Preludes, page 14
Well, this was not her matter to worry about. She would find out all the sordid details soon enough. Sophia had a way of wiggling these tales out of even the most stony people.
She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she almost missed Penny’s question. “Where is your friend now? Didn’t he join you? I’m sure Sophia would gladly have extended an invitation.”
Of course. Everybody was interested in his friend, not Louisa. Only Anne dwelt on that.
“I did suggest it,” Fred replied to Penny. “But Ben insisted he would be happy just relaxing and catching up on some sleep. As I said, he’s had a rough time recently and I don’t think he’s quite up for this sort of function right now.”
The deep brown eyes flickered towards Anne and she wondered what had happened to Fred’s friend. Did he think she might be able to help at all? Perhaps he would tell her later.
Walters now reclaimed control of the conversation. He had this idea in mind, and that program to discuss, and perhaps they could meet at some convenient time… William seemed quite interested, but Anne found her attention drifting, and when Jeremy waved at her from across the room, she made her excuses and went to find her friend.
He gave her a quick hug. “Looking good, Anne. Are you having fun yet? It’s always a bit of a working vacation, these things. You want to enjoy yourself, but you’re also on display. I’m sure all the board members will want a moment’s chat with you, and probably a selfie too, for their Facebook pages.”
They chatted for a few minutes about this and that. All of the guests seemed to have arrived, and there, like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, was Sophia working her way through the room. She hovered around each little group of people as if they were the most important people on the planet. Dressed as she was in pale gold, she almost left a visible glow along the path she had visited. Anne had never particularly wished to be more of a social creature, but at times like this, she envied her friend’s true gift in this sphere.
“Finally, a moment to breathe!” Sophia slid into place to join Anne and Jeremy. Her bright eyes belied the exhaustion suggested by her words.
“Liar, Sophia. You love this stuff. You’re in your element.” She looked around at the smartly dressed crowd in the room. Silks and satins and smart black evening garb were everywhere. The space was abuzz with the sound of a hundred conversations while some carefully selected music—Mozart string quartets—provided the aural cushion to support but not overwhelm the sound. Waiters in their black and white uniforms wove through the room offering finger food and drinks to the guests in their suits and cocktail dresses, and the bar, where Kevin Walters and William still stood talking, was surrounded by a loose cloud of people hoping for a brandy or something other than sparkling wine. It was a smart and elegant affair, a testimony to Sophia’s talents as hostess.
Sophia’s perfectly arched eyebrows rose quickly at Anne’s jibe. “Perhaps. I do rather enjoy a good soirée. But you, Miss Annie, seemed to be in your own element last night. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, no! Don’t tell me you saw something about the jazz club.” Did a red face go with a green dress? Or did she look like some sort of grotesque Christmas tree?
Jeremy was grinning. “I’ll leave you ladies to talk. Time to make myself useful as host.” He winked at them as he walked away.
“Did I see ‘something?’ Not at all. I saw the deed itself. Some enterprising person uploaded a good amount of your little adventure to YouTube. There was something on TikTok too, but those clips are too short to really hear what happened. You looked like you were having a marvellous time. You should get out there more often.”
Et tu, Sophia? “That’s what Jasmine said. She’s the one who convinced me to go. I’ve told you about Jasmine and Connor, haven’t I?”
“Your friend from school, yes. I thought you were with William.”
“He was out of town until yesterday.” She explained about his business trip in a few words, then described the chain of events that convinced her up onto the little stage at the club. “I wish I had known. I would have dressed up… or not gone at all.”
“Nonsense. You looked great. You really do, you know. This summer has been good to you. You’ve got colour in your cheeks and your eyes seem brighter, somehow. It’s like a little lost piece of Annie has been found and put back into place. This isn’t your first big adventure, either. I saw those pictures from the CN Tower. You have been busy.”
“Are we talking about Anne’s new career as a jazz musician?” Fred’s voice sounded from behind Anne’s shoulder, and she turned to see him walking up. “Don’t be shy, Anne. The video is everywhere. It was my friend Ben who noticed it first and pointed it out to me.” He took a step back and his dark eyes moved from Anne’s head to her toes. “It becomes you. You’ve let your light go out a bit, and I’m pleased to see it back.” Then, in a hushed voice that maybe even Anne was not supposed to hear, “I’ve missed you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Variation One
It had been three days since Sophia’s grand farewell to summer. Anne cracked open her eyes and rolled over in bed. A glance at the clock told her she had a few more minutes to sleep, but wakefulness was upon her. Today was the first orchestra rehearsal of the season, and the schedule included her Preludes, the piece that made her famous. It was impossible to deny the excitement she felt at the idea of it.
There would be no more sleep today. She pushed off her blankets and staggered to the kitchen to set the coffeemaker, and then took a shower while the machine worked its magic. She dressed quickly in a simple skirt and t-shirt before going to have her morning drink. Her phone told her she had some messages, which she checked as she waited for her bagel to toast.
There was one from Fred.
Coming to rehearsal? Hope to see you. Maybe go for coffee afterwards and meet my friend Ben? Think about it and tell me later.
This was a surprise. When he had first mentioned his friend at Sophia’s soiree, Anne thought he intended to arrange a meeting, but since he had said nothing else about it all evening, she changed her mind. She was certain it had just been making meaningless small talk, but apparently, he was serious. It was a strange sort of message too; there was no intimation that he felt bad about his abrupt departure in June, no suggestion of apology. It was as if their night together meant nothing at all to him. Was her former lover trying to set her up with another man?
She laughed at the thought. No, that was not like the Fred she knew. He was just hoping to introduce two people who might get along. She really should read nothing into it. Besides, didn’t Fred know that she was sort-of seeing William Barnett?
She cast her mind back to the party. William had arrived with her and had spent some time with her before they left together, but he had not danced attendance upon her, or at least, no more than might be expected of a board member. She recalled him talking to Kevin Walters, then later on to Jeremy, and then—for quite a long time—to Penny Walters, whom he seemed to know quite well from some previous board events to which she had not been a party.
But he had not doted upon her, and any people who had not seen them arrive and depart as a couple would be unlikely to consider them a couple. Fred certainly had not said a word, nor had even glanced at them after his initial assessment. If he had been so busy during the summer and had spent a good deal of it in Italy, he might have no idea that William had been taking her out.
Anyway, meeting Ben might be nice. She sent back a quick reply to that end and then checked the rest of her messages.
There was the usual collection of notifications, semi-legitimate advertisements, and newsletters, and a reminder of the morning’s rehearsal. Still nothing from Marie. She had not heard from her sister since the accident in early summer, despite her periodic emails and calls. The little boy was fine, she knew from Charles, but her sister still refused to speak to her. She rolled her eyes. Marie would come around in time, but if there was drama to be found in any situation, she would milk it to its utmost.
The rehearsal itself went well. The orchestra members were all first-rate musicians, and they seemed to be putting forth their best for the new conductor. No matter that he had taken up the baton with them once before; this was their first official time together and everybody was on point and seemed to be taking great care to please and be pleased. The musicians knew their parts and played well, and Fred was friendly and encouraging, coaxing his own interpretations and ideas from eager bows, reeds, and brass.
Anne’s Preludes had never sounded better, and she was delighted by Fred’s subtle inflexions. He understood the music perfectly. Of course he would; he was there when she had first started to compose it. He was part of its inception; it was his piece almost as much as it was hers. How fitting that he should be the one to conduct it now.
Anne sat in her seat in the auditorium, listening but not making notes. Her role was now over, and she could enjoy the process as an observer. It was liberating, if a little intimidating. She let her eyes rove over the musicians. There was Xi in the second violins, there Caroline behind her red cello, and there, up on the risers behind the woodwinds, was Louisa with her shiny horn. She had changed over the summer. Her hair was blue again, but now it was a deep sapphire rather than the peacock blue of last spring, and her earrings were small enough that Anne could not see them from her seat in row G. But the satisfied smile on her face was still visible when she put down her instrument to look at the conductor. Why, Anne wondered again, had she not been at the party last weekend?
It seemed just a moment before the orchestra took their break, and once more Anne was surrounded by friends and admirers, all gushing about her piece. More than one person also mentioned the video of her performance at the jazz club, which only served to increase her appeal. How strange that a few minutes of improvisation could have spurred so much buzz!
Then the rehearsal resumed. Anne had nothing to do now, other than sit back and enjoy the experience. She closed her eyes and allowed the music to wash over her. They started with Holst’s The Planets. Fred took a few minutes to go over some of his ideas with the orchestra, and the musicians put down bows and horns in favour of pencils, to mark down these points. Then they were ready to play.
“Alright, folks, let’s read through it and we’ll stop where necessary.” Fred lifted his baton and at once the orchestra was at attention, instruments prepared.
The first movement was “Mars, Bringer of War,” with its unsettling five-four time signature. First came the percussive col legno notes of the strings and the low tones of the brass, followed by the brighter sounds of the trumpets. The music, undulating orange and brown and gold, never failed to send a thrill through her. Triplet-quarter-quarter-duplet-quarter. Brass and timpani and power.
Next, after the God of War, was “Venus, Bringer of Peace,” all shimmering high winds and harp, blue and silver, allowing the melody in the cello and solo violin to float on its bed of sound. Then playful Mercury, all cheeky yellows and greens, exuberant Jupiter with its reds and gold, and through to the end of the piece. Fred stopped the musicians every so often to clarify something or to go over a specific section, but for the most part, he let the orchestra play, saying they would focus on the details at subsequent rehearsals. For Anne, it was as good as a vacation. What a treat to sit back and relax with good music in the air and no demands on her time. She closed her eyes and let the music wash over her, a warm hug of sound, all enveloping and familiar. Her happy place.
“All ready?”
The rehearsal was over and everybody was packing up. Fred stood in the aisle by her row, his scores and baton in the messenger bag he had slung over his shoulder, his hands in his grey trouser pockets. He cocked his head just a touch as he looked at her. The smile on his face was open and friendly.
“Yes. Give me a moment.” In a trice she had packed up her own few things and walked out of the theatre with him, waving at Kostas on the way. “Where are we going?”
“I told Ben we would meet him at the coffee shop near your building.” He named a popular local chain. “It’s halfway between here and my place, and seemed like a suitable spot. Is it okay?”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Are we walking? That’s how I got here.”
They loped along the street, side by side, like old friends. Which, in a sense, they were. The day was warm, and the sidewalks were busy and they spoke only a little, and then only about the music from the rehearsal. What did Anne think of the Holst? Did she have any insights into the Beethoven that might keep it fresh? The fifth symphony was a bit of a warhorse, a terrific piece, but one that everybody knew so well it was all but tired. What about the next concert in the season? He had included a piece by the brilliant Canadian composer Vanore Voaklander, and he asked if Anne had ever met her. It was easy conversation and quite impersonal, and she appreciated this.
Ben was waiting at the coffee shop when they arrived. He had taken a table in the far corner and sat with an empty cup in front of him, peering into his tablet. He turned the device off when Fred called his name and set it face-down on the table before standing up to meet Anne.
Fred made the introductions. Benjamin James was English, from York, and he sounded the part. If Anne were later asked to describe him, she would have fumbled for words, because physically, in almost every way, he was average. Average height, average build, neither pale nor dark, neither handsome nor plain, and with no distinguishing characteristics or marks.
His garb and deportment, however, were another story. His hair was long, not quite to his shoulders, and loose, with a sweep that fell over his face. He would push it back with his whole hand, only to have it flop forward over his eyes again a moment later. He was wearing black jeans, despite the hot late summer weather, and a loose black linen shirt—almost a tunic—that was buttoned to the neck and at the wrists. There was something about the intensity of his gaze, the studied melancholy of his expression, that put Anne in mind of some tortured poet from ages past. Would he have been a Romantic-with-a-capital-R back in the nineteenth century? One of Lord Byron’s set, all angsty and passionate about passion, with a flair for the dramatic and an eye for the ladies?
Despite the air of gloom that hung over him, he was a personable enough fellow. He had studied both art history and international relations before moving into journalism as a career, and seemed ready enough to talk about his experiences.
“I spent some time as a foreign correspondent in South Africa,” he explained, “before moving to freelance. I do investigative stuff. You know, the sort where I follow a paper trail to its bitter end. There are a few politicians and business people out there who do not like my name very much.”
He pushed the curtain of hair out of his face again. “I was looking into some monkey business with an Italian company once a few years back and decided I liked the place so much that I wanted to stay. Since I’m not tethered to an office, I did exactly that. I stayed in Rome. My Italian is reasonable, good enough for the necessaries. Not as good as Frederico’s, mind you, but good enough.”
Fred shrugged in modesty, a very European gesture. “I spoke it at home with my family, growing up. It’s my first language, after all.” Now he told his part of the story. “I’d been in Rome for a year or so, studying with Buscagni, but I tried to see everything the city had to offer. It is so different, living in a place rather than being a tourist. Now I had time for all those little things, the exhibits and the shows and the events that don’t make it into the guidebooks. I met up with a few people in the expat Anglo community, and we got together from time to time to take advantage of what was on offer. Through some of these folks, I’d heard of this English poet in the city, but I had no idea who he was until we were both at a gallery opening. Ben here was flirting with the artist—”
“And she was lovely, you must admit!”
“—by extemporising poetry for her. But she’s Italian and didn’t understand some of the English turns of phrase, so I stepped in to translate.”
“You were trying to shoulder in on my date.” Beneath that flop of hair, a scowl crept over Ben’s face.
Fred laughed. Anne had missed that sound so much over the years. “In the end, neither of us left with the artist, but we two ended up talking and that’s how we became friends.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Imagine my surprise when this chap spouting flawless native Italian then turned to me and spoke in flawless native English, and sounding like a Hollywood actor, all New York and Los Angeles, whatever that might mean. I was shocked to learn he was Canadian. Never really gave much thought to Canada before, other than hockey and maple syrup. Italian conductors never occurred to me at all.”
Anne asked after Ben’s poetry. Rhythm and cadence were part of both of their vocabularies, after all.
“I used to write about my travels, the places I’ve visited.” The gloomy face was back. “There is so much beauty in this world, but also so much pain. And too often, the two are juxtaposed rather too starkly for comfort. Recently, however, I find the words will not come. My talents were adequate for other people’s agony, but not, it seems, for my own. I am a poor sort of artist who cannot come to terms with his own psyche.”
Anne made a sound that she hoped was sympathetic and understanding. What was she to say? Fortunately, Ben did not need much encouragement to tell his tale of woe. This, at last, was what Fred had alluded to before.
