It hadn’t been there this morning.
The performance was over. The applause had faded from Music Hall, and the audience trickled toward the exits. Kristof Bartok and the rest of the Exposition Orchestra should have been free to pack up their instruments and have the rest of the day to themselves.
Instead, Maestro Theodore Thomas gripped both ends of his conductor’s baton and told them to wait where they were. This had been their eighty-third performance together since May 2, but it was the first time he just stood there, bushy mustache drooping, while the hall emptied. Behind him in an enormous horseshoe, a dozen mammoth Corinthian pillars soared from balcony to ceiling, each wrapped with laurel garlands to match those draping between them. Laurel wreaths topped and anchored each pillar.
Papers shuffled on stands as one hundred and fifty orchestra members gathered their music into leather folders. Beside Kristof, his younger brother shrugged and stashed his violin beneath his chair, displaying the same lackadaisical attitude that pervaded every corner of his life. Kristof had earned the position of concertmaster and first chair violin, but only because Gregor—who had more natural talent by far—had no discipline. If only he cared enough to practice, if he cared about his potential half as much as their father had, he would be the star of the orchestra, and Kristof would literally be playing second fiddle to him.
Even if the maestro didn’t know that, surely Gregor did.
Kristof dabbed a folded handkerchief to his brow, then rested his instrument across his lap and waited for whatever Maestro had to tell them.
Gregor made a show of yawning, then shoved a thatch of oak-brown hair off his brow.
“Out too late last night?” Kristof asked, sotto voce, though he already knew the answer. Gregor was so loud coming home that surely Sylvie and Rose could hear him tramping above them. Just as he had heard one of the Hoffmans stirring upstairs after Gregor slammed the door to their apartment.
Gregor rubbed his hand over his face. “No later than usual.”
True. And that was the problem. There was always something to do, see, experience that was more alluring than home. Before Kristof could reply, however, Maestro Thomas rapped his baton on his stand.
“I have an announcement,” he began. “You’ve all played well here at the World’s Columbian Exposition. Two concerts daily, plus rehearsals, for the last three months has been a grueling schedule. I have been proud to stand at the helm of this body as you’ve offered the public a more cultured, sophisticated music experience than they get anywhere else in the city.”
Gregor leaned over and whispered, “This can’t be good.”
As much as he wanted to disagree, Kristof sensed the same. Thomas’s demeanor was too sober for mere praise.
“But as you’ve noticed, our afternoon concerts have suffered shamefully low attendance.” Thomas’s eyebrows knit together.
“Pardon me, sir,” Gregor inserted, “but I’m not surprised. The public can attend our free concerts in the morning, plus hear bands throughout the fairgrounds, all included with a fifty-cent ticket to the Fair. Why, then, would they pay another dollar to attend the afternoon concert?”
He had a point. The Exposition Orchestra’s morning concerts of popular music averaged thirty-five hundred patrons. The afternoon concerts: one hundred.
“Why indeed?” Maestro echoed. “As the musical director for the Fair, my aim has always been to use music to both amuse the crowds and to elevate the more discerning European visitor. But I’m forced to concede that music as art and education has been an utter failure. Music as amusement is all the people want, and they won’t pay extra for it.”
Kristof shifted in his chair, making a mental note to change the programming. As concertmaster, he would suggest more Wagner, Brahms, Dvořák, Tchaikovsky. Fewer of the longer pieces they’d played this afternoon from Beethoven and Liszt. He tugged his damp collar away from his skin. The ninety-six-degree heat lately hadn’t made the stuffy afternoon concerts more popular either.
“As free music doesn’t pay the bills,” Thomas continued, “I’m resigning my position as musical director and disbanding the Exposition Orchestra.”
“What about the contract?” Kristof asked quietly. It was a six-month agreement, and they were months shy of completing it.
“We’re breaking the contract,” Thomas replied. “Cutting our losses, so to speak. The Fair officials agree that, in this case, the only way forward is to find the way out.”
Kristof was out of a job. They all were, until the Chicago Symphony Orchestra season began the day after Thanksgiving. But it was only the start of August. The end of November loomed far away.
Surprise rippled through the orchestra sections, but none louder than that from Gregor. “This can’t be happening.” He stood. “What about our salaries?”
“The last concert I’ll conduct will be August 11, and that will be in support of the chorus at Festival Hall. After that, I assume none of us will be paid. I certainly won’t ask for money I didn’t earn. Will you?”
“This is outrageous. You can’t do this to us. I was counting on that money. That is, we were all planning to be fully employed for the duration of the contract. Did you think of that—think of us—before you resigned?”
Kristof kicked his brother’s shoe to silence him. “Sit,” he hissed. Nothing could be gained by attacking the maestro.
“I regret any financial hardships this may cause you,” Thomas boomed. “But if you’ve been wise, you have saved some of that generous salary you’ve been paid all summer.”
Kristof had. One hundred fifty dollars a week was more money than he could possibly spend. Apparently his brother had found a way to do it.
Gregor sank back into his chair and held his head. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispered. Sweat beaded his upper lip.
At thirty-five years old, Gregor ought to be able to take care of himself. But when Kristof looked at him, he saw the younger brother always getting into scrapes, always reaching to Kristof for rescue. He set his jaw, already frustrated without even knowing why. But he knew Gregor. That was enough.
As soon as Thomas adjourned the meeting, Kristof swiveled in his chair to face his brother and braced for confrontation.
“Did you know about any of this?” Gregor asked.
“Why should I?”
“He relies on you. If you had any idea, and you didn’t tell me . . . If I had only had some idea my funds would dry up—”
Kristof leaned forward. “I’m a concertmaster, not a consultant. I mark the bowings on the sheet music, help with programming, and perform the violin solos. I am not the maestro’s confidant.”
“If only I’d known, I would have—I wouldn’t have—” Cutting short his confession, Gregor shoved his fingers through his hair.
“Tell me.” Kristoff kept his tone low. “What have you done?”
And what must I do to fix it?
CHAPTER TWO
Corner Books & More was empty when Sylvie and Rose returned to it late that afternoon—aside from Tessa Garibaldi, the twenty-one-year-old woman Sylvie employed, and Tiny Tim, the little black cat with white belly and paws who had adopted Rose the minute he’d seen her.