Theo of Golden: A Novel by Allen Levi - 52

With springtime, the sound of birdsong returned to Broadway, as did a chorus of other familiar noises: chatter at the sidewalk tables, children’s laughter, outdoor music, lawnmowers and trimming tools.

Longer, warmer days allowed students from the university, many of them dress-rehearsing for upcoming year-end performances, to set up in the school’s outdoor courtyards and play selections for anyone willing to listen. In addition to street sounds and buskers and car stereos, one heard fragments of bassoon, viola, or clarinet. If a musician could survive there, the rationale seemed to go, it would be easy to perform in a beautiful, acoustically perfect, quiet room with attentive listeners.

Hearing the odd mixture of sound one afternoon, Theo imagined a Philip Glass-esque composition of “Duet for French Horn and Leaf Blower.” There had been odder pieces, after all.

It was the season of recitals at the college.

Most evenings, some student seeking “partial fulfillment of the requirements for the Bachelor of Arts in Music Performance” paced nervously backstage, awaiting their moment in the spotlight. Months of study, hundreds of hours of rehearsal, and moment after moment of sometimes torturous isolation, all came down to this — the recital. In the span of a mere hour, give or take a bit, it would be over. An ocean in a thimble.

Student recitals were held in Bettye Hall, a small, opulent venue that dignified every performance by the sheer power of its elegance. A student who took center stage there could boast ever after that he or she had been somewhere truly special.

For audience members disinterested in music — keep in mind, many came to recitals purely out of obligation — the beauty of the hall itself was reason enough to be there.

The focal point of the room was an Opus 60, LeTourneau organ — a musical and visual work of art, fifty-eight tubes of tin-and-lead alloy, the smallest a mere twelve inches high, the largest thirty-two feet. It was positioned at the back of the stage and hovered ten feet above the floor, overlooking performers like a guardian angel. Everything about its shining presence suggested royalty, significance, order, and airiness.

The room held 250 cushioned seats, all close to the stage, on two levels. A balcony wrapped like a half moon around the upstairs, and a high ceiling provided ample space for the movement of sound and silence. Above the stage and the house, twenty-six large retractable lamps, in a motif of pine cones, floated like hot-air balloons and dispersed dimmable light through the room.

Music majors referred to the room as “the Bet.” “New York’s got the Met. We’ve got the Bet.”

On a Tuesday night in that very room and on that very stage, Simone and his cello would perform “in partial fulfillment of requirements for the Master’s Level Artist Diploma in Cello Performance.”

He spent the day doing a final run-through of the pieces on his program, took a short walk with Professor Gobelli, ate a light meal, and then changed into his concert clothes in a backstage dressing room.

At that point in his young career, Simone was comfortable in front of audiences and felt only a mild energizing nervousness as he anticipated the recital. He had worked doggedly to be ready for that night. And not just ready but thoroughly so, to honor the composers and the songs he had chosen for his program. By the time of his performance, he was a finely tuned combination of discipline, passion, fine motor skills, and muscle memory.

If Simone did happen to feel a tinge of stage fright before his recital, it derived from two sources: First, from knowing that his friends and acquaintances up and down Broadway — Theo, Tony, Shep, and others —would be in attendance. Word had gotten out, and, at least for that one evening, Simone would be the pride of the Promenade. Second, from knowing that the performance was to be filmed for his family and close friends in Seattle. In lieu of their attendance, a camera would be set up to live stream and record the evening. This meant, of course, that any and all of his mistakes or imperfections would be permanently preserved, like an insect in amber.

Simone did not doubt his ability to perform the selections on his program with excellence, but for the sake of his friends, he wanted the evening to be enjoyable rather than merely obligatory, and he hoped they would leave the concert glad for attending rather than relieved at departing.

Finally, recital hour arrived.