“A ditty,” Will told him. “It’s garbage. Cover your ears.”
He played through it again and found it was decidedly not the kind of song that grew on you through repetition. Finally, he checked his watch and got up to walk Hudson. At three, he had a lesson with Jisoo, a rising high school senior who was preparing her auditions for Peabody and the New England Conservatory. He’d been teaching her since she was in middle school. She was good, really good, much better than he was at that age. What, he wondered, would Jisoo think to see him on YouTube playing bad country music underwater with air bubbles coming out of his nose? What kind of example would that set? A good one—that musicians can and should seek innovative ways of supporting their careers? Or a bad one—that a sellout is a sellout, and no one should ever lower himself to such (watery) depths?
* * *
When it was time to go teach, Will locked his door behind him and turned in the dim, linoleum-tiled hallway to knock on Mitzy’s. She opened it and lit up when she saw him.
“Hello, neighbor,” she said. “Look at you.”
He smiled back. Like many New Yorkers, Will had assembled a faux family for himself. He had Bridget, he had her children, he had Hudson, and he had Mitzy, his Manhattan grandmother. She was cartoonishly short and wore big, round black glasses that didn’t seem to do much to help her failing vision. She reached out and gave the tips of his fingers a squeeze.
“I heard you playing something very catchy on the piano,” she said. “You sounded marvelous.”
“Country music,” he said. “I’m branching out. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“Disturb me? I stood outside your door so I could hear you better. Are you heading out?”
“I’m going to work, but I’ll stop by the grocery store on my way home.”
She reached in her dress pocket and handed him a list and a ten-dollar bill. “Thank you, love. My left hip has gone wonky, and I’d like a grilled cheese.”
“Do you need an Advil?”
She waved him off. “How’s Bridget?”
“She’s away for the summer with her boyfriend.”
“Isn’t that nice,” said Mitzy.
Will wasn’t so sure. He was having a hard time imagining Sterling happily ensconced at Bridget’s country house. Sterling was one of those New Yorkers who didn’t know how to drive a car. And he seemed pretty pleased with his life in Park Slope. He had a young kid, a job teaching in the MFA program at NYU, and bookstores all over New York that clamored to host him whenever he read from his latest novel. How exactly would Connecticut fit into all that?
Not a fan of nature, small-town life, or unnerving quiet, Will himself was in no way enamored of Bridget’s large, cranky house. In spite of the fun they’d had there, he’d never understood her deep attachment to the place. Who could love something so needy and broken? He regularly stubbed his toes on the warped floorboards and got a wave of panic every time he flushed the toilet, and, as if to show it was capable of doing real harm, the house had now electrocuted Bridget in the breakfast room. What Bridget saw as charming, Will saw as burdensome and mean. He had always resented the house’s insistence on punishing Bridget for not paying enough attention to it. It reminded him of his ex-wife.
“No concerts this summer?” Mitzy asked.
“No, but I hope you’ll come hear us play in the fall.” He held up the shopping list. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Bring Hudson. I’ll have the gin out.”
Will waved and went down the stairs, the song “About You and I” stuck firmly in his head.
* * *
Even though conservatory auditions were a few months away, Will decided to set up a mock audition, asking Jisoo to enter the practice room and introduce herself as though they didn’t know each other.
“Seriously?” she said. “That’s so embarrassing.”
“Every second you’re in the room with the faculty is an opportunity to make a good impression. I don’t want you to waste any chance to connect. Look alert. And remember, they’ll likely stop you right before you get to the development section, so don’t let that throw you. They’re often short on time. Ready?”
Jisoo walked out in the hallway, closed the door behind her, and then entered. “Hello,” she said.
“Eye contact,” said Will. “Don’t be slouchy.”
She went out and came in again. “Hello,” she said, looking at him this time.
“Hello.”
“I’m Jisoo, and I’ll be starting today with the first movement of Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata.” She sat down and launched right in.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “Take a beat to focus. Let the room go quiet, just like you would for a concert.”
Jisoo took a moment and began playing again. As he listened, he wished he could take credit for her performance. She played so accurately, with a lovely touch and a good deal of joy. Like any serious musician, she never went a day without practicing, and unlike a lot of students, she practiced efficiently and always had.
Teaching Jisoo was the opposite of his experience trying to teach Bridget’s twins to play when they were young. They all gave up soon after he gave them Bach’s Minuet in G; Oscar never even opened it.
“I don’t want to play piano.” He had dropped the thin score on the floor, an act of defiance. “I hate practicing.”
“I don’t understand,” said Will. “What does that even mean?”
“It’s boring.”
This attitude was incomprehensible to Will, who had practiced every day since he was six. And to Bridget, who’d been handed a quarter-size cello at the age of seven and never put it down again except to go up a size every time she grew.
Bridget was an excellent musician, while Will would describe himself as a highly competent one. He was dedicated, precise, careful. “Robotic” was the word Edward had once used when he’d heard the original Forsyth Trio play, doing a number on Will’s self-esteem. Will admittedly was at his best with Bach, where the beauty is in the music itself. He was worse with contemporary composers. Schoenberg made him want to stab someone. And musicians like Lang Lang—or the insufferable, pompous Gavin Glantz, their very first violinist, with all his drama and flair—nauseated him. Enough with the histrionics, Will wanted to yell. Just play the music. Gavin would whip his hair around in a ridiculous arc whenever the trio finished a piece. “He’s an outstanding player,” Bridget would remind him. “What difference does it make what he does with his hair?”
She was right. But, of course, Bridget was more forgiving of flair. She was Edward Stratton’s daughter after all. And Edward’s flair was his signature. For conductors, a little drama was part of the job description. Unlike for an instrumentalist, the conductor’s job was all about interpretation, of infusing oneself into the music. If the conductor was lacking in personality, then a piece lacking personality was what the audience would get. Edward Stratton was brimming with personality. He was scintillating, informed, gregarious, and the most popular guest at any party. He was also one of the most narcissistic people Will had ever known.