Page 84 of Solo

“Uh, good evening, everyone,” she says quietly.

No one replies. Not one person in the whole goddamned orchestra.

“I’m really happy to have the chance to conduct you,” she starts to say after a long, awkward silence.

“Well that makes one of us!” someone calls out from the percussion section.

She glances in their direction, but chooses not to comment.

“Could we please start at the second movement? The Largo?”

Nobody moves.

Little shits!

It had been my intention to just sneak in here, watch her conduct a little, and then sneak out. I didn’t want to let her know I’d be here because I didn’t want her to be nervous. I’m rethinking that plan now as I pull out my phone and start to text.

You can do this. I’m right here in the wings watching you. And I am in AWE of you.

She jumps slightly, startled by the vibration of the phone in her pocket. She pulls it out and reads it, then puts the phone next to her score on the stand. She looks down, shifting nervously.

“What’s the matter, Kate? Can’t do anything without the TV cameras and reporters around to see you?”

That little catcall has come from a trumpeter. I recognize him from my junior Music Theory class.

Note to self: Fail his ass.

A month ago, I would have told you that I hate Katherine Brenner. But that’s not how I feel today as I watch her onstage, the confidence leaching out of her with every passing second. I have a split second to make a decision here. She doesn’t know I’ve done it. If I tell her, it might make things worse. Or, it might turn this thing around. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pick up my phone again and start to type quickly.

Danny Gillies is here. He came to see you. SHOW HIM, Katherine.

She leans over the stand to read the message when it appears on her screen. I watch as she stares at it for a few seconds, her eyes growing as big as saucers. She looks up slowly, scanning from stage left to stage right until her eyes finally land on me. Her brows go up in a question.

Are you serious? they’re asking me.

I smile and nod my confirmation.

The transformation is instant. And it’s breathtaking. Suddenly, Katherine Brenner is a little taller, her head a little higher. She’s not shaking anymore and a peaceful expression passes across her face as she looks out over the musicians. Her musicians.

She leans over unexpectedly, loosens the laces on her shoes and kicks them to the stage floor. Her socks go right after them and she’s barefoot on the conductor’s podium. Some of the musicians are snickering at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice them anymore. She simply takes a deep breath and flips the score closed.

“Let’s start again, okay?” she suggests to them with a smile. Before they can answer, she does exactly that. “Good evening, everyone,” she says in a steady, confident voice.

At least a few of them mumble return greetings this time around.

“Great. Okay, let’s get started with the slow movement of the Dvořák, please.”

I hold my breath for a split second, thinking they might not listen to her. But the orchestra players shuffle pages and find their spots. When they appear to be ready to play, Katherine raises her right hand and looks out over the group expectantly. I watch as she gives a quick nod and then her hand drifts into the slow downbeat that starts the ethereal opening chords of the symphony. A few bars in, she cues the English horn for its big solo, only to bring the rehearsal to a screeching halt a short time later.

“I’m sorry to stop you, Mike,” she says to the soloist. She leans over the podium as if the extra six inches will put her right in front of him instead of a good fifteen feet away. She swallows hard and knits her brows together, looking like she’s trying to figure out how to phrase something. When she speaks again, it’s as if she’s having a casual conversation with a friend.

“This solo is a lament and a victory at the same time. You know it’s based on the spiritual ‘Goin’ Home,’ right? Well, just imagine yourself the voice of someone singing that melody. You’re preparing to depart this world, fully expecting something glorious to come. It’s bittersweet. Sad to leave, but also so excited to arrive.”

I can’t help but notice that the whole ensemble has shifted slightly forward, drawn in by her words as she drapes herself casually over the podium.

“Mike,” she continues, “I want you to make that horn sing. Sing, okay? We’ll follow you, buddy. You just take it where you think it needs to go and we’ll be there with you. Can you do that?”

I can see him nodding slowly, processing what she’s just told him. She gives a quick nod, straightens up, and repeats the entrance. This time when the solo comes in, it’s a little tentative for a moment. But only for a moment. As the English horn player gains his footing—and his confidence—the simple, haunting melody blossoms. I watch the corners of Katherine’s mouth pull up in pleasure as her hand marks the beats for the rest of the orchestra. Mike stretches and pulls and wraps his fingers around the melody. When it’s over, Katherine stops the orchestra. She looks at Mike, a huge smile spreading across her face.