 |
| The Boston Conservatory's Original Building, 8 The Fenway |
"From the outside," I mutter. "We met Charles Huntington the Third."
"Who?"
"He's joking. It was some bum," says Dad.It's not much of an ice breaker. "Well. You be careful out there, you hear? Let me go get Harriet and Ruth, some members of the piano faculty who are looking forward to meeting you and hearing you play. Then we'll go on up. You can wait here."
Looking around his office, at the pictures on the wall of his predecessors, at the pictures of the notable alumni, none of whom ring a bell with me, I feel strangely calm. I've heard stories from my own piano teacher about the legendary Albert Aphin, who was such a tightwad that he refused to replace an ancient vacuum cleaner. My thoughts settle like dust on the paneled walls. Dad is sitting with his hands across his lap. He's grinning. I grin back. I hear voices. Yes, Gianini's back with two dykish looking women in tow. We all shake hands and pile into the rickety elevator. In the auditorium, Gianini points me in the direction of the stage and the piano. The women sit at the table, Dad takes a seat in the back of the hall where there are folding chairs in neat rows.
"You get the seat of honor," says Gianini, pointing.
"The hot seat," I mutter.
I ascend the short stairs to the stage floor and take a seat on the piano bench. I've never really figured out how to adjust one of these things. I fool some with the big black knobs.
"What do want to play for us?, calls out one of the piano teachers.
"Um, I'll start with Schubert."
It's nothing fancy, just two little German Dances. It goes OK.
"Lovely! Let's hear the Beethoven."
The 'Beethoven' is the Sonata, Opus 13, "Pathetique," First Movement. I've been obsessed with this piece for at least three years. I still can't really play it. I'm defeated by the tremolo in the left hand. I start out OK, but of course, I fumble the tricky virtuoso passage that bridges the Grave introduction and the Allegro. I can sort of play it moderato, but allegro, con brio, is not happening. Ever. Or certainly not now.
"OK! That's enough!"
The piano ladies put me out of my misery. After a bit of chatter, Gianini dismisses the women and ascends the stairway to the piano. He asks me to get up, and he sits. He covers the keyboard with his big arm, covered in suit jacket. His gut is pouring out in its white shirted splendor, and his tie is just shy of the keyboard as he leans forward.
"Now, I'm going to play a few notes. I want you to sing them back to me."
He plays a major second.
"It's a major second," I say.
"No. Don't tell me what they are, just sing them."
"I'm not really a singer."
"That's OK. Do your best."
In a faltering voice I match the pitches as well as I can.
"Very good."
He plays another chord, lower on the keyboard. I warble, very uncertainly. There follows more chords, more uncertainty. At length, Gianini says,
"Now, can you name these pitches? Just name the notes? He plays two notes in succession.
"No, I don't have perfect pitch."
"OK, the bottom note's an F sharp. What's the top note?"
"Uh, an A natural." He plays a three note chord.
"A is on the bottom."
"A, C sharp, F. Or E sharp if you prefer." He gives me a dry chuckle, but immediately plays a cluster.
"C is on the bottom."
"C, D, E, F, G. I think. I don't really know, it's a cluster."
"OK. That's enough. We're done."
"Well, don't you want to hear my own piece? I'm auditioning as a composition major, after all..."
"No. It's OK. I've showed your materials to the composition staff. They'll look it over and we'll talk about it. Go on out and enjoy Boston. Watch out for the drunks. Very nice to meet you, Calbraith."
I hate the sound of my full name. I was named for an aviator. Dad's an aircraft mechanic. He never had the courage to fly.
"You can call me Cal."
"OK, Cal, good to meet you."
Down we go and out. Dad's waiting at the door.
"Well, did you get in?"
"We'll find out, I guess."
"I guess.
I had the impression I didn't make the cut. I should have worked up a piece I could have actually played. Those clusters he had me singing and naming...what was that about? It all seemed like a trick of some sort. The idea that he didn't want to hear me play my own work seemed like an indicator that he'd already made up his mind. I knew my teacher, who had been a former Dean, would give me a good recommendation. My teacher was a well-known homosexual wing nut whack job. Was that going to do the trick?
My letter of acceptance arrived in the mail about two weeks later.
