The soloist Read online

  After dinner in Santa Barbara I watched a movie, then took a short walk along the beach on my way back to the hotel. It was chilly but calm by the water. The gibbous moon, low in the western sky, cast a perfect column of reflected light on the ocean from the horizon to my feet. I was lost in thought until a rogue wave, with a heroic dying effort, made it farther up the beach than any of its predecessors and soaked my shoes.

  Back in the room I found a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket waiting for me. An attached card said, ''Happy Birthday to our dearest Reinhart, love Mother and Dad." The first time I played at Carnegie Hall, when I was fifteen, the conductor let me have a sip of champagne that night at dinner. It was Moet et Chandon, and my mother never forgot that I liked it. Every year she makes sure I get a bottle for my birthday. I had told them I would be at the bed-and-breakfast place over the weekend, but I didn't think she'd go

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  to the trouble of having a bottle sent to my room. I should have known better, I suppose.

  I wasn't really in the mood for champagne, but I couldn't very well leave it sitting there overnight. It would have been depressing to wake up the next morning and pack, all the time having to stare at the unopened bottle floating in its bucket of water. I drank as much of it as I could, opened one of the windows and tried to listen to the ocean. But I couldn't keep my attention on the sound for long. I kept thinking how much I wished I could quit my teaching job without having to worry about money. In a way it was odd that I was so determined to give concerts again, because a lot of active performers would have envied my life now; I didn't have to travel, struggle to maintain a grueling repertoire, deal with booking agents or publicists, or sweat out reviews. I taught three days a week and could have played the cello all day long on the other four for my own enjoyment if I liked. Unfortunately, playing onstage for an audience was the only kind of enjoyment I wanted.

  I longed to concertize again—I'd longed for it every single day of the sixteen years since I'd had to stop—and occasionally I thought I was ready to try, but at the same time I was terrified of repeating what had happened at my last concert. It was at a tiny recital hall in Chicago, where I was scheduled to play three of the Bach unaccompanied suites. I hit the first chord of the fifiJi suite, in C minor, but it sounded so out of tune that, fiarious with myself, I stopped and started again. The second time was even worse, so I checked the tuning of the instrument and started again, only to stop a third time. The audience became restless and started murmuring, and then I realized what I had done. Who in the history of professional music had started a piece three times.^ No one

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  that rd heard of; it was an almost unthinkable failure. I managed to stay composed long enough to put my cello down on the stage. My hands and knees shook terribly as I bent down to place the bow across the cello. I walked across the stage, got through the stage door and then felt myself slowly shatter into a million pieces.

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  After I returned to Lx)s Angeles I called home to thank my parents for the champagne. My father answered, catching me by surprise because my mother almost always answered the phone. My father didn't like speaking when he couldn't see whom he was talking to; it made him fidgety, he said, and it was true. Whenever I saw him having to talk on the phone he would pace, play with the cord or doodle on the backs of envelopes. The phone was in the kitchen, and my mother, who was fanatically conscientious, always stacked the bills on the kitchen table so that she would be forced to take care of them immediately. This led to another reason why my father didn't like talking on the phone: my mother would get unreasonably angry and scold him because marking up the envelopes made her nervous— she felt you must never scribble on official papers. Maybe it had something to do with getting out of Germany as a young woman, when documents were all-important. Some of this must have rubbed off on me, because to this day I have to photocopy all my music and pencil in my notes on the copies. I have never been able to bring myself to write on a published sheet of music or in a book.

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  "Hello, Dad. It's Reinhart."

  "Ah . . . happy birthday."

  "Thank you. How are you, Dad.>"

  "Ach, same tings. You?"

  "Fine. The semester's over. It was quiet this year."

  "Good, good . . . Momma's upstairs. Hold on."

  My mother got on and immediately apologized for not being closer to the phone when I called. "But your father, he's stripping the wax in the kitchen, and the smell! I don't even know why he's doing it; the floor was fine before. You got your champagne.> Those people—^they acted like they were doing me such a big favor, but that's what they're in business for. You don't know what they wanted to charge me for—"

  "It worked out fine. Mother. It was in my room when I came back firom taking a walk by the ocean. It was perfect; thank you so much."

  "You think I'm gonna forget my only boy's birthday? Imagine, thirty-four years already! It seems just a few days ago we were traveling around so much, yes?"

  "Yes, it—"

  "Remember London that time it snowed? And that cab-driver who says we never make it to the hall on time? You were so cute, Renne, with that little black hat and the coat on! You were just like a little old man. Here I was, I was going to kill that driver, and you were so quiet! And you were the one giving the concert, yeah?"

  "Yes, I remember that."

  "And how were the students at the end of the year? Good ones this time?"

  "No, not this year."

  "Ah, Renne . . . you remember Mrs. Sprenkle, yes? She

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  sent us an invitation this year. All her students had a recital, but you know your father, he wouldn't go. Last week I had them over for dinner and your father wouldn't say a word the whole night. He can't stand them. . . . Ach! Did you hear what he just said.>"

  "No."

  "He says he can't stand anybody! You see? He never wants to have any fun."

  "He's always been quiet. Mother."

  "Reinhart! He's not a quiet man, he's just acting old, that's what. What's he gonna do when he's really old, huh.>"

  She told me what she had cooked that night, what Mrs. Sprenkle said about the Finkelsteins' daughter, who is supposed to be showing a lot of talent with the piano, and how Rabbi Siegel asked all about me when she bumped into him in town. He still remembered how, when I was only four years old, I was able to hear the chants only once and then sing them from memory.

  As always, as soon as she mentioned my childhood her voice became almost reverential. "So, Reinhart," she asked, and I could have finished the sentence for her, "how is your music.> You practicing hard still.> Practicing too hard, I think, yes.>"

  "There isn't much to tell you. Mother. It's about the same."

  There was a pause at the other end, then a sigh. "Ach, Renne . . . you work so hard. I just know God must be testing you. You working so hard like that, believe me, it will change for you. I know it will! God tests us to make us stronger, Renne. Maybe you should take a vacation, hrni Maybe someplace warm, or back to Europe somewhere.^"

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  "We'll see. Mother, did you find out about Dad's pension plan yet?"

  ''Ah, you know your father, ever>^ day Fm asking him, every day he's putting it off. He's afraid to ask. Don't worry about that, Renne. What we care about is, are you happy? That's what matters most, Renne. When you have kids, you'll know. Believe me."

  I was aft-aid that she might start asking if I was dating anyone, so I told her I had to hurr' out for a dinner engagement, thanked her again for the champagne and tried to sign off.

  "Wait a minute, Renne, I want to check . . . did you get your plane tickets yet?"

  "Mother! It's only May! There's still half a year left, I have plent>' of time."

  "You don't know with these airlines, Renne! Things get craz' before you know it, and remember what happened to us in San Francisco. You don't want something like that to happen for Yom Kippur, do you? You haven't been here
in three years, Reinhart. Is it asking too much that you get your tickets early so I can—"

  "AH right. Mother, all right. I'll make the reservation this week."

  "Don't forget, Renne. That's all your father and I look forward to these days. We haven't seen you in so long. ..."

  "I promise—this week."

  "We miss you, Renne. Happy birthday! Don't work too hard. You were always so serious, you should tr)' to enjoy yourself more, yeah?"

  "Thank you, Mother, I—"

  "So did you enjoy yourself up in Santa Barbara? At that nice place? I wish I could go there again."

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  "Why don't you. Mother? You and Dad could come out to visit for a week. And get out of the humidity."

  "Are you kidding.^ Your father's going to retire soon—we have to start saving now. We've already waited too long. But you're so young, you should be doing that every weekend! Renne—"

  "Mother, I have to get to dinner. Thanks again for the champagne. It was very sweet of you."

  "We think about you all the time, Renne. Happy birthday—I know this year it's going to happen for you. I just know it."

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  gjS!Jf"j That Sunday afternoon the Kims showed up twenty minutes before their appointment, and sat out in their car, a filthy station wagon camouflaged with rust and primer, until exactly five o'clock. Since I wasn't busy I thought about going out and inviting them in early, but decided not to; if they were the sort of people who took pride in such matters, I didn't want to spoil their gesture of arriving precisely on time. My university students sometimes show up for lessons ten minutes late without any apology at all, or arrive early and ask to use my phone.

  At last the family got out of the car and hurried up the sidewalk to the apartment. They rang the doorbell, and, after a pause of two or three seconds, rang again. Clearly they were anxious for me to hear their little boy. When I opened the door, Mr. and Mrs. Kim stood with their tiny son in front of them. An older sister, who looked twelve or thirteen, stood a few feet behind them all and stared at her shoes. Mrs. Kim poked her son sharply, and he said, without a trace of emotion in his face or voice, ''Hello."

  He had his thin arms wrapped around the neck of his cello case. Even the quarter-size cello was as tall as he was. He

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  wore a brand-new suit and tie, but his shoes were badly scuffed. He appeared sorely in need of good food, fresh air and some exercise; he looked terribly small, even for a nine-year-old. He had a pitifrilly uneven haircut, and wore a pair of unattractive glasses that did not quite sit level on his face. One didn't have to strain to imagine the sort of teasing a child like this must receive from his classmates. He didn't look at me, but instead focused his eyes on a point a few yards behind me, at about the level of my knees.

  Mr. Kim looked apologetic for intruding on my schedule. He wrung his hands in front of him and bowed his head several times. I extended my hand to shake his, and he seemed momentarily surprised, or perhaps embarrassed. When he did shake my hand, his palm felt as if it were made of wood. Both his hands were heavily callused. While he cut a trim, athletic figure and had handsome, masculine features, Mrs. Kim's appearance made a less positive impression. She had a thick body and a round, bland face. Her eyes were tiny slits above her cheeks, and she trained them on me as if I, not her son, were the one being auditioned. She clutched her purse in front of her with hands that were also badly weathered. Meanwhile, Kyung-hee's sister hung back and made no attempt to draw attention to herself

  I invited them all in and led them to the studio, where I had set up the smallest chair I could find next to the piano. Even that was too high for the boy, however. When he sat in it his feet dangled helplessly toward the floor. When I said I would try to find something more suitable, his sister said in an unpleasant monotone, "He doesn't care what kind of chair."

  Kyung-hee took out the quarter-size cello and the little

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  bow, tightened the hairs, then shyly held the cello out toward me.

  "His hands aren't strong enough to tune it," his sister declared—with some satisfaction, I noticed—but Kyung-hee showed no signs of embarrassment.

  The tuning pegs were so poorly fitted that the cello was in fact almost impossible to tune. When I handed it back, he managed to avoid making any eye contact with me. I sat down and waited, but he just stared at the floor with his mouth slightly open. His appearance was so pathetic that I actually felt irritated looking at him. I was angry at his parents for giving him such an execrable haircut, and I was angry at him for not making the slightest effort to treat the occasion with some dignity. I couldn't wait to get him out of my house.

  At last his mother said something to him in Korean, and without any sort of mental or physical preparation that I could detect he raised his bow and started sawing awkwardly at the first notes of a transcribed Mozart sonata.

  The first few^ notes only confirmed my suspicions. He played the cheerfiil little piece without any signs of cheer at all—just what you might expect fi-om a child with quick fingers but a deaf musical ear. Why the cello? Why me? That was w^hat I was thinking when an extraordinary thing happened. Suddenly the music seemed to hit him from behind, fi-om outside him rather than from his own body. By the tenth or fifiieenth bar of music, even on that dreadful cello he played with such authority that I had to close my eyes; I couldn't bear to desecrate the music with the sight of that expressionless little boy.

  Most of the child prodigies you read about in the paper or

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  see onstage are gifted mimics rather than artists, and the ability to imitate wears thin pretty quickly. A true prodigy— someone in whom the emotions of music actually resonate and find expression at a very young age—is rare. Many people think it is an impossibility. They assume that with so little life experience, no child could possibly comprehend the complex emotions of a piece of real music. When they hear about a Yehudi Menuhin or a Mozart they assume it must be a trick, a subtle deception of some kind. Nevertheless I know fi*om my own experience that the emotions in music are musical emotions, and develop according to their own rules of chemistry and experience. They resemble and can strongly evoke the emotions we associate with profound life experiences, like sexual love or the death of a parent, but you don't need to have those experiences to ''feel" music properly.

  I could tell immediately and beyond any doubt that this boy felt the music. His interpretation was simply too fresh, too original to be explained by imitation. It had to come from some inner source, even though I had the impression that the music came from all around him.

  When he finished the piece, he immediately fell limp again. His shoulders drooped and his mouth hung open again. I glanced at his parents to see their reaction to all of this. Mr. Kim was looking at me with a worried expression; he seemed unsure about how to judge his son's talent. Mrs. Kim, not wanting to take any chances, said something to Kyung-hee in Korean and the boy started a new piece.

  The same thing happened as before: he began dreadfiilly— it was another light piece, the sort favored by elementary-school instrument teachers—but within a few bars managed to connect with whatever source he had drawn upon before, and positively soared. Mr. Douglas was wrong, of course; the

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  boy was no Rostropoitch yet. He needed to learn technique from a real cellist, and simply had to undo whatever it was that made him look and play like an imbecile at the beginning of his pieces. There was plent}' of room for exploration and growth, but it was obious that the boy possessed a talent of incredible proportions.

  Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked him if he had ever played any Bach. WTien he shook his head, I played Pierre Foumier's recording of the Bach unaccompanied cello suite in D minor on the stereo for him. I wondered how he would react to profound music, as opposed to the pieces Mr. Douglas had been teaching him.

  When it ended I looked closely at Kaing-hee to see his reaction. His eyes were as round as saucers. I
found a clean edition of the piece, set it up on a stand for him and asked him to tr^ to sight-read it. The result was awesome. Some of the passages were technically beyond him, but without missing a beat he improvised solutions that were remarkably successfril. When confronted with triple stops that he could not reach, he followed the melody, choosing the key note rather than the harmony. It was a spectacle that any musician would have cherished; he was getting his first taste of Bach, and it was transforming him right in front of my eyes!

  I had strangely mixed feelings. When he finished I said that hearing him play had been an unforgettable and delightful experience. I know that when I was his age I would have been overcome with joy if my teacher had talked to me like that, instead of his usual habit, which was to pat me on the head or bow stiffly in my direction, but Kvoing-hee's face registered neither pleasure nor embarrassment.

  I didn't know what to do. I had planned, if he was indeed talented, to give his parents Laura Kantor's number, but I

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  couldn't do it. After an awkward silence I turned to the Kims and heard myself say, almost as if in a dream, that I would be happy to teach Kyung-hee, and that I would charge them fifteen dollars for each lesson. I did not say that my usual fee for private lessons started at one hundred dollars. Mr. Kim said something, and then he and his wife had a lively discussion in Korean; from their gestures and so forth I got the impression that Mr. Kim thought fifteen dollars was way too much to spend on music, while Mrs. Kim seemed to be telling him he was being unreasonable.