Texture
Balls
Temperament
Tongue
Lips
Pain (good / bad)
Attention to nipples
Nose size
Tempo
Phrasing
I took pride in my journal. Someday, I thought, someone might publish it. I made a list of all the men. The Slovaks; the Germans; the Americans; the Dutch; the Italians; the Poles; the Dominicans; the French; the Ticos; the Filipinos; the Haitians; the Greeks; the Brazilians; the Portuguese. The Australians.
Bassoon was circumcised, with a Length score of 3, Texture 3, Balls 2, Temperament 8, Tongue 8 and Lips 6. He had a biblical name. Something dull. I haven’t seen him since the closet incident—I mean, the funeral. I hear he’s now dating a trombonist with a lisp.
In Wayne, I liked being told I was an animal. I liked the idea of being an animal because I knew I wasn’t. I knew I was much more than an animal. I knew I was one of the best violinists in the world. Sometimes, though, it felt good to be slapped by a boy I hardly knew. Have him call me obscene names. Horse. Dog. Sloth. Eel. It always made me laugh.
Everything I did with these men was an ode to myself. A contradiction between my public life and private life; a chasm between Jena Lin, darling Australian violinist, globally adored by lovers of classical music, and Jena Lin, raging sex addict. I was gifted in more ways than one, and I needed those in power to understand. I never saw my thirst for sex as anything wrong, much less a disability. But the therapist who my father made me see once a week began using that word when I told her how accomplished I’d begun to feel.
Being gifted and being disabled are the same thing. I was told this by a professor who used me as a research subject when I was ten years old. Other children are scared of you, he explained. Nobody quite knows how to treat you, so they isolate you. They just don’t know how to be around you.
My mother preferred to think they were jealous.
They called me an aberration, even before I knew how to spell that word. And when they flirted with the label ‘prodigy’, my parents panicked. It happened right after my debut with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. I was on the front page of every newspaper in Australia. They called me a wunderkind, a freak, a stolen creature from the future. Or the past. I wasn’t sure what it all meant but I remember my parents’ hesitation.
‘I don’t want you to be a circus freak,’ my father said. ‘You’re not going to perform just because you can.’
‘But I want to.’
My mother placed her hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll perform.’ There was something savage in her voice.
My father worried I’d be burned out by sixteen, which is what happened, more or less. Perhaps that’s why at fifteen, I decided to move to that small suburb outside of New York City with my father. I needed to escape my mother. I needed to know what I could be without her. In her mind, she’d lost me. In my mind, I severed old wings.
Part of me wanted my mother to ask me to stay, but she was silent. Maybe there was some part of her that wanted to be freed of me. I wish she’d made a fuss. I wish she’d said something. Anything. She’d have been easier to love.
9
Olivia is late again. At the train station, Circular Quay, I fumble with my case to avoid crashing into the mass of bodies at peak hour. Suits and tourists.
Tuesdays are difficult for Olivia. She struggles to make rehearsals on time because the morning is spent with the carers who supervise her mother during the week. She rarely talks about her mother and I have learned not to ask.
‘Thanks for waiting.’ She gives me a quick hug.
‘We’d better get going.’
Overnight, we received an email from the manager of the orchestra, Bryce. The chief conductor has pneumonia. A replacement has been found. They will take over for one season. The announcement will take place today.
As we hurry towards the Opera House we speculate on this sudden onset of pneumonia.
‘There’s probably a sketchier reason he’s standing down,’ Olivia says. ‘He’s been getting pretty close to some of the flautists.’
‘How do you know?’
‘People talk. I hope they’ll choose a woman.’
‘More likely they’ll choose a turnip.’
Olivia goes on and on. Says that they must know diversity is important.
‘They don’t,’ I say. ‘That’s why they’ve only ever chosen men.’
‘They must know.’
‘Olivia, when was the last time you saw a black person in the Opera House?’
In the green room, the players are stretched out on the floor, rubbing their knees, kneading their shoulders. Nobody looks up when we walk in.
We find two seats in the back corner. The concertmaster stands and makes introductory remarks. Then he introduces the new conductor.
It’s a man and he’s an American, a former professor at Curtis Institute of Music and assistant conductor of the New York Philharmonic. He gives a brief, genial speech and talks about the partnership between the two orchestras. He mentions a seasonal exchange for violinists; open to permanent members only. Golf claps settle across the room.
We go into the concert hall for a rehearsal.
He conducts the way most conductors do. Overemphasising the beat before the end of the bar. Moving their torsos too much. It’s always too much. They seldom seem to understand that less is more. Even the slightest twitch of a muscle in the face can change the sound of an entire orchestra. I often watch the face more than the baton. But these men follow each other. Same faces. Same gestures. Same sounds.
Afterwards, the new conductor invites the orchestra to the Opera Bar. In the green room, he approaches me as we’re packing our instruments. Long neck. Steely eyes. Forehead creased with lines. He’s wearing a grey polo, suit pants and navy loafers on his feet. Like Leonard Bernstein, if Bernstein had lived to be one hundred.
‘Jena Lin.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I stand to shake his hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘We met when you were still a child in London.’
‘We did?’
He pokes my arm like we’re old friends, but I am sure I’ve never met him in my life.
‘Are you coming for a drink?’
I look over to Olivia, who is zipping her case. I wave her over. ‘This is Olivia.’
He glances at her. ‘Yes, second violin. Good bow arm. So, the bar?’
I wait for Olivia’s cue.
‘Noah’s working late so I’ll have to make dinner.’
I pull on her shoulder straps. ‘Come for one, please?’
‘You guys go ahead.’
We perform an awkward three-person farewell. I watch her walk away looking down at her phone.
‘Shall we?’
I turn. The conductor is looking at me. Untrimmed brows. Deep brackets around his mouth.
My body shivers with familiar anxiety. A need to smile without showing too many teeth. The faint narrowing of my eyes. Performing desirability. An involuntary response to a male gaze. I do it so well.
‘Okay.’
As we walk across the forecourt to the bar, he asks about my playing, what I’ve been doing, America, my mother.
We join some musicians sitting at the outdoor bar and he pulls out a cigarette. I excuse myself and head to the ladies. I decide there’s no reason for me to stay. There is no one in the orchestra I want to fuck. No one with anything interesting to say. Instead of going to the toilets I make my escape.