The Nix(49)

“That’s an odd thing to say.”

“It’s true. He’s very good.”

She stared at him a moment, mystified.

“Did you know,” she said, looking down at the program again, “that the composer of this piece never made any money from it?”

“Which piece?”

“The piece your friend is going to play. The guy who wrote it, Max Bruch, he never earned a penny.”

“Why not?”

“He was cheated. It was around World War I, and he was bankrupt, so he gave it to a couple of Americans who were supposed to send him the money, but they never did. The score disappeared for a long time, then ended up in the vault of J. P. Morgan.”

“Who’s that?”

“A banker. Industrialist. Financier.”

“A really rich guy.”

“Yes. From a long time ago.”

“He liked music?”

“He liked things,” she said. “It’s a classic story. The robber baron gets more stuff, the artist dies with nothing.”

“He didn’t die with nothing,” Samuel said.

“He was broke. He didn’t even have the score.”

“He had his memory of it.”

“His memory?”

“Yeah. He could still remember it. That’s something.”

“I’d rather have the money.”

“Why?”

“Because when all you have is the memory of a thing,” she said, “all you can think about is how the thing is gone.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“You’re young.”

The lights dimmed again, and people around them took their seats, and the buzz of small talk quieted, and everything went dark and silent and the whole cathedral seemed to distill itself into one small circle of light at the front of the altar—a spotlight illuminating an empty bit of floor.

“Here we go,” his mother whispered.

Everyone waited. It was agony. Five seconds, ten seconds. It was taking too long! Samuel wondered if someone had forgotten to tell Bethany she was on. Or if she’d left her violin at home. But then he heard the click of a door somewhere in front of him. Then footsteps, soft shoes on the hard floor. And finally there she was, Bethany, gliding into the light.

She wore a slim green dress and her hair had been done up and she looked, for the first time, tiny. Around all these adults and high schoolers, way up in front, it was as if Samuel’s normal scale was thrown off. Bethany now looked like a child. And he was worried for her. This was too much to ask, all this.

The audience politely clapped. Then Bethany put her violin under her chin. She stretched her neck and shoulders. And without a word, the orchestra began to play.

It started with a low thrum, like thunder very far away, a faint drumming from beyond the light. Samuel could feel it in his torso and fingertips. He was sweating. Bethany didn’t even have her music! She would do this from memory! What if she forgot? What if she blanked? He realized now how terrifying music is, how inevitable—the drums would keep driving forward, whether or not Bethany knew her part. And now, softly, the woodwinds came in—nothing dramatic, but three simple notes, each lower than the last, repeated. It wasn’t a melody; more like a preparation. Like they were readying the sanctuary for sound. Like these three notes performed the ritual necessary to be in the presence of music. It wasn’t the music yet but rather its leading edge.

Then Bethany straightened herself and placed her bow at the proper angle and it was clear something was about to happen. She was ready, the audience was ready. The woodwinds held a single long hovering note that gradually faded away, that sounded like taffy stretched to nothingness. And just as that note disappeared, just as it was swallowed by the darkness, a new note leaped from Bethany. It grew stronger and louder and then she was the only one speaking in that huge hall.

There was nothing more lonely than that sound.

Like all the heartbreak in someone’s long life gathered and distilled. It began low and moaned higher, slowly, a couple of steps up, a few steps back, and so on, like a dancer, whirling its way to the top of the scale, more quickly now, to announce, at the very peak, a kind of forsakenness, a desolation. The way Bethany bent that last note as she climbed into it—it sounded like a cry, like somebody crying. An old familiar noise, and Samuel felt himself falling into the note, gradually folding himself around it. And just when he thought she’d reached the top, another note came, even higher, a wisp of music, the barest edge of the bow meeting the thinnest string, just the finest sound: clean, noble, soft, a slight quiver from Bethany’s rolling finger, like the note itself were alive and pulsing. Alive, but dying, it seemed now, as the note diminished and decayed. And it didn’t sound like Bethany’s playing softened but rather like she was moving quickly away from them. Like she was being stolen. And wherever she went, they could not follow. She was a ghost passing into another realm.

Then the orchestra answered back, a full and deep barrel of sound, like they needed all the numbers they could muster to match this one tiny girl in her little green dress.

The concert passed in a kind of blur after that. Occasionally Samuel would be newly amazed by one of Bethany’s maneuvers: how she could play on two strings at once and make them both sound good; how she could play so many hundreds of notes perfectly from memory; how fast her fingers moved. It was inhuman, what she could do. By the middle of the second movement, Samuel had concluded there was no way he deserved her.