House of Rougeaux(61)

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Soon enough their days were packed with all things music: theory, technique, harmony, history, repertoire. Eleanor lay down in her bed each night feeling as if her mind could not contain one more thing. Her body and her hands ached in a whole new way. She felt exhausted, but so alive, and aware that it was a rare gift to be immersed in one’s own element. The new students, and Eleanor among them, looked upon the senior students with great admiration, and toward the professors with reverence. The latter held the keys to a vast kingdom that, despite all her natural talent, Eleanor was just beginning to know.

Gerard Batiste was one such ambassador, a young assistant professor, light-skinned with a devilish smile. Originally from New Orleans, he was known not only for his skill and good looks but as a composer, which at the Conservatory had earned him a particular respect. He had twice won a prize in their yearly competition of new composers, which led to his appointment to the faculty. He taught the introductory class in piano theory and technique to the new summer students, as well as leading their individual lessons. As an instructor he was exacting. He strode around the classroom emphasizing points in a sonorous voice, while his hands flew in large gestures, painting the air with the great concepts of music.

Among the Conservatory’s colored students, Professor Batiste held a special kind of status. Though they earned the support and esteem of a number of the Conservatory’s white faculty, they counted on Batiste to understand the added challenges they faced in the music world, to defend them in the face of insult or condescension, and to champion their right to be there. They flocked around him outside of class, eager to ask questions and hear anything he had to say.

A week into individual lessons, Professor Batiste was impressed with Eleanor’s facility on the piano, noting her near-instantaneous incorporation of new information, and her razor-like focus. He began calling on her to demonstrate various techniques for the other students, and gave special attention to correcting any bad habits he spotted in her playing. Eleanor was deeply flattered, drawn by the intensity in him she recognized so well. At last someone understood the fire that lived within her. And this, together with his voice, his eyes, his beauty when playing, and of course the music, set over her like a spell. When the third week of May concluded he asked if she would help him with one of his compositions the next Saturday morning. The Conservatory was closed on weekends, except for recitals and children’s lessons on Sunday afternoons, but as an assistant professor, Batiste had keys and access. The school encouraged its teachers to work on their own projects after hours.

That Saturday he asked her to meet him at nine and she was there by eight, clutching her handbag and the sheaf of sheet music he’d given her days before. He was working on a scherzo he called La Flor de Mai and she already knew it by heart. In the first hour they sat side by side on the bench, with Batiste demonstrating and Eleanor echoing while he either nodded or shook his head. She was conscious of the warmth of his arm when it grazed her shoulder. Then he had her play alone while he paced behind her, intent on listening, and leaning over her intermittently to make notes with a pencil on the sheet music. “Let’s try it this way,” he said now and again, as if his project had become mutually theirs.

There was a central problem to be solved in the piece, the resolution of which remained frustratingly elusive. Four hours flew by, and then he thanked her. She returned to her room at the Vance, heart aflutter. Eleanor had told Alma that she had an extra lesson that morning, and when they met later that day and Alma asked about it, she said only that it went well. She didn’t say she was working together with Professor Batiste. Or that she was aflame with something for which she did not yet have words. She wasn’t sure why she was suddenly keeping secrets from Alma, but maybe it was because she didn’t want to appear boastful. Or foolish.

The second Saturday, addressing the same problem in the music, Batiste asked her to listen while he played a slight variation. Considering the variation, Eleanor thought the piece was a little flat, perhaps if there were more contrast in the middle? Batiste stared at her a moment and then gave something a try. He played it over again, changing a few notes here and there, and then jumped up. “That’s it!” he cried, laughing out loud. “Damn it, that’s it!”

And then he was embracing her. The warmth of his body pressed against hers, flooding her senses with the heady smell of sweat and aftershave lotion. His lips grazed her ear. Never had anyone held her so close. She was moved, touched in that empty place in her heart that had been with her ever since her mother had died and left her, despite all her family, so very alone. Perhaps he felt it too.

But then, flashing over this tenderness came a wave of alarm. She felt his lips, his breath on her cheeks and at her throat, his hands running over her breasts, and then down under the hem of her dress and underskirts, traveling up her legs. She did not have a clear idea of what a man and a woman might do together, only something that occurred in secret after marriage, and that preceded the birth of babies. She didn’t know what could happen in a music room, but whatever was happening now was surely a liberty not to be taken. And yet she didn’t want it to stop.

Somehow Batiste knew just how to maneuver around Eleanor’s elaborate corset and underlayers. Her arms moved as if by their own accord to circle his strong neck. She clung to him as he fumbled with his belt. He leaned her against the wall of the studio, then lifted and entered her, thrusting desperately, then moaning, “Oh, God,” before going still.