Brigit's Flame Entry- Week 1 December
Getting Lost
George looked at the letter in his hand. He could only absorb the first few lines: “We are pleased to extend to you the opportunity to guest conduct with the New York Philharmonic. Your years as a valued member of the staff of Juilliard school have led us to consider your candidacy, and we ask you to join us in celebrating the theme of Music Through the Ages, with the concert date of May 15th. Please respond immediately so that we may coordinate rehearsal dates.”
He had submitted his request so long ago, it seemed like a different lifetime. It was right after Marion had died. That made it two years. No, wait. George frowned. Marion died in 2004. That made it five years now. That couldn't be right. He frowned. When had time started passing so quickly? He stared at the wall, which had once been painted a vibrant green but now was more of a dull, indeterminate shade. The letter fluttered from his fingers and he found that it didn't matter how long it had been, the tears still welled up just as quickly as they always had.
George wrestled with his tie for a few moments before he gave it up as a lost cause. He used to wear a tie every day, but it had been a long time since he'd needed to, and he couldn't seem to remember how to do it. The intricacies of the fabric were beyond him, the stripes and silk conspiring to keep a secret from him. He threw the long strip of frippery down in frustration, where it lay crumpled upon the dresser in an innocuous heap. George sighed, his momentary rage abated. He decided to go without the tie and left it there in it's mockery. His shirtsleeves would have to be enough. This was merely rehearsal, after all.
The cab ride was a short one and he found his way to the old place as if he had done it yesterday instead of years ago. He found himself perking up in anticipation, something he hadn't felt in a long while. His fingers drummed out a rhythm on his thigh. He hadn't realized how much he missed music until just now.
The auditorium nearly took his breath away. The space was cavernous, the tiles in the ceiling were set at odd angles to reflect sound waves and create an atmosphere that had no dead zones. George hung back and took it all in, the mix of old traditions and modernity that made this place feel like nowhere else. The red velvet curtain seemed to shimmer with a luster just for him. He breathed in the smell of the theater and listed to the random dissonance of the orchestra warming up. The violins tuning were at disharmony with the scales of the flutes and the big blasts of the trombones. George had never felt more comfortable than he did right here.
“George! Is that really you?” A trim older man bounded up the aisle with athletic grace. He had a big smile on his face and his silver hair waved with each big step forward. He moved to embrace George.
George smiled politely, trying to place him. He seemed familiar, somehow, but he couldn't quite remember his name. The man was talking excitedly, so George just nodded, hoping to get a clue.
“... we were so disappointed not to hear from you after Maxine. I understand how it is, though. You know, Rachel had breast cancer, as well. Thank God she pulled through, but it is just so devastating. We were both just heartbroken about Maxine, I can't imagine. But look at you! I was so pleased to hear that you would be one of the guest conductors! The two of us, back together again. It's just like old times, what do you say, Old Man?”
George smiled vaguely. Maxine? He had said Maxine. Yes, that was right. Why had he been thinking his wife's name was Marion? Marion was his... daughter. Yes, he had a daughter, and her name was Marion. That was silly of him. He shook his head. He had just gotten the names mixed up. He had been a little confused lately. That happened to everyone, surely.
“So,” the man was talking again, “you are lined up for the Shostakovich. I know, I know, it's not your first choice. It's a little ironic, though, don't you think? That they would give you that one out of all the choices?” The man was laughing.
George had no idea what the man was referring to. They must be friends, apparently there was some kind of history here, but George couldn't even remember this guy's name. He was starting to feel a little uneasy. He focused on the music instead. He knew that inside and out. “Which one? A Symphony?”
The man stopped laughing and looked George in the eye. “Are you okay, George? You don't seem like yourself.”
Suddenly a name came to him. Relief flooded through him. “Sure, Peter, I'm great. It's just been awhile since I've been here. A lot of old memories, that's all. I'm a little overwhelmed.”
“Yeah, I can understand that. Well, come on up to the podium. The Piano Concerto No. 2 in F Major should jog your memory.” Peter grinned.
Something rattled in his brain, but wouldn't come loose. “Opus 102, First Movement, Allegro?” George knew it, but didn't know what it meant. It was an unsettling feeling.
“You know it. Isn't that amazing that you are assigned that very one? The stars are aligned, I tell ya... come on, let's get started,” Peter patted him on the arm. “It's good to see you, George. I mean that.”
George looked down, feeling helpless. He didn't know this man at all. “It's good to see you, too.”
They made their way to the stage. Peter hopped up with the stealth of a much younger man, but George preferred the stairs. Peter waved his arms about until eventually the din of the instruments died down. “Thanks everyone. We're doing it out of order today. We are going to run through the third piece, the Shostakovich. I would like to introduce to you your guest conductor, Dr. George VanReijn. He was a Professor of Composition at Juilliard for many years and I leave you to his care for this piece. As you also know, Sophie Weber will be the piano soloist, and this is the first time we've been together. We will not have a proper run-through before the recital, so make this work, everybody. Thanks. George?” Peter stepped down and held out his hands, indicating it was George's time to take charge.
George made his way to the podium, aware of the eyes of the orchestra on him. He stepped up and took the baton in his right hand, feeling the weight for the first time in many years. It was
as if he had stepped back in time. He looked out over the seated musicians, the faces turned towards him like flowers turned towards the sun. He raised his arms. They raised their instruments. He gently swayed his hands. The sound of a bassoon broke the silence. George closed his eyes and leaned into the sound.
He might not remember the name of his friend, or his wife, but he remembered this. This was his soul, his heart. He gestured for the piano and it was as if he were painting a canvas with sound. The crescendo of the strings and the brass played out in a cacophony that made him reel. It transported him and made him forget all his problems. Too soon, it finished, the last note trembling on the air, suspended as if it was reluctant to dissipate and be silenced. George put his arms down, and the musicians followed suit.
“Lovely,” he murmured. “Let's do it again, from measure twenty, with the French horns. This time I want them a little louder and the strings to be pianissimo. And one...” George didn't want it to ever end.
It had to end, though. Even he couldn't think of a reason to run through it a third time. He was merely a figurehead. The Philharmonic didn't need his direction. They had already done the work and this was merely coordination for the performance. George regretfully put down the baton and bowed to the group. “Thank you for allowing me the chance to work with you. That was tremendous work, everyone.” He stepped down.
Peter was behind him. “Wasn't that great? Like you never left! Listen, I have to stay and get the rest of the program running. Frankly, I'm a little worried about how the Scherzo from the Eroica is going to play out. When I say Allegro Vivace, I mean it. The conductor assigned to that seems to think it's the dirge movement,” he sighed. “What a headache. Well, such is the way, isn't it? I swear, someone up there is laughing at us.” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Do you want to get a bite to eat after? I'll be done by five.”
George tried not to grimace. The idea of an evening spent covering up what he couldn't remember sounded awful. “No, no. I have a bit of a headache myself. I'm just going to go home.”
Peter eyed him. “Okay, well I will see you at the concert, then. Don't forget to pick up your tux, okay?”
George nodded. He left the theater and stepped out into the blinding sunshine. Somehow it didn't seem like it should still be daytime, that the world should still be going about it's business while he was conducting. He smiled at his conceit and hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the cabbie grunted.
George drew a blank. Where was home? He couldn't recall. He stared out the window, hoping for a clue.
“Come on, Grandpa,” the cabbie gritted out impatiently.
George cocked his head. This was strange. He could picture his house, but he didn't know the address. “Hold on a minute, please,” he said.
“Your money,” the cabbie shrugged.
George should be more worried, but he felt strangely calm. He tried to think of the numbers, of the address, but it was as if a fog had descended. He couldn't even picture the right direction. Suddenly, he had an idea. He took out his wallet and read the address off of the driver's license. It didn't sound familiar, but it must be his home. He settled back, watching the people blend into a blur before his eyes. He tried not to think about anything.
George knew that May 15th was the big night, but he had the feeling he was forgetting something. Today had been a day full of fog, one of the worst yet. Some woman had called and pretended to be his daughter, when in fact he didn't have a daughter. George was still indignant. He should know who his family was, after all!
He was going to conduct a concert. It had taken him all day to get ready because he kept getting distracted.George was at a loss about what to wear. His wife, Marion, used to pick out his clothes for him. He looked down at himself. He knew that pajama pants and a white T-shirt were not okay, but he didn't know what he should wear. When he opened his closet, all the clothes seemed dirty. The choice was overwhelming. In the end, he closed his eyes and blindly chose a pair of pants and a shirt. Maybe someone could help him when he got there.
George didn't have time for a bath. It had taken him all day to choose his clothes and get into them. He had kept a note taped to his hand, so he would be reminded about today whenever he was prone to forget. He wrote down the address and he knew he had to be there before 8:00. He left and hailed a cab.
George saw the auditorium and knew right where to go backstage. He didn't have a lot of time. It was eight already. His was the third piece. They had started already.
He wandered backstage. Peter saw him. “George!” he hissed. “What the Hell happened to you? You know you were supposed to be here an hour ago! And you aren't dressed yet! Where is your tux?”
George looked down at himself and blinked. His tuxedo. He had forgotten.
“Are you drunk? Oh, God!” Peter was nearly hysterical. “Tell me if you are drunk!”
George suddenly felt clearer than he had all day. “No, Peter, I'm not drunk, don't be silly. I apologize for my tardiness and for the tux. I have had an unbelievably bad day. Must be the Curse of the Shostakovich, you know?”
George flashed him a smile.
Peter looked him in the eye. “Yeah, I DO know, actually. Come on, let's get you dressed. The Scherzo is nearly done, and after that is Stravinsky. It's nearly your turn,” he allowed himself a smile. “The Curse of the Shostakovich, indeed.”
George let out a sigh. He didn't know what was wrong with him, but that was close. He got dressed behind a set backstage and not a moment too soon. The last notes of the Firebird were vibrating when he got the last button done up.
“Come on!” Peter pulled his arm and handed him his baton. “When the lights go up, that's your cue. Break a leg!”
The stage lights went up and George walked across from the wings. He took his place at the podium and waited for silence. He raised his arms and felt the weight of the expectation of the crowd. Then he forgot what he was doing.
He turned around and saw a sea of unfamiliar faces. The buzz of the crowd started to get louder, but he didn't know what he was supposed to do. He wandered around the stage. He was holding something in his hand, a sort of a wand. George giggled. It looked like it made magic. The crowd was getting loud. He tried to zap them.
A man he had never seen with silver hair was leading him off. “Who are you?” George asked loudly.
“A friend,” The man said sadly.
“I don't know you,” George protested.
“I know you. My name is Peter,” the man said.
“Peter?” George blinked as they emerged from the darkness of backstage and into the harsh lights of the hall. “I knew someone named Peter once.”
“George, I wish you had told me how sick you are. You are too young to have Alzheimer's. I could have helped you. Rachel and I would have helped. I am calling Marion right away. Just... sit here.” Peter looked around and dug a cell phone out of his pocket. He started talking quietly.
George let it all go by him. “Marion is dead,” he whispered. He felt the tears well up as he thought of his wife, but then he could hear the strains of some beautiful music, music he thought he might have heard before. It started with a bassoon, then there was a piano... he lifted his hands and sculpted the music, letting it ebb and flow around him, so beautiful that he could think of nothing else at this moment except the clarion call of the French horn, rising above it all. A man could get lost in a melody like that. George closed his eyes and got lost.