. For some strange reason, I thought he would be ready for the day at two-thirty in the afternoon. Straighten yourself up, Roman and come say hello to your new music tutor, Madam Gerri Kellman. She trained Alexander DuBois – you know, the one who was the title soloist at the Proms last year. And Michelle Abitaboul, isn’t that right?”

“Uh-huh… she was one of mine for a time, yes,” said Gerri, looking cautiously between them, eyeing Roman with cool, unreadable blue eyes as he scrambled up and tried to shove the bear and the gameboy discreetly behind him. “Listen, Lady Collingwood, I wasn’t aware this was an ambush. Perhaps we should give, um–”

“Roman,” his mother prompted.

“Right.”

Gerri Kellman was blonde, straight backed, elegantly pretty and stern, with icy blue eyes, a firmly set full mouth, expressively arched brows, with her curling hair brushed back into a high chignon, tendrils escaping across a high, smooth forehead. She was neither old nor young, clearly younger than Caroline, but she was also old enough and confident enough, self-possessed enough that she seemed a figure of natural authority. She wore a blue suit dress with sharply tailored lines, the upright collar framing the gentle curve of her jaw and the clear cerulean of the fabric made her eyes gleam and setting off the rosy neutral of her lipstick. Hammered silver square earrings, each with an aqua cabochon glittered in her ears, drawing his attention to the tilt of her head, a cool pondering interrogatory. The force of her assessing stare pinned him haphazardly where he stood, his game and the flicker of the television forgotten.

“Um, hi,” he said with an awkward giggle, “Sorry, hi, sorry – Mom, I didn’t actually agree to– You sure didn’t give me any warning here, huh?” he gestured sharply at himself, indicating his rumpled pajamas, the striped chambray kind his mother bought for him that made him feel like a little boy in a merchant ivory film but he’d given up the “I’m not eleven anymore” argument on that front to fight it on more important issues, which he was currently regretting, because it wasn’t the impression he wanted to be making. Not that he wanted to be making an impression at all at the moment. He’d told her no to a new coach, no to a new maestro taking over his life and turning him in pretzels again. He’d told Caroline no more, he’d pick his own whoever if he wanted to when he’d turned 18 and fired Cawthorne, and she’d stuck to the deal ever since, so he’d thought– but of course he should have known that if he rocked the boat, she’d rock it back.


“Jesus christ, mother, I’m not going to–” He shook his head and rubbed his hand roughly through his hair, and then switched his attention to the interloper, trying to pretend that he wasn’t in his night clothes and being stared at with growing dismay by a gorgeous woman who probably saw him as a recalcitrant child.

“Listen, Madam, um…”

“Kellman,” she supplied shortly in a soft, clear voice that nevertheless sparked with impatience, “But I don’t use those titles. I’m not in the business for the delusions of grandeur. Just Gerri is fine.”

“Right. Sorry. So. This is awkward, but as you can see, mom didn’t let me in on her plans. There’s been a misunderstanding, kind of. I’m taking a break, a hiatus, a, I don’t know, fucking hermit mode disappearing act, and i’m not in the market for another coach or whatever she told you you’d be doing. No offense, I’m sure you're great at it, but,” he shrugged awkwardly and rubbed at his ear.

“Don’t be so appallingly rude, Roman,” snapped Caroline. “I’m terribly sorry about all this willfulness, Madam Kellman, Gerri, though I suppose it’s only fair that you know what you’re up against with this one.”

“Perhaps I should come back another time,” Gerri said cooly, not as though she was embarrassed or unsure in front of their argument, but as though she was annoyed with them for wasting her time. “Let the two of you… figure out where you stand on your needs.”

Roman was surprised by the sound of her voice, soft and sweet and almost girlish even as it was frosty as ice.

“Oh, nonsense,” said Caroline with a dismissive gesture and the obvious intention to steamroll any objections to her master plan, “In any case, if you find Roman worthy of your tutelage I’m the one who will be employing you, not him, so I’m the one with the ultimate say. You musn’t pay any attention to his protestations, he does want to continue his training, he’s just had a blow to his confidence and he’s wallowing in it. I don’t know where he gets it from, certainly not from me. Roman will come to his senses before long and I want him well prepared.”

“Well, then. That’s your prerogative, of course, Lady Collingwood. I’ve simply found that a willing pupil is far more likely to make progress in his work, however…”

“Of course he’s willing,” snapped Caroline, “Once he gets over his dramatic embarrassment, he’ll be right back at it like a little pro. You don’t throw away a gift like that, do you, Roman.”

Roman reflexively winced a smile of acquiescence to the skewering look his mother shot at him, but she’d already moved on, back to smiling silkily and insisting at Gerri, who was clearly on the verge of expressing more concerns, and was looking them both over carefully. His skin crawled with the awareness of their little double act of doubt and judgment in perceiving him.

“I’ll leave you to do your little interview, then, shall I?” said Caroline with more smooth insistence and utter refusal to hear more objections from either of them. “His practice room is just across the hall, I’m sure he’ll give you the best performance he can, given the circumstances, and then you can come and tell me if you’re willing to take the case, all right?” she gestured between them a final time and with a final firm nod of satisfaction, she swept out of his room, clearly unwilling to hear any further argument. Gerri stood frowning after her for a long, leaden moment.

“Great, fine, Mom, thanks for that.” Roman muttered to himself as Caroline flitted away. He turned back to Gerri Kellman who gave a tight, polite smile that conveyed mainly that she was annoyed to be dropped into the middle of this but was patient and was presumably being paid enough to carry on regardless, for as long as it took to extract herself.

“Well, Mister Roy,” said Gerri in her devastating cool honey voice, “While you’re already on the back foot, as it were, I think it best to come clean now. Your mother had reached out to me before all of this, because you’d expressed an interest in making the shift to New York. She was interested in me working with you. So I was at the concert at Tully Hall.”

“You mean the concert that wasn’t?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, god, just fuckin’ shoot me now, okay, I need to be put out of my misery.”

“There’s no need to be so dramatic. It just seemed better to tell you now and get it out of the way. There’s no reason to be ashamed, Roman. It was clear from the audience that you were under severe strain and in no fit state to appear in concert. That’s in large part why I was willing to take the chance to meet you when your mother called to ask me to get you stage ready again, even though I usually choose not to deal with parents of talents who have… Lady Collingwood’s particular attitude. I was afraid that someone with a more impatient nature would grab you up, run you through some practice clinics and shove you out there again. Or maybe even re-debut mid work. I’ve seen it happen, and it’s a mistake. My proposal is this, Roman. If you want to work with me, you will stop all performing now, entirely, until I say otherwise. No more, not even if you or your mother beg and bribe me. Not even private little friendly recitals for all her generous friends, or I’ll have nothing more to do with you, do you understand?”

“Well,” said Roman, staring dumbfounded and feeling buoyant in the wake of a lifting of a profound and steady weight suddenly and unexpectedly lifting, a weight he hadn’t even been fully aware had enclosed him until Gerri offered a way it might shift, “Okay then.” Roman laughed, and found that he was grinning wholly sincerely for a moment before he collected himself and nodded with more measured agreement, trying not to seem too eager, “For fucking sure I can live with that. As long as I can blame you, to her.”

“Of course, Roman,” Gerri said wryly, “It’s my job after all. Now. I’ll go across and choose the pieces you’ll play for me so I can assess, while you get dressed, hmm?”

“Oh! Right, clothes, of course.” Roman cringed again and spun on the spot in the direction of his closet while Gerri strode out. He had the sense that she was laughing at him behind her cool pursed lips, but he found he didn’t mind all that much. “Thank you!” he called out as she closed the door behind her, meaning it for much more than the chance to make himself presentable.

*

Gerri had come out especially to interview Roman, thanks to the unusual situation and the generous bonus Caroline had given her for the hassle of the shuttle ride out to the Hamptons. She made it thoroughly clear to Roman that she would not become like his live-in musical nanny and stay with them as they flitted around the world. Gerri worked from her home, her studio, her piano. All of her students had accepted these terms, and she didn’t care who his father was, he would, too, if he wanted to work with her. If he was serious about his training and recovery, he and Caroline would go back to New York full time – Roman told her this wouldn’t be a problem, they could settle in the apartment Caroline had bought and furnished during the separation and barely used since – and Roman could get himself to Gerri’s studio in the East Village promptly every tuesday and saturday at ten am, clean, dressed, rested, sober, not hungover, and ready to work.

“I don’t care if you’ve practiced in the intervening days, I don’t care if your girlfriend is in town, I don’t care if your brother dragged out to party the night before, I want you present and willing to buckle down,” she told him sternly, at the end of the interview, the steely skepticism in her piercing gaze making his skin tingle and his heart beat fast. “And if you’re only showing up to waste my time, call to cancel instead. I have plenty of other things to do with my days.”

Roman had stammered his enthusiastic agreement to the terms. “I’m reliable, I swear,” he added, “No matter what my mom’s said about me. I’m a grown up and I can show up.”

She stood looking down at him where he sat, taut as a bowstring on the piano bench, gripping the edge of the seat so he wouldn’t fidget. Her clear, thoughtfully hooded blue eyes seemed to scrape over him as if looking for a tell-tale mark of honesty or a fatal flaw.

“All right, then, Roman. Glad to have you on board,” she said calmly, and nodded and then began tucking away the sheet music she’d brought back into her capacious soft turquoise leather bag.

She wore big chunky rings on both small, capable hands, smooth square silver inlaid with lapis on the index finger of her right hand and an antique looking large oval of onyx set with a small pearl in the middle on the ring finger – did that mean she was married? What kind of man gave his wife a black wedding ring? – and a gold ring on the left middle with a smooth opalescent lozenge of moonstone that glowed and flickered in the light from the piano lamp. He stared. He had the wild thought of catching her hand and putting the very tip of his tongue to the glowing stone. He flushed and shifted awkwardly on the bench, hyper aware of her arms reaching thoughtless and brisk over his shoulders. She smelled of dry spicy violet and soft, earthy things, he could tell as she moved in close and away. She moved with simple economy, nothing coy or posed, as if she were used to mainly her own company. and seemed totally unaware of his attention.

How that was possible, he wasn’t sure. Roman knew he’d stared at her, somewhere in the whirlpool between wary and covetous. Maybe she was used to it, going through life with a presence like that.

He’d been preoccupied, too, with the wonder of the instinctual ease with which he’d played every note she’d put in front of him. No sweating, no reeling, no sucking pit of black. Gerri said, here Roman play this, let’s see what you make of it, and he’d smiled nervously at her, sure it wasn’t going to happen, and then it had. He’d played. Some unconscious part of him had taken over and moved his hands confidently on the keys. He didn’t really have a conscious procedural memory of that either, but he knew it had happened, he’d heard the notes ringing clear in the room, felt the vibrations of them in his chest, even taken note of Gerri’s half suppressed look of thoughtful approval.

“We’re going to need to work on your posture,” she’d told him, as an addendum, “And perhaps on variety of genre. Loosen you up. Find you a less suffocating approach. It’ll be a process, Roman, but I think you can take it.”

*

So, at the beginning of February, on a bright, bitterly cold day, Roman had put on his parka, double checked for the ‘cab fare’ card Caroline had set him up with so she didn’t have to remember to have cash on lesson days (“this is not so you can go buy junk food and video games, Roman,” she’d scolded), picked up his old lesson bag, a beat up canvas beach bag that he’d covered with sharpie skulls while dying of boredom while waiting for a string of auditions at 15, and took himself down to the East Village. It was a long ride in midmorning traffic, but he didn’t try to occupy himself with the book in his bag. He’d been too nervous to eat breakfast and his body buzzed with bright, sharp hollowness. He wasn’t sure if Gerri could possibly be as strange and bewitching as he remembered her. He was afraid that the new setting, and his own nerves, might have spoiled whatever magic it was that let him play anyway when she commanded. He hadn’t practiced at all after they’d picked up their bags and headed to the city, and he was sure Gerri would be able to tell.

Gerri Kellman’s studio was on a surprisingly quiet, narrow, tree-lined residential street around the corner from a more bustling part of the neighborhood. The street was all embellished brickwork and pre-war architecture, old paving slabs, low, wrought iron fences and brisk air moving through the bare winter trees. Gerri’s place was the second house in from the corner, a tall stately building standing a little taller than the ones beside it made of sandy red stone with a steep, gabled roof. It had a stack of wide bay windows, each lintled with heavy stone brows, straight stone steps up from the sidewalk and a masonry arch over the door. The sturdy front door was painted muted lilypad green, and had a panel of geometric stained glass in candy red and blue, and a weathered door knocker above the knob in the shape of a lady’s hand clasping a ball, patinated a dully gleaming bronze with age and use. Roman stood shifting from foot to foot, trying to slow his heart rate enough to not come off like a maniac from the first moment, and scrubbed his palms against his jeans. His hands were sweating in spite of the wind-scrubbed, freezing weather. Then he grasped the lady’s metal hand and rapped three times.