Duet for div. Alto voices; First Alto Melody

Saturday arrived — the day of the dress rehearsal— and so did eight inches of snow. Gabe and Kiko spent the morning in PJ’s, drinking hot tea and monitoring the text chains to see whether weather would permit. On again, off again, seemed to be the order of the day.

Gabe was refilling Kiko’s cup when she called out, “Winthrop says it’s a ‘go.’ Two o’clock. The walks should be cleared, and the furnace is back on line.”

“Hallelujah!” Gabe sang out, starting on the middle “A” like any good alto. Kiko joined in enthusiastically, but they stopped after eight bars rather than digress about the Lord God Omnipotent reignething. That part just wasn’t as much fun without the bass voices.

Gabe handed off the tea. “That’s a relief. I’m not sure when else we would squeeze it in.”

Kiko nodded. “And we need it, too. Mostly the guys, to be honest.”

“I think the tenors are solid,” Gabe countered. “But I agree — it’ll do us all good to go through everything. Especially with the full orchestra.”

Kiko nodded but didn’t respond. Seeing her distraction, Gabe asked, “Still nothing from your Mom?”

“No. She was calling me every frickin’ day, and then . . . nothing? I mean, I don’t miss her calls, but she’s freaking me the fuck out.”

Gabe fervently hoped Kiko’s mom had decided to stop harassing her daughter after hearing from Frau Talmadge, but she didn’t want to raise any hopes. Nor did she want Kiko to know that she’d asked the Director to intervene. Instead, she asked, “How often does she usually call? I mean, before she blew an organ stop about this performance?”

“I don’t know . . . Maybe three, four times a week? Going ten days without a call . . . I’m not sure that’s ever happened.” Kiko smiled sardonically. “I might start thinking she’s forgotten about me.”

Gabe made a pretense of looking back at the clock, afraid her face would betray her. But the very act of her turning away alerted Kiko that her words had carried a sting she hadn’t intended. “Hey,” she said softly, rising to take Gabe’s shoulders. “Hey. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Really.”

“No, it isn’t. When was the last time you heard from him?”

Gabe shrugged. “A little after the semester started. But, that’s not unusual for us.”

“He should be coming for this. For you.”

“Just as well he isn’t, though. He’d probably have a heart attack on the spot, if he saw me like this.” Gabe waved to indicate her appearance; while she was wearing PJs, the top was sheer, soft, and scooped-necked, while the tight bottoms hit mid-calf and were a lovely shade of lilac. There was no doubt they were designed for a girl. A girl like me, she told herself. Firmly.

Kiko gave her a supportive squeeze. “You’ll have to tell him eventually.”

“Maybe. But not today!” Dismissing the problem, she said, “It is what it is. C’mon, let’s get ready.”

Full Choir, with Instruments

The name notwithstanding, “dress rehearsal” did not require a costume change; it simply meant the entire ensemble — soloists, choir, and orchestra— would do a full run-through of the entire performance. To the extent possible, without interruption.

Gabe and Kiko joined a stream of bundled-up singers and musicians making their way to the conservatory’s performing arts center, with its gem of a concert hall. The shoveled walkways were icy in the frigid air, and the scattered salt was insufficient to the task. Several students found themselves sliding and tumbling before they wised up and moved more carefully.

“I hope it gets better by Monday night,” Tamara said as she joined them. “We’ll need to warm up before we warm up.”

“This is nuts,” Kiko agreed.

They had almost reached the facility when a young man carrying a viola case tried to grab for the door while it was closing, but he slipped and lost his grip on the instrument. He made a desperate lunge to keep it from hitting the pavement, but his sudden movement only made matters worse. Both he and his viola tumbled to the ground and he knocked over the woman who was behind him.

The three girls moved — carefully— to help. The guy was already opening his instrument case to make sure he’d done no harm. The woman, who had been unrecognizable in her long puffer coat, turned out to be the Director.

“Frau Talmadge! Are you all right?” Gabe dropped to a knee to help her up.

“Yes, I think . . . .” But her reassurance ended with a yelp as she tried to get up. “Scheisse!” She winced as she carefully flexed her left wrist. She gratefully accepted help from Gabe and Kiko to get back on her feet.

It was a sign of things to come, unfortunately. The group was missing several singers and musicians who lived off campus and were having trouble with the roads including, critically, both the harpsichordist and Ken Tuckerman. It didn’t help that the first two pieces in the oratorio — Comfort Ye and Every Valley — are tenor solos.

Frau Talmadge asked Winthrop to get the singers warmed up while the organist got the instrumentalists ready, though she tasked a certain chagrined viola player to get her a plastic bag filled with readily available snow. Then she took a seat and iced her injured wrist.

People continued to trickle in while the warm-up progressed. Ken was one of the last to arrive, but he said he had been warming up on the drive.

“Okay, everyone. Find your places on the risers. We’ll get started in five minutes.” Coming off the raised podium, Winthrop slipped over to where Frau Talmadge was sitting. “Renata,” he said, keeping his voice low, “you need to get that looked at.”

“It’ll wait,” she assured him. “But why don’t you direct, and I’ll watch from here.”

He nodded. “Right. Will do.” Resuming his place at the podium, he started the piece.

Winthrop was a solid conductor, but Frau Talmadge had both a distinctive style and different judgment when it came to correcting problems in real-time versus dealing with them at the end of rehearsal. By the first piece in scene two, the bass solo Thus sayeth the Lord, she had to call a halt.

“Mr. Johnson,” she said to the viola player, “I’m afraid you need to re-tune your instrument. Mr. Carlton, if you would assist, please?”

As Johnson went over to the organist, the Director pulled Winthrop aside. “Chris, this won’t work. I’m just about coming out of my seat.”

Kiko saw the two of them talking, and though she couldn’t hear them, she could guess what was going on. Winthrop was arguing about something, pointing at Talmadge’s wrist, and she was overriding him. Coming down from her place in the middle of the alto section, she approached the podium and said, “Frau Talmadge, if it would help, I’ve got an ace bandage back at my dorm. Won’t take fifteen minutes to get it.”

The Director paused to look at her, then glanced at the pair by the organ. It looked like they were close to finished with the retuning. She smiled gratefully at Kiko, but shook her head. “We’re light on altos and you're one of the anchors. But thank you.”

Help came from an unexpected source. The podium was closest to the Soprano section, and Kiko’s roommate, Mandy, was in the first row. “I can get it, Frau Talmadge. No shortage of soprano’s!”

Talmadge hesitated for only an instant. “Thank you, Ms. Somers, that would be a big help.” Turning back to Winthrop, she smiled and made a “gimme” motion with her right hand.

He gave her the baton, looking relieved.

Seeing that Mr. Johnson was again ready, she wrapped the baton sharply on the top of the music stand.

Conversation stopped immediately.

“Alright, everyone. Not the best of starts.” She spent five minutes giving minute corrections, mostly to the instrumentalists, though Ken Tuckerman was warned that in future he shouldn’t try warming up in the car.

“We’re going to take it from the top again. Let’s see if we can do a bit better, everyone.” She raised the baton high, held it a moment, then launched the orchestra into the prelude with a strong down beat.

This time, things went much better. There was a brief pause after the Scene Two pieces when Mandy got back so that the Director could wrap her wrist, then it was time for Gabe’s first solo.

Frau Talmadge did not need to call many breaks, but as the practice continued, it was clear to everyone that her left wrist was throbbing. She even drafted Mandy to serve as a page-turner for her score after the conclusion of the Hallelujah Chorus, a piece with numerous entrances and cutoffs that required the use — the vigorous use — of both hands. Before Winthrop could say anything, she raised the baton again and brought Tamara in for the Aria I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.

Talmadge pushed through the entirety of the third section without pause, though her energy level was dropping like a battery charge in freezing weather. When she signaled the final cutoff, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

The Director nodded tiredly. “Well done, everyone. Mr. Winthrop will provide feedback and final reminders. I will see you all at 5:30 sharp, Monday evening for warm-up.” With that, she set the baton on the podium and stepped down, her face gray with pain and fatigue. One of the students leapt forward to help her into her puffer jacket, taking extreme care not to jostle her injured wrist.

Winthrop was surprised at his superior’s hand-off, and worried as well. But he knew what was expected, and walked briskly to the now-vacant podium. He had several notes concerning the Section Three pieces the group had just finished, followed by reminders for show night. “Check what you are wearing tonight everyone, if you haven’t already. Make sure you have everything you need, that it is clean and not torn, yes? No ladders in stockings. No turkey stains on ties and dress shirts! And remember, always remember, no perfume or cologne on Monday! Meantime, get some rest, hydrate, and take care of your instruments.”

When Kiko and Gabe walked back outside it was already dark, and fresh snow was drifting past the small globes of light that lined the walkway. Like most of the people leaving the hall, they were silent and subdued.

“She looks awful,” Gabe said when they were halfway to their dorm.

“Yeah.” Kiko reached over and ran a comforting hand up and down her partner’s back – not that either of them could feel much through the layers of clothing they were wearing. “It’ll be okay. She’s a tough bird.”

“I sure hope so.”

They walked a little further before Kiko said anything else, and her voice, when she spoke, was soft as the falling snow. “You sounded good, Gabrielle. Real good. You keep letting the words inside, okay?”

“I’ll do that.”

Duet for Trumpet and Oboe

“It’s a clean fracture, as you can see. Right there, on the proximal end of the scaphoid bone.” The doctor helpfully pointed to a crisp shadow cutting across a smallish area on the ghostly image depicting a wrist.

Renata Talmadge grunted in acknowledgment. It was Sunday morning, she was pre-coffee, and she had many other things she needed to be doing. Grudgingly, she said, “Clean, huh? So, easy?”

“Easy enough,” the doctor agreed. “There’s almost no displacement of the scaphoid, so I don’t see any need for surgery. But it’s a sizable break, so I recommend immobilizing the area in a cast for six to eight weeks.”

“The ‘area?’ How big an area?”

“Mid-forearm to the palm of your hand, with a wrap around the base of the thumb.”

She shook her head. “Leave the thumb out of it. There’s nothing wrong with the thumb.”

“Right, but we need to prevent movements that will cause pressure on the broken bone. And, the wrap helps prevent movement for the entire cast.”

“I need to use my thumb,” she said, digging in.

“Trust me, you’re not going to want to, not until this heals. If you think it hurts now, wait ‘til the protective swelling goes down.”

“It’s not a question of whether I want to use it. I said I need to, and I do.”

“What do you need it to do?”

“I’m a conductor,” she ground out, hating to explain herself. Fearing the idiot might ask her about the mechanics of trains, she added, “and, I’ve got a major performance tomorrow.”

“Just conduct with your other hand. Aren’t you right handed, anyway?”

“That’s not . . . look, could you do surgery with one hand?”

“I’m not a surgeon.” He held out a hand to forestall the blistering retort she was about to administer. “Please. I’m not trying to be thick. Tell me exactly what you need to do with your left thumb. Let me see if it’s a problem.”

She sat back in the chair, fighting a headache that pulsed to the same rhythm as the ache coming from her wrist. Because she had been conducting for so many years, she didn’t really think about the mechanics of what she was doing anymore. As a result, she had to consider his question carefully. Just exactly where DO I use the thumb?

She thought about each gesture in her repertoire. Cuing a soloist? Forefinger. Cuing a section? Baton, or full hand. Pushing for an increase in intensity? Curling motion of the four fingers, repeated. Signaling to lower intensity? Slight downward wave of all four fingers, repeated three times. Cut off?

Oh.

Almost embarrassed, she said, “I signal vocal cutoffs by touching my thumb and forefinger.”

“Cutoffs?”

“So musicians know when to stop. All at once, you see. Precise coordination is critical.”

“Can’t you use a different gesture for a few weeks?”

“I could, but I won’t. It’s muscle memory; I’ll do it without thinking about it. Besides, it’s the gesture a hundred musicians have all been trained to watch for.”

“Huh. I always thought you guys used a little stick.”

“A baton,” she said, struggling for patience. “That goes in the right hand. Mostly for keeping time, though I do use it for cuing entrances.”

The doctor thought for a moment, then said, “Can you show me — using your right hand, please — the exact gesture you use for cutouts?”

“Cutoffs.” She demonstrated, the tips of her thumb and index finger coming together lighting quick, touching for the barest instant, then springing apart.

“Ah!” He looked intrigued. “Almost all of your motion is actually in your finger — actually, all four fingers — not your thumb. Let me see your right hand.” Coming to her side, he clamped his thumb and forefinger tightly around the base of her right thumb. “Try again.”

For the first time since she’d gotten home from that agonizing dress rehearsal, Frau Talmadge smiled.

Polyphonic Duet for Alto and Mezzo-soprano

Kiko got dressed with Mandy, since the parts of her wardrobe that she didn’t wear every day were still in the room the two of them nominally shared. Neither of them had spent much time in it over the course of the semester.

Kiko played with the button on her almost-regulation white blouse. Leave two buttons undone, or three? Decisions, decisions. Without looking at her roommate, she asked, “How’s Gary?”

“Jerry. And, I wouldn’t know. I’m not speaking to him anymore.”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry, I guess?”

“I’m not. He’s a toad.” Mandy checked her lipstick in the mirror. “How’s Gabe?”

“Nervous. Focused. I’d say she was overprepared, but I don’t think that’s actually a thing.”

“Leave it unbuttoned,” Mandy suggested critically. “Anyhow, I wasn’t asking about musicianship.”

“Honestly?” Kiko shook her head. “She’s too damned wonderful to be real.”

Mandy ran a brush over her longish hair, again. After twenty or so unnecessary strokes, she said, “How far is she going with this femme thing, anyway?”

That earned her a very sharp look. “What do you mean? She’s a girl, Mandy. End of story.”

“But, like, does she want breasts? Is she gonna keep her boy bits?”

Kiko turned to face Mandy and waited until she had her full attention. “Was I unclear, somehow?” Her beautiful alto voice was rich with menace. “End. Of. Story. Got it?”

“Jeez, girl, chill! I was just –”

“-- being a bitch. Drop it, okay?”

“Fine! WhatEVer!” With that, Mandy grabbed her purse and stormed out.

“Well,” Kiko said, looking at her reflection in the mirror. “That could have gone better.”

She did up the third button.

Duet for div. Alto voices; First Alto Melody

Two floors down, Gabe, too, was talking to a mirror. Unlike Kiko, she was having a relapse in the angst department. “What am I doing? I’m gross, and disgusting, and ugly!”

She stretched again, trying to get the tension right so that she could maneuver the tiny zipper up from the middle of her back. “Also fat!”

She wasn’t used to the nail extensions she was wearing, though she loved the look. As the zipper again slipped away from her, she said, “I’m crazy. Completely, thoroughly, certifiably crazy.”

Both hands behind the back, and she was still struggling. “C’mon!!”

She heard a knock on the door and almost barked out her annoyance. She stopped just in time and called out, “who is it?”

“The Blessed Virgin Mary,” Kiko’s voice replied sarcastically.

“Kiko! Help!”

The door cracked open and Kiko peered in. “Wardrobe malfunction?”

“Zipper’s stuck. I think.”

Kiko smiled, came in and closed the door behind. “It’s what girlfriends are for.”

“I’m also ugly.”

“Yeah, we’re good for that problem too, mostly.” She pushed Gabe’s frustrated fingers away from the errant zipper, held the fabric together with her left hand and tugged the zipper downward with the right.

“Wrong direction?”

“Sometimes things gotta get worse before they get better. Besides,” Kiko said, bending slightly to plant a kiss between Gabe’s shoulder blades, “I have to work on your other problem.”

“Kisses won’t make me less ugly. I’m not a frog.”

Kiko ignored her and planted a series of additional kisses. “But that’s not your other problem.”

“But I said –”

“I know what you said, sweetie. Your problem isn’t being ugly, it’s thinking you’re ugly.”

“And kisses help with that?”

“You tell me.” Kiko proceeded to scatter a bouquet of kisses from the small of Gabe’s back all the way up to the base of her neck.

By the time she leaned in to kiss the side of her throat, Gabe’s breathing was a little ragged. “I guess you’re right,” she sighed.

“Better. Now, much as I don’t want to . . . .” Kiko seized the zipper from its resting place just above Gabe’s panties and brought it all the way up, then smoothed the silky, emerald green fabric on either side of it. “Problem number one, also solved.”

“Help me with my face?”

“Kind of a high maintenance woman, aren’t you?”

Gabe leaned back into her lover’s arms, capturing her wrists and holding them at her waist. “Maybe.”

“That’s okay,” Kiko murmured, kissing her neck again. “Long as you remember, you’re MY woman.”

Second Alto, with treble voices and brass

Mr. Winthrop was bustling about when Kiko and Gabe arrived backstage for the warm-up, but there was no sign of the Director. Seeing Tamara, Kiko whispered, “Have you heard anything?”

The willowy soprano shook her head. “I haven’t. I think people are afraid to ask Winthrop.”

Kiko snorted. “Yeah, no.” She walked over to the assistant director, but just as she was about to say something, the door opened and Frau Talmadge walked in, followed by a teenage girl with dark hair and sharp features. Notably, Talmadge’s left arm was in a sling, and she was wearing a cast that extended from the base of her fingers half way to her elbow.

Injury notwithstanding, she walked briskly to the front of the room, radiating warmth and confidence. “Good evening, everyone! This is my niece, Heidi, who will assist me with page turns today. One less thing for me to do. Please be kind, she’s never been in front of an audience before.”

She grinned as she removed her left arm from the sling, shook it gently and flexed her fingers. “Now . . . let’s get started, shall we?”

The Director’s confidence was infectious. Nerves settled, voices steadied, and singers went through the process of preparing their voices for performance.

Viola, solo

Reina Agatsuma strode into the lobby of the performance center like she owned it, her heels cracking crisply against the hard flooring. As always, her makeup and hair were perfect, highlighting the regular features she had passed on to her daughter. She nodded to the young usher who was directing guests and headed to the coat-check counter, removing her long, belted, black wool coat and gloves as she went.

She didn’t understand music. It had never moved her. But she understood money, and the Mikołaj Wozniak Center for the Performing Arts reeked of it. Koa veneer paneling on the walls, gleaming brass fixtures with a rich matte finish, inlaid marble floors, Venetian crystal chandeliers . . . there was wealth here. Old wealth. Reina didn’t worship it; she wasn’t that kind of idiot. But she respected it, the things it could buy, and the doors it could open.

The music hall was even more impressive. At the direction of yet another young usher, she took a seat toward the middle of the first section, settled into a sinfully comfortable seat, and steepled her fingers together under her chin.

She’d overheard a couple patrons in the coat-check line talking excitedly about the woman who was directing the performance. Talmadge, her name was. They sounded like music critics of some sort, or at least, people who followed the music world obsessively.

Well, we’ll just have to see, she thought. Talmadge had, admittedly, impressed her when she called. Reina’s first reaction had been anger that Kiko had gone running to some professor for protection from her mother. Talmadge had been refreshingly direct and non-confrontational, however, explaining that she had heard about Reina’s concerns very much third-hand, and simply thought it might be helpful to provide additional context.

But Reina knew how much she was paying the Conservatory every month, and she took the director’s reassurances with a large grain of salt. So, the person who was picked over Kiko had a voice that was better suited to this particular role?

I’ll be the judge of that.

— To be continued

Author’s note: Seats, everyone! The curtain goes up tomorrow morning! Will Gabe’s performance wow the audience? Will it convince the dragon lady? Will Kiko wilt under her mother’s watchful eye? Will Frau Talmadge get through the entire oratorio with a broken wrist? Stay tuned! To get you in the right mood, here’s a link to one of my favorite stagings of the Hallelujah Chorus. You should absolutely watch it!

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