Duet for Tenor and Alto; Tenor melody. Ent. Trumpet.

Friday was another busy day — really, most days were. Gabe found himself thinking that he really hadn’t had any idea how much work the Conservatory would be when he applied. Not that I mind. Music is one of the few things that can get me completely outside of my own head.

But he didn’t see Kiko until the full choir rehearsal, which kicked off after dinner at 7:00 p.m. She almost didn’t make it on time, and had to rush to join her section as the warm-ups began.

Most of the rehearsal was devoted to working on one of the first really big choruses, For Unto Us a Child Is Born. The twenty tenors were singing this piece together, while the soprano and alto sections were each split. While some tenors struggled with the high notes Handel tended to throw their way, none of the section members was a slouch musically. Gabe handled the high notes effortlessly and enjoyed the exercise of blending his voice together with other good singers.

Frau Talmadge was exacting and kept the group working hard for two full hours with only a short break. No one minded; she was one of those music directors who could effortlessly keep dozens of instruments and a hundred voices straight in her head, and had an uncanny ability to bring the absolute best out of every musician. Everyone was thrilled to be singing under her direction.

“Alright,” she finally said. “That’s it for tonight. Tenors, you’ve got a section rehearsal tomorrow afternoon at two, and I’m seeing the sopranos Monday evening. Altos and basses, Mr. Winthrop is going to work with your sections next week; please check with him on Monday for scheduling details. Have a good weekend.”

There was a general shuffling of chairs as people started pulling their stuff together. Chris Winthrop, Talmadge’s assistant, pulled Gabe aside. “Can you stay a minute? The Director wants a word.”

“Me? Uh, sure. Of course.” Gabe felt a spike of worry. He thought his audition had been solid but not spectacular. Not good enough to get the solo part, but . . . surely not so bad that she had issues with my participation in the chorus?

When he got clear of the crowd headed for the exits, he saw that Frau Talmadge was talking to Kiko, and he was certain Kiko had a lock on the alto solo. Maybe I was better than I thought . . . maybe I got the solo after all?

The director got right to business as soon as the rest of the students had thundered off. “Mr. Carey, is it?”

“Yes, Director,” Gabe said respectfully.

“I have been struggling over some of the solo assignments, but I knew right off that I had easy choices for the alto and tenor parts.”

Really? Wow! He couldn’t keep the pleased surprise from his face.

Talmadge clearly read his expression. “I’m sorry; you have to know that Mr. Tuckerman’s audition was nearly flawless.” Her normally matter-of-fact voice was unusually gentle.

Trying to keep his expression more neutral — more of how he thought a professional would act — Gabe nodded and even managed a smile. “I agree completely, Director. But I hope I can still sing with the choir?”

She looked momentarily puzzled, then shook her head. “Of course, of course. Please understand, your audition was very good. Mr. Tuckerman’s voice is better suited to the tenor solos in this piece, nothing more.”

She paused a moment, glanced at Kiko, then turned her attention back to Gabe. “I was equally set on giving the alto solo to Ms. Agatsuma after yesterday’s audition. But she came to my office this morning and shared a recording of you singing Refiner’s Fire. She asked me to consider selecting you for the alto solo.”

“She what?” Abandoning his ingrained deference to the Director, Gabe looked at his friend aghast. “Kiko, you can’t! ‘Failure’s not an option,’ remember?”

She lifted her chin and gave him a very direct look. “It’s time I got over that.”

He couldn’t find words for a response. This is a disaster!

Frau Talmadge wasn’t used to being ignored. “Mr. Carey?”

With great reluctance, Gabe tore his eyes away from Kiko. “I’m sorry, Director.”

“Do you have the vocal range to sing all of the alto solos? Are there any that would give you difficulty?”

He mentally ran through them quickly. “No, Ma’am; I’m comfortable with the alto range through E5. But —”

She held up a hand. “Not now. The recording was impressive, Mr. Carey. If you’d like to be considered for the part, I’ll hear you in person tomorrow after the section rehearsal. I gather Ms. Agatsuma didn’t tell you she’d spoken with me, so I don’t want an answer right away. Think about it, talk to her, and let me know tomorrow.”

He stammered out a response of some sort before grabbing Kiko and heading for the exit. Once outside, he hissed, “what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking you have the perfect voice. And it’s not like I’m outing you; male altos have sung that part before.”

He waved that aside. “I’m not worried about that. What about you mom, Kiko? She’s going to kill you!”

“Gabe. Let go of my arm.”

“What? Oh!” He suddenly realized he was gripping her upper arm way harder than he had any right to. “I’m sorry, Kiko!”

“Better. Now, we’re going to go back to our dorm, walking at a normal pace, and having a normal, not shout-y conversation. Got it?”

“Not shouty. Sure. Okay.” He shook his head to clear it. “This is me, walking. In a normal way, like a normal normie person.”

“Good start.”

“So, seeing as how we’re having this super chill, normal convo while taking our normal normie stroll, can you tell me what the . . . ah . . . heck just happened in there?”

“It’s 2024, dork,” she giggled. “Even normies say ‘what the fuck,’ now.”

“Do they? I stand corrected. Or walk corrected, anyway. Like a normie. But, my question?”

She slipped an arm around his waist. “I listened to the recording yesterday morning. Both your version and mine. I knew yours was better. Way better, Gabe. So, I went to the audition and I sang it in my style, not my efforts to copy you. And I was better that way, I’m sure of it. But still nowhere near as good as yours. Your voice is perfect for this part. Perfect. And everyone should hear it. Our whole performance will be better.”

Their arms crisscrossed as he reciprocated her half-embrace. “I don’t agree, but that’s beside the point and you know it. Your mom —”

“Has been running my life for too long,” she said, cutting off his protest. “This is one performance, of one piece of music, which isn’t particularly well-suited to my voice or singing style.”

“I disagree . . . .”

“Suppose we let Frau Talmadge decide that. It’s why she gets the big bucks, right? But as far as Momma goes . . . it’s time I stood up for myself. If she throws a fit because I’m only in the chorus for this performance, I’ll deal with it.”

Gabe chewed on that as they moved through pools of light at the base of each decorative lamp that lined the walkway. “Maybe we could split the alto arias? Assuming Talmadge is okay with it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m right about who should have that part, and I don’t want to compromise the performance just to make my momma feel better about her investment.”

“You’re being awfully stubborn, you know.”

“Good.” Her voice was positively savage.

“Why?”

“Because,” she sighed. “I’m gonna need all the stubborn I can get.”

Countertenor, with trumpet & trombone; ent. Alto

“Ready?” Mrs. Talmadge looked at Gabe over the tops of her wire-rimmed glasses.

He was still conflicted — very conflicted. But Kiko had been adamant, and she had promised to skin him alive if he didn’t give the audition his very best. She spent forty-five minutes going over it with him after breakfast, too.

He nodded.

“Very well. Thomas?”

The pianist began the opening bars.

Feet planted firmly. Back straight, like someone pulled a string on top of my head. Shoulders relaxed. Chin up. Deep breath, a short exhale, then really fill up the lungs. And . . . begin! “But who may abide, the day of His coming . . . .”

As soon as he began to sing, his doubts dropped away. It’s not fair to say he was “lost” in the music. He intended to be a professional, or at least he hoped to be one. Professionals don’t get “lost.” But he was completely, totally committed to the music. Aware of every nuance of the score and his place in it, sensitive to exactly what the accompaniment was doing. Sure and certain of each note and the color he intended to give it before it came close to leaving his lips. Visualizing his voice stooping to each note like a hawk, rather than straining upwards to reach them.

Since he was well and truly warmed up from the section rehearsal that had come before, he had no difficulty with the high notes or the articulation of the dramatic runs. Finally he drew a last breath and concluded softly, even gently, “for He is like, a refi - i - ner’s fire.”

As Thomas concluded the last bars of the accompaniment, Gabe’s eyes found the Director.

She looked at her assistant. “What do you think?”

Winthrop rubbed the side of his nose. “I see what you mean. Yeah, absolutely.”

Talmadge returned her attention to Gabe. “The part is yours. If you want it.”

His doubts came crashing back. “Are you sure? Kiko’s audition was —”

“Outstanding, I agree. And I would have given her the part without hesitation. Except that I think it might have been written for you. Your voice . . . honestly, I thought I was hearing an angel. And not the type on greeting cards, if you know what I mean.”

“Ma’am?” It was all he could manage.

“You sounded like a seraph, announcing the day of judgement from heaven. I’ve conducted this piece countless times, and I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“I . . . .”

“Good people auditioned for this part, Mr. Carey. Please don’t make me have to ask.”

“Of course not,” he said quickly, hoping he hadn’t given offense. “I would . . . I’d be delighted to sing it.”

“Thank you. You might also consider switching to the alto section for the choral pieces; we’re a bit lighter on voices there than in the tenor section.”

“I honestly hadn’t thought about that.”

“Is it a problem?”

If he could hit the notes in Refiner’s Fire, he knew the alto parts for chorus wouldn’t be a problem vocally. Might be a bit awkward socially, but . . . “No, Director.”

“First section meeting on Tuesday at seven,” Winthrop said promptly. “I was going to send out an email blast to the section when we’re done here; I’ll add you to the list.”

“Okay, right. Thanks. And . . . thank you, Frau Talmadge. I’m sorry if I didn’t sound appreciative— I’m really honored. It’s just, well. Kiko’s a friend of mine.”

“I understand.” She paused, then in a different tone, said, “If I may, Mr. Carey . . . it’s a tough business you’ve decided to enter. You’ll find yourself singing with — and often competing against— a lot of familiar faces. That can be tough on friendships. Best learn early how to navigate those waters.”

His nod was followed by a grimace. “Guess I’d better get started.”

“It’s a conversation, not a hanging. If she didn’t care about you, she wouldn’t have approached me. Now, go on.”

“Ma’am?”

She made a sweeping motion with her hands. “Scram. Scoot. Be off. I’ve got things to do!”

“Yes, Director!”

And with that, he took off like a Corellian Freighter.

Naturally, Kiko was waiting on the other side of the door. “Well?”

“I’m so sorry.”

She broke into a smile. “So you got it!”

“Yeah.”

“You might sound a bit more excited.”

“It should have been you.”

“Thought we agreed to let Talmadge decide that.”

“Well . . . you agreed, anyway.”

“And I’m right, as usual. Look, Gabe. Don’t mope. We’re doing Les Miz in the Spring, and there’s no way you’ll beat me out for Eponine. Smile, take the W, and work your ass off!”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Better. Now, you owe me a fizzy drink, and before you say anything, I don’t like beer.”

“Bubbly drink.”

“Bubbly, fizzy. Whatever.”

“Dork!”

Viola, with percussion ornaments

It was three o’clock, and the woman in the elegant raw silk suit was having a bad day. From her office high up in the Transamerica Pyramid, she gazed across the bay towards Berkeley, holding the handset of her office phone some distance from her ear to reduce the volume of her senior partner’s voice.

“We can’t pass on this deal! It's “Kiss My Sweet, Round Ass” kind of money we’re talking about. Tell those weenies in the legal department to pull their heads out and find a way to make this work!”

“It’s a direct conflict, Jack. The Williams consortium will sue us for all we’re worth!”

“I don’t care! You don’t care! Just get it done, okay? I’ve got to get back in there.”

Realizing that the line had gone dead, Reina Agatsuma bit back her blistering response and slammed the receiver into a cradle that very obviously took a lot of daily abuse. “Jackass!”

Pivoting her leatherette office chair back to her computer station, she refreshed an amateurish webpage for the thirtieth time and swore as it didn’t change.

Her phone rang again, and her frustration rose even higher as the General Counsel’s name flashed on the caller ID. She snatched up the handset and practically snarled, “Don’t start. Just don’t. Yes, I told him, no, he doesn’t care, and no, I don’t have any idea how to make it work.”

“Reina —“

“Figure it out, Terry. Find a way!”

“It’s not that simple, and you know it. The contract with the consortium . . . .”

Reina had scant patience for the company lawyer’s habit of telling her things she already knew, at a level of detail appropriate for a new hire. She let him drone on, while hitting the reset button on her browser again in sheer frustration. Seeing a new posting, she opened it and absorbed the contents in an instant. “Oh, sweet fuck!”

“Excuse me?”

“Not you, Terry. Something just came up. Look, you know Jack’s position. Get it done already!” The hard plastic of her handset cracked with the force that returned it to the cradle. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

Her shout caused her Administrative Assistant to poke a tentative head in through her door. “Mrs. Agatsuma?”

She pointed a long, straight finger back the way he’d come and snapped, “Out!”

He scampered.

Pivoting back to her view of San Francisco Bay — the view that she’d been so pleased about when she'd accepted this job, thinking she had finally arrived at a place of security — she tried to bring her boiling temper under some semblance of control.

At least I’m not still paying alimony to that little shit. But I might as well be, with the hideous amount it’s costing me to send our daughter to that stupid conservatory. If she wants to waste her life traipsing around on a stage, fine, but she’d damned well better make a success of it!

Gritting her teeth, she fished her cell phone in its clear acrylic case out of her designer bag and punched her most frequently-used speed-dial.

It rang four times before there was an answer. “Hi, Momma.”

“What is wrong with you, Kiko!!!”

The conversation went downhill from there.

Alto melody, with mixed alto voices and countertenor harmony; trombone acc.

“Seriously? A guy?” Haley shook her head. “And he didn’t even audition for it.”

“I know, right?” Kendra sounded equally aggrieved.

Kiko arrived just in time to overhear them and figured she’d better nip the problem in the bud. “She had him come in and sing it on Saturday. Honest, you’ve got to hear him — his range is freakin’ unreal.”

Haley frowned. “I know he’s a friend of yours, but — much as I hate to say it — you had this one. Your audition was pure fire.”

“Just give him a chance. You’ll see.”

Gabe was one of the last to arrive. Kiko figured he’d timed it to avoid having to have conversations that might be awkward.

Chris Winthrop arrived just after Gabe, striding immediately to the piano. “Good evening, ladies . . . Oh! And Gabe, of course!” He blushed. “Everyone, Gabe’s going to be joining this section, since the alto parts are actually in his tessitura. If you haven’t heard the high end of his range before, I can promise you’re in for a treat. Now, let’s get started.” He took a seat on the bench and ran a practice scale. “On ‘Ah,’ please.”

As they ran through the first series of warm-ups — scales designed to ease singers into higher registers — Kiko watched her colleagues watch Gabe. It didn’t take long for them to realize he could keep up. In fact, when the warm-up was finished, Winthrop assigned Gabe to join the first altos for the parts where the section split into higher and lower groups. The assistant director had, naturally, been paying close attention.

Kiko concluded that Winthrop was pretty shrewd at reading social dynamics, too, since he turned straight to a piece that included a back-and-forth between the choir and the alto soloist.

“I’d like to spend some time tonight working on Oh Thou, That Tellest. The director asked me to remind you all to watch the dynamic markings, and to make sure all the entrances are crisp and together. Pay particular attention to the entrance on “behold” at measure one twenty. Gabe, lead us in, please.”

Winthrop launched into the piano intro. Kiko watched as Gabe’s nervousness dropped away and his face cleared, becoming totally focused. Demonstrating textbook posture, he drew in a deep breath and launched. “O thou that tellest good tidings to Zion . . . Arise, shine, for thy light is come . . . .”

Perfect.

As Gabe came to the end of the solo element, Haley turned and gave Kiko a surreptitious smile and a wink. Then it was time for the chorus to jump in.

After the first run-through, Winthrop said, “Okay, good. Good beginning. Gabe, a bit more of a brighter coloration on the intro, I think. Group, I see what the director was talking about on that intro at measure one twenty, and the entire section from one thirty-two until the end was a little flat. Let’s go again, please.”

When Winthrop called a halt after ninety minutes, Kiko was pleased to see the other girls made a point of telling Gabe that they loved his voice, and generally making him feel welcome. She could see him start to relax.

As the group broke up, she took his arm. “See? I told you that they don’t bite. And they only scratch a little.”

He smiled ruefully. “I’ll admit I was a bit worried.”

“You don’t say. Anyhow, how’d it feel?”

“Kind of awkward. But not the singing; that was great.”

“It was a choir rehearsal, doofus. It’s all singing.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do.” Kiko’s lips curved into a smile. “Hey – maybe try wearing your bra next time.”

Gabe snorted. “Oh, yeah, that’d help.”

“It might. You said you felt better when you did. Maybe you’ll feel less awkward, when you’re in there with all the girls.”

“I can’t sing if I’m petrified of being caught.”

She stopped in her tracks and gave him a look. “Gabe, seriously. People are NOT going to care. Stop living like this, okay?”

Gabe couldn’t meet her eyes. “I know, I know. You’re right.”

She resumed walking, but added, “Anyhow, it’s cold enough. Wear your heavy fleece, and no-one’s going to notice anything.”

They walked in silence for a bit, then Gabe asked, “Heard anything yet?”

“From momma, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Gabe’s voice was heavy with worry.

“Nope. Not a word.”

Duet for Soprano and Countertenor; Soprano melody

Two solid weeks of rehearsals passed. Solo rehearsals, section rehearsals. Full choir rehearsals. Ken Tuckerman gave Gabe a bit of grief for “switching teams” at the first full rehearsal after the soloists were named; Kiko had just about busted a gut at the unintentional double entendre. But that was just about the only ribbing he got. After their initial hesitation, the girls were uniformly decent to him.

He had just finished practicing a duet with Tamara, the Soprano soloist, and they walked out together.

“I get the sense you aren’t satisfied with how that sounded,” Tamara observed.

Gabe nodded, then realizing his gesture might be misinterpreted, hastened to say, “You sounded great. Honest. But I’m struggling to match you, somehow.”

“Really?” Tamara seemed puzzled. “Your voice is fantastic, Gabe. Better than mine, if I’m being honest. I’m trying to match you!”

“Don’t be silly.” Gabe couldn’t help blushing at her praise. “But . . . I’m not talking about technique. Or, I don’t think I am; I’ve listened closely to how you are singing – our duet, of course, but all of your parts. Like, when you were finishing out your last solo earlier.” To illustrate, he slipped into a well-supported falsetto and sang, “‘Who sits at the right hand of God, who makes intercession for us.’”

Dropping to his normal register, he finished by saying, “I can’t put my finger on why your interpretation felt so powerful; it just cut through me. I want my sections to have the same force.”

Tamara didn’t respond immediately, weighing her response carefully. Then she shot Gabe a sideways glance. “Have you thought about what we’re singing?”

“You mean, the lyrics? I mean, I’ve read them, and I’m trying to fit my interpretation to the words.”

She recited Gabe’s lines from the duet — “‘He shall feed His flock like a shepherd; and He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom, and gently lead those that are with young.’ The metaphor’s straightforward, but does it mean anything to you?”

Gabe gave an uncomfortable shrug. “I remember going to Church when I was little. Grade school, you know? I . . . I felt something, back then. It was important, I knew that. To me, to my parents. I remember really feeling like . . . .”

Tamara gave him time to complete his thought. When he didn’t, she gently prompted, “What did it make you feel like?”

“Like somehow, everything would be alright. Like I was safe, you know? Safe in God’s hands.”

Tamara stopped where the path to the student union broke from the one to the dorm, and laid a hand on his arm. “Maybe channel that feeling when you’re singing, Gabe.”

She left and Gabe continued back alone. But by the time he reached the dorm, he was smiling.

Countertenor Melody, with alto and instrumental embellishments

He was still smiling when he greeted Kiko’s roommate Mandy, who was leaving the building just as he arrived.

Her return look was unfriendly, and her voice was snide. “Having fun?”

He did a double take. “Uh, kind of? What’ve I done to you?”

“To me? Nothing.” She pushed past him and started walking swiftly away.

“What’s that supposed to . . . .” Gabe stopped and shook his head; it was obvious whom she meant, and he took the stairs to the room Mandy shared with Kiko two at a time. When he got to their door, he could hear Kiko’s voice.

“Momma . . . Momma, stop. Listen to me, would you? Momma!” She sounded distressed.

Gabe didn’t want to barge in on a private conversation, but he didn’t want to leave Kiko alone, either. Standing in front of her door, he wavered in indecision.

A girl he didn’t know was walking down the hall in his direction; she gave him a bemused look which left him feeling even more foolish.

Kiko’s “Ah, FUCK!” came through loud and clear, and that was enough for Gabe. He reached for the knob and opened the door to find Kiko looking furious, her face a mask of tears.

“No! Out!” she shouted.

“Kiko –”

“No!!! Go away! I can’t deal with you right now!” She charged the door, shoved him hard, and slammed it shut.

Gabe was stunned, hurt, but still desperate to help. He reached up his hand to give the door a tentative knock, but a cold voice stopped him.

“That’s your cue to leave, loverboy.” The girl who had been heading his direction had paused to give him a very unfriendly look.

“I’m not . . . I mean, we’re not –”

“Don’t care. She told you to leave, you leave. Now.”

“But something’s happened!”

The girl didn’t respond; instead, she just pulled out her phone and hit a number on the speed dial. “Hi. I’m on the Fourth Floor at Barrington; some guy is harassing a girl in her dorm room.”

Gabe put up his hands, defeated, then spun on his heels and beat a retreat.

“Good choice, fuckwad,” the girl said to his back, sounding very pleased with herself.

— To be continued

Author’s note: If you’re wondering how Refiner’s Fire sounds when sung by a countertenor— or if you’re wondering what Refiner’s Fire sounds like, period :) — here’s a link. Gabe’s rendition, as I imagine it, is a bit more ethereal than this one.

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.