The Vanishing Violinist Read online

  They must be videotaping the concert. A crew member in jeans and a T-shirt was taping wires down onto the stage. A tripod leg stuck out from behind the curtain over on the side, and another camera stood in a side aisle. Over the center of the house, about six or eight rows back, a microphone hung suspended. The curtains were open, and the stage itself was edged with ferns and white chrysanthemums. Nothing fancy, Joan thought, but festive. It was empty except for a grand piano and padded piano bench, and a page turner’s chair behind the stool. The piano lid was propped half open.

  She looked at the program booklet, but saw no programs—only photographs and information about the competitors, who had a page apiece in alphabetical order with their ages, addresses, a history of the awards they had won in other competitions, their professional training, and their teachers. Also on the page was a list of pieces the competitor had chosen for each phase of this competition. Of course, Joan realized. They couldn’t print programs for each concert ahead of time because they didn’t know who’d be eliminated and who would be left to play at any particular stage of the competition. She flipped through the alphabet to Bruce’s page, and there he was, smiling widely, with only the scroll of his violin showing, rather than playing with soulfully downcast eyes, as were many of the others.

  “Joan?”

  She looked up, startled. The tall, blond young man with his left arm in a cast and sling who was standing over her was also staring up at her from the program on her lap. Uwe Frech’s picture was on the left-hand page, opposite Bruce Graham’s on the right.

  “Uwe! How are you?” She patted the empty seat beside her, and he took it.

  “Much better, thank you. They operated on my hand, and I have almost no pain.”

  She was afraid to ask the question that mattered most, but he answered it without prompting.

  “The surgeon says I will play again.”

  “Oh, Uwe, that’s wonderful! I’m so glad to hear it! I couldn’t help worrying that you wouldn’t.” And that the whole thing had happened because Andrew threw that Frisbee at him. She hoped Andrew didn’t feel responsible for what was, after all, an accident, but she hadn’t been able to block the idea from her thoughts. This was really good news. “It’s bad enough that you had to miss this competition. I’m a little surprised you stayed on.”

  “They said I could speak to the schools, after all. Some violinists don’t like to talk to children, but I’m happy to do it. And I need the money.”

  “You don’t have to play?”

  “No. It is always optional, they say. So I show the kids my violin and tell them about it, or maybe a little about Germany. At the school where I went on Friday, they all asked about my hand. One boy asked, did I insure my hands for a million dollars?”

  She grinned. “They watch a lot of television. What did you tell him?”

  “I said I wish I had.”

  At the last minute, the Osbornes arrived and sat in front of them, next to the pregnant woman and the French couple.

  Uwe leaned forward. “How is Bruce?”

  Polly Osborne swiveled around. “Hi, Uwe. Hello, Joan. I don’t think he’s quite as nervous as the first time. He only threw up once today.”

  Bruce throws up before a competition? Joan thought. She wondered whether he felt that bad every time he performed, or only under this kind of pressure, but the lights dimmed before she could ask. Polly turned to face the stage, and a disembodied woman’s voice announced, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. The next performer is Bruce Graham. He has chosen the Beethoven Sonata Number 6 in A major and the Ysaÿe Sonata Number 6, Opus 27. He will begin with the commissioned work by Gerald Quigley. Thank you.”

  Dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt open at the throat, Bruce walked onstage alone; apparently the commissioned piece was for unaccompanied violin. Joan clapped with the rest of the audience, except for Uwe, who slapped the armrest of his seat with his good hand. After a quick nod to the audience, Bruce stood quietly for a moment before putting his instrument under his jaw and raising his bow.

  The first notes he drew from the violin were low and sure, with a warm vibrato, and Joan leaned back in her seat. Of course he could play; she’d known that all along, but hearing was believing. Pizzicato accents broke into the long lines. Then came arco runs, spiccato arpeggios, and left-handed finger pizzes. The original theme recurred, sometimes a single line, sometimes double stops, always different, but always musical, carrying her through changing harmonies, complex rhythms, and grace notes with ponticello, tremolo, and a virtuoso passage of down-bow staccato. As if that weren’t enough, the theme continued in a passage of double-stopped harmonics, which to her ears, at least, sounded precisely in tune. Bruce ended on a whisper.

  He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. The audience paid him the compliment of silence before breaking into prolonged applause.

  “It’s wonderful,” Joan said to Uwe while she clapped and watched her almost-son-in-law bow. “I didn’t expect to like it, but it’s wonderful.”

  “Bruce makes it sound like music,” he said. “Not everyone can. I had a hard time with it. Especially the down-bow staccato and those killer harmonics.”

  “I can see why.” There was no way she was going to tell him that she even attempted to play an instrument. If ever there was a time for humility, this was it.

  Bruce had left the stage. Joan watched a stagehand move the music stand from behind the piano to center stage, and so she was not surprised when Bruce returned carrying music. A young Asian man followed him and sat down at the piano after they both acknowledged the applause of the audience. Calmly, or so it seemed, Bruce set his music on the stand. The pianist sounded the A, and Bruce tuned lightly. Then he raised his bow, nodded, and they began together.

  After the effort of listening to the commissioned work, Joan let the familiar, lyrical Beethoven flow over her. The pianist was no slouch, she thought, nor did he overwhelm the violin. They played together as if they’d known each other for years, even though they could have had at most a couple of rehearsals. She knew from the program that the competition provided the pianists.

  In the first movement, they echoed each other’s rippling notes. In the second, the piano’s simple chords and arpeggios supported Bruce’s long, sweet lines with sensitivity. Here was no show-off stuff, but music that stood on its own. Bruce’s bow danced over the string crossings in the third movement and attacked the down-bow chords with authority, not harshness. By the end, the pregnant woman in front of Joan was nodding her head with the rhythm, and a child across the aisle was conducting in the air.

  “Lovely,” Joan said to Uwe when the applause let up. “But then, I always did love Beethoven. What do you know about the Ysaÿe?”

  “It’s beautiful,” Uwe said. “Violinistic and demanding. Ysaÿe was a Belgian violinist.”

  “So it’s appropriate to play his music here,” Joan said.

  “Yes. But many of us choose Ysaÿe because of Mr. Gingold.”

  “Who?”

  “Josef Gingold, the father of this competition. The gold medal shows him playing the violin. He studied with Ysaÿe and loved his music. Mr. Gingold was one of the most famous and best-loved violin teachers in the world. He taught for many years at Indiana University. I wanted to study with him.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “He died before I could afford to come.” He looked wistfully at his broken hand. “I missed that chance, too.”

  Bruce walked back onstage alone and without music. He bowed to the audience, launched strongly into a trill, and scarcely paused until the end of the piece. Fiendishly difficult, the Ysaÿe was full of Gypsy fire and fast double stops. Joan thought one or two double stops might be off by a hair, but they didn’t throw Bruce. This was high-risk playing, and he didn’t hesitate. He gave it his all, and ended with a flourish.

  The audience loved it, and he bowed low. Polly Osborne turned around and winked at Joan, whose hands were sore from clapping. Bob
, looking dignified in coat and tie today, kept yelling “Bravo!” Even Uwe had a silly grin on his face.

  “Where will he be now?” Joan asked during the break. “Can we go backstage to congratulate him?”

  “No,” Uwe said. “I could go back, with my ID, but not you. They worry about protecting our violins. Some of the competitors play wonderful old instruments, much better than mine. But he will come to the lobby to sign autographs.”

  “Autographs?” Like a movie star? she thought. Amazing. “Who wants them?”

  “Lots of people,” Polly said. “Especially the children. It’s wonderful, seeing them get turned on by music like that. Some of them even bring their little fiddles with them, like kids who wear their gloves to the ball game.”

  Joan considered going to the lobby to watch, but stayed put and chatted with the Osbornes and Uwe. After the intermission, they sat through another violinist. All the semifinalists had to play Quigley’s commissioned piece, and Joan soon realized what Uwe had meant about making it music. Arpad Nagy played with flamboyant gestures and Hungarian fire, tossing his hair on the loud notes and closing his eyes on the long ones, but she thought he missed his aim a few times too many to be in the same league as Bruce. While Arpad was scrambling for the notes, the music fell by the wayside. And he lacked the expression Bruce had brought to the piece. By using his powerful vibrato on all the sustained notes, rather than letting some of them float into the air, as Bruce had done, he produced a sameness instead of the intensity he was surely aiming for.

  When, in spite of even more noticeable intonation problems, Arpad brought much of the crowd to its feet with Sarasate’s Concert Fantasy on Carmen, the Osbornes kept their seats and Polly muttered to her husband, “Most of them have never heard it before.”

  “Flash gets them every time,” he said.

  “Never mind,” Polly said. “It won’t fool the judges. Let’s take Bruce home to supper. Can you come with us?” she asked Joan. “Or did you have plans? We have plenty of food.”

  Joan didn’t hesitate. “I’d love to. I was planning to come back tonight, though. Maybe I should take my own car.”

  “Oh, we’ll bring you back,” Polly offered quickly. “We don’t want to miss tonight. Do you have a way home, Uwe?”

  “Thank you. My host family is picking me up.”

  “That’s all right, then,” Bob said, and stood up. “We’d better go find the man of the hour.”

  Bruce was already making his way down the aisle toward them. He paused on the way to sign the program of the little boy Joan had seen conducting. She was pleased to see that he listened to what the child told him and did more than scribble in his program. Uwe reached him before she did.

  “Good job,” he said quietly, and went out.

  “Bruce, you were wonderful!” Joan said.

  As often as he must have heard it, he blushed. “Thank you. It’s a relief.”

  “Only the finals to go,” Bob said.

  “That’s up to the judges.” Bruce sighed. “At least this part’s over. I’ll eat supper and then come back to hear Camila and Nate.”

  “Is that who’s playing tonight?” Joan asked. “They’re the last two?”

  “They are now,” he said. “The ones who drew the numbers after theirs didn’t make it this far.”

  6

  As soon as they reached the Osbornes’ house, Bruce excused himself to make some phone calls.

  “He’ll call his folks and your daughter,” Polly told Joan.

  Bob chuckled. “Probably not in that order.”

  Sunshine still streamed through the kitchen windows while Bob whisked covered dishes from an enormous side-by-side refrigerator to the built-in microwave. Polly put on the coffee and set out what looked like homemade dressing and a big green salad in an oiled teak bowl.

  “Can I help?” Joan asked, impressed by their efficiency. With the next concert coming so soon, they needed it.

  “Sure,” Polly said. “How about tossing this?”

  Joan added the dressing and tossed the salad while Polly set another place at the table and Bob stirred sour cream into hot beef. By the time Bruce returned, supper was ready. He dug into the tangy beef Stroganoff as if he hadn’t eaten all day.

  He hasn’t, really, Joan thought, if he lost his lunch. To see him cracking jokes with Bob now, it’s hard to imagine that he was ever in such a state.

  After helping clear the supper dishes, Bruce said, “I think I’ll go next door and wish Camila well.”

  “Are you sure?” Polly said. “You wouldn’t have wanted visitors at this point.”

  “True,” Bruce said. “But Camila’s a different animal. I think she’ll be glad to see me. I’ll be right back.” And he went out the kitchen door.

  “He’s such a friendly young man,” Polly said. “The violinists we’ve had in other years have been more single-mindedly devoted to their own careers.”

  “You think he isn’t serious about his?” Joan asked. Looking out the window, she saw Bruce lope across the lawn to the Schmalzes’ back door as if he’d dropped in on Camila more than once. Rebecca doesn’t have a thing to worry about, she told herself sternly.

  “Oh no,” Polly said. “He’s by far the best musician we’ve hosted. He just …” She turned to her husband, who was rinsing plates.

  “He’s serious, all right,” Bob said. “Even intense. But he doesn’t take himself too seriously.”

  They carried their coffee to the living room and settled down in comfort to wait for Bruce. Like the rest of their house, the Osbornes’ living room said “touch me.” Without a qualm, Joan put her feet up on a leather ottoman that she suspected cost as much as all her own furniture put together.

  “How does Bruce compare to the other competitors?” she asked. “I mean, there was no question this afternoon. He was far and away the better of the two.”

  The Osbornes looked at each other.

  “That’s true,” Bob said. “But wait until you hear these two tonight.”

  “If Nate’s half as good as his mother thinks he is, you’re right,” Joan said.

  “Actually, he is,” Polly said, and laughed. “And Camila’s amazing.”

  “You know they call it the Olympics of the violin,” Bob said. “I’m convinced that these three kids will medal.”

  “We’ve never hosted a medalist before,” Polly said. “I’m really pulling for Bruce.”

  Joan learned that the Osbornes had been hosting violinists ever since the first competition, when they thought it would be a good experience for their children and a way to support young talent. Now their children were long gone, and they had grandchildren scattered all over the country. Joan admired a wall of photographs and tried to imagine herself as the grandmother of Bruce and Rebecca’s children. Finally she looked at her watch.

  “Are we going to be late? When does the concert start?” What is he doing over there so long? she wondered.

  “Time to go!” Bruce breezed in through the kitchen. “Sorry I took so long. I had to wait down in the music room—Camila was upstairs dressing. She and Nate took a walk before supper to get rid of the jitters, she said. Sure never worked for me.”

  “How is she?” Joan asked.

  “She seems okay. She’s playing first tonight, so she and Harry Schmalz took off in a rush.”

  Bob hurried them out. They’d make it on time, Joan thought, but they might not be able to sit together.

  “What about Violet Schmalz?” Polly asked from the front seat of the Volvo as they pulled out of the garage. “Didn’t she go with Camila and Harry?”

  “Camila said Violet apologized all over the place, but she had an old commitment she couldn’t get out of.”

  “It happens,” Bob said, and turned south into traffic. “I’m glad I haven’t had any emergencies during your concerts so far. I’ll bet Violet doesn’t miss Camila’s finals, though.”

  “Camila’s sure to make the finals,” Bruce said.

  “S
o are you,” Polly said warmly.

  “I don’t know about that.” But he smiled at Joan as he said it.

  He’s feeling more confident now, she thought. I wonder whether Bob’s right about those three.

  When Bob dropped them off at the Indiana Repertory Theatre, Bruce slipped out of the car. “Save me a seat,” he said.

  The house was almost full, but Polly and Joan found four seats together on the left aisle, near the back.

  “There aren’t any bad seats in this house,” Polly said. “The acoustics are great.”

  Bob Osborne found them in only a few minutes, but the lights were already dimming when Bruce slid into his seat and whispered something Joan didn’t catch. At the last possible minute, she recognized Cindy Lloyd as she scooted down the aisle to a seat halfway to the front. She slid in next to the man Gail Inman had taken off to rescue from Camila’s charms at the picnic. That’s right, Joan thought, the Inmans are Nate’s host family.

  “The next performer will be Nathan Lloyd,” the loudspeaker announced.

  “But I thought Camila—” Joan said to Bruce.

  “There’s a problem with her violin. Nate’s playing first.”

  What could have gone wrong with Camila’s violin? Any violinist could replace a broken string. The bridge, maybe? Or the tailgut, which anchored the tailpin with all the strings to the endpin? Once Joan had opened her case to find all her strings loose and the bridge lying flat on the viola. It hadn’t taken Mr. Isaac, who ran the violin shop in Oliver, long to replace Joan’s old gut anchor with a new one of some synthetic that would last for many years. But even a little job like that would have delayed Camila’s performance, as late as she must have arrived at the theater. It made sense to switch the order, especially if Nate was ready. Nice to know the judges didn’t disqualify a participant for a small disaster.

  The voice didn’t wait for the audience to stop buzzing before announcing that Mr. Lloyd had chosen the Brahms Sonata Number 3 in D minor, Opus 108, and the Ravel Sonata in G Minor.

  Wearing a dark gray suit and a white silk turtleneck, Nate came onstage with the pianist who had played with Bruce. He planted his feet and played the Brahms from memory. The first high notes were sweet, and he quickly demonstrated solid control. Joan watched his bow circle as he wove back and forth between strings, made huge leaps, and landed precisely on pitch. She found herself pulling for him the way she pulled for ice-skaters jumping triple axels.