The Flautist. Part Seven

A girl entered backstage.

"We're ready to go."

Kate took her guitar, checked the tuning and stood by the door, waiting. Michelle took her flute, played a few runs, adjusted the tuning, played a scale and nodded. They were ready.

The audience began to clap casually as the girl entered, but soon the applause became warmer as some members noticed Kate's long legs, a bit of cleavage and Michelle's beautiful dress. Michelle felt like Yuja Wang and hated it. They were here for the music. Only the music mattered. Now they were not only going to play the repertoire, they were going to fight for recognition as musicians. As human beings. 

They talked about it. Kate quoted Johann Nepomuk Hummel, who refused to play with Maria Szymanowska, a celebrated pianist famous for her beauty. She won everyone over with her playing, including Goethe, whose last years were sweetened by his platonic affection for her. But Hummel did not agree to conduct the orchestra for her, saying "I would not be able to concentrate because I would only be looking at those beautiful arms". What did Maria do? No one really knows, but Hummel became her admirer, protector, friend and concert partner. And, as far as we know, just this. No one ever suspected an affair. Her bare arms were just that, an aesthetic object to be admired from afar, as was customary for women of the time. Soon she was considered the best pianist in Europe. Not Pianistin, as the Germans would put it. A pianist. 

Still, there was something deeply wrong with the change in the warmth of the applause as Catherine walked to her chair. 

Kate checked the tuning, played a note for Michelle, who in turn checked her flute. She nodded. 

Michelle inhaled a full lung of air, cued the tempo, and began the world's most famous tune. Greensleeves. The song of a love that could not bear fruit. The lovers were too distant, too fleeting. Only the sight of green sleeves in the distance . . . that was all the poor lover could count on. 

The variations followed. The flute one was brilliant, then there was the variation for guitar. 

"Now you are showing off," Michelle said once. Kate did not appreciate that. For her it was music, just music, she cared about every note, giving meaning to the melody while playing terribly fast notes underneath. For her, the flute accompaniment was as important as ever. Showing off? Showing off?

There was a wicked smile on Kate's face. Showing off, ha!, I will teach you what it is. She played her variation a little faster than usual, quite sure that Michelle would be able to follow her easily. The raven-haired girl looked at the blonde and they smiled at each other. They were in perfect harmony. 

They loved these variations. The audience knew the tune and the piece was well written. Always a great opener and this time was no different. A quick tuning check and the Handel Sonata in E minor began. That slow, soothing melody in the flute, that walking bass, as if everything was in place, everything . . . 

Michelle turned her head to Kate to see if she was ready and played the subject of the fugue. Kate came in with the answer. Everything was going well. The Fugue, always the highlight of the programme, a perfect display of their combined skills as a duo. Then . . . 

There was a pause for Kate while the flute was restating the theme. The guitar entered. Kate felt a shiver run down her spine. Her forehead was sweating, she panicked. What was going on? Had she miscounted her pause? 

She looked at her partner helplessly. Michelle's eyes were round and begged Kate to "DO SOMETHING!!!" as she continued to play the most cacophonous music that Handel...could not possibly have written. But there was only one commandment for the musicians: Thou shalt not stop. No matter what. 

Kate looked down at the score in front of her. She checked her fingers on the fingerboard with the corner of her eye. She was in time, with all the right notes. WHAT WAS GOING ON?

Then she got it.

There was another similar moment two staves later, but with a different continuation. Michelle skipped those two lines. She knew the music by heart, but when she had a reassuring glance at the score, she had got it wrong and the notes, those trusty little dots on the paper, had led her straight into every musician's nightmare. Without thinking, Kate skipped two staves and played the next chord from there. It could not have been worse, but at least the music clicked back into place and harmony was restored. They finished the fugue perfectly, as usual. 

The next movement could not be sadder, could not be deeper and more personal. The song of despair, tonight it was their song. Then the menuet with that phrase near the end. The fallen angel, the trapped butterfly. That one.  

The music was over. The girls froze, their instruments in their hands. The echoes saturated the souls of the audience. The silence was tense. 

Then someone began to clap. Another joined in and the applause exploded. The girls bowed. Kate and Michelle did their best to smile casually and thank the audience for the warm response. Like those flight attendants, Kate thought. Thanks for coming. 

But there was still Giuliani ahead. The famous guitarist who wrote some of the finest compositions for guitar. The guitar part was . . . hygienic. It was comfortable. Still very demanding. What about the flute? The part was originally written for violin, with flute as an option. Was it as comfortable as the guitar part? Michelle never said a word about it, as her abilities seemed endless.

All four movements went well. The finale did the job. The audience cried out for an encore. Instead of the usual Faure, Michelle announced the re-playing of Handel's fugue. Kate shook her head in disgust. Michelle was annoyed. Why is that little blonde always so negative? We play the damn fugue and that is it. 

"Play it again, Sam." 

Kate looked up in surprise. She met her friend's sparkly eyes. Kate forgot for a moment that the secret name her friend was calling her was cleverly hidden in the misquote from "Casablanca". Sitting in the centre of the stage, bathed in light, she felt exposed, naked and insecure. 

"Oh, I don't think . . ." 

"If they could stand it," Michelle nodded to the audience, "I can too. Play it."

"Yes, Nick," Kate said, addressing Michelle by her secret name. 

"It's Rick," a nerd in the audience corrected and everyone laughed. Kate flipped back a few pages and landed on the fuge. The very one they had failed so miserably on during this very recital. Michelle picked up her instrument, took a deep breath and started to play the subject. 

"Not too fast, not too fast," Kate prayed. She closed her eyes. Their usual tempo was fast as hell, but with no rush - just the vivid music of the baroque genius. But this encore was even quicker than that. Kate smiled and came in with the answer. They nailed every single note. It was pure perfection, as it should be the first time... The girls were finally able to pay homage and respect to the composer. Alas, it was too late. Despite the thunderous ovation from the audience, the girls were devastated by their failure in the middle of the programme. 

And they had planned such a nice evening afterwards. They were going to relax and have a good time together. Bowing and smiling, the girls knew that the mood for the evening had been spoiled by this one failed entry . . .