minute before they capsize into silence.
“Thank you, Mr. Hausner,” Juerta says, not waiting until the performer lifts his wrists.
And so the Sarabande.
Fall back into time — eighteenth-century Germany. Toby unrolls the Baroque embellishments without going overboard. He’s the master of tasteful mordents and trills, poring over original lute manuscripts, tracking down the composer’s intention. He can’t help the expressions that cross his face: a tightening of the brow, a wince. He is fully exposed, that tenderness twinned with complete control of tone and tempo. So many artists rush the stately dance, not trusting the guitar’s meagre ability to sustain sound, but Toby pulls it off, in part by tricking the audience through body language. His hand hovers over the strings to contain the notes, even as their sound fades. The memory of sound completes the phrase.
The instant his hand plucks the final note, Juerta says, “That will do, Mr. Hausner. Please pick up your things as quickly as possible. We’re running late.”
“Names of successful participants will be posted this evening,” Smyth adds.
Not a word of encouragement or appreciation. Have they any idea what it costs a man like Toby just to step into this room?
Jasper slips out of his good jacket and hangs it in the closet before placing the bag of takeout pad Thai on the kitchen counter. He eats slowly, taking care to thoroughly chew each mouthful. Like all restaurant food, it’s over-salted. With his free hand he punches Toby’s number. He feels oddly calm. Today the executive of the board demanded a blow-by-blow catalogue of Luke’s misdeeds since he began his tenure as president. Jasper fished through agenda books and emails to organize them thematically, then made multiple copies of the finished document, plus another on disk, just to be sure. Rachel escaped early, creeped out by his vengeful enthusiasm.
Toby picks up on the fourth ring.
“So?” Jasper asks, mouth full.
“I’m in.”
“They’ve posted the names?”
“I’m in,” Toby repeats.
“Congratulations,” Jasper says carefully.
“To be confirmed tonight,” Toby allows.
Where does this surge of confidence come from? Jasper wonders. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed. “I dropped by Lakeview to see Klaus.”
“You didn’t tell him about the competition?” Toby sounds unnerved.
“I did not. He’s looking awfully thin.”
“Of course, he looks thin. He is thin.”
“You see what you want to see.”
This irritates Toby. “Klaus is getting old.”
“Gaunt, that’s the only word for it,” Jasper says. “Maybe he doesn’t like the food at Lakeview.”
“What’s wrong with the food?”
“Your father has changed, Toby.” Sometimes the obvious has to be pointed out.
The kettle, plugged in at the beginning of this conversation, begins to whistle. Crooking the phone against his ear, Jasper pours boiling water over a green tea bag. The smell of it soothes, and he’s transported inside a haiku.
“He kept looking over his shoulder,” Jasper says, “as if he expected some other visitor.”
Toby seems to relax. “That’s it then, one of the old girls. They love him there, one of few men with all his marbles.”
Frankly, Jasper felt hurt, seeing as he’d made the effort to travel across the city in the rain.
Toby starts to work up a thesis. “The place is full of Mama’s presence, which is why he moved in.”
“He’s holding something back,” Jasper says, taking a slurp of tea. “One senses it in his furtive manner.”
They could spend hours discussing Klaus’s peculiarities.
A monsoon of arpeggios issues from Hiro’s room across the hall.
“Gotta go,” Toby says.
“Wait.” Jasper lifts off his chair, then says, “I love you, dear boy.” He stares at the kitchen chair where Toby normally sits.
Toby waits a beat then says, “I know.”
The conversation, such as it is, grinds to a halt.
“Manuel, amigo, we must talk.”
It’s Portia Vanstone, just flown in from Berkeley, California, to take her seat among the judges. She sweeps past the final contestant now scuttling out of the cramped studio and pounces on Manuel. Literally. She spreads her batwings, garbed in an array of shawls, and touches his shoulders with her fingertips.
“I have thirst,” he says, pointing to his mouth. During the last rendition of the Fandanguillo, he nearly expired from dehydration.
She follows as he hastens toward the drinking fountain in the corridor of the Fine Arts Building. Pressing the chrome lever, he watches the water gush in a satisfying arc — so quickly does one become accustomed to responsive plumbing. Portia taps her hip impatiently as he takes long, soothing drafts.
“Where can we talk?” Her tone is urgent.
“Now?” Manuel sighs. “I am fatigued and hungry.”
The other judge, an English kid named Smyth whom Manuel once taught in master class and now sits pretty on a college job in the United States, dashed out of the room ten minutes ago, suggesting they meet in the pub across the street.
“I can fix hungry.” Portia sinks a hand into her cloth bag and draws out an apple, which she holds out to Manuel, waving it in front of his mouth, as if he were a dog.
He takes the fruit and rolls it against his throbbing temple.
“There’s much to discuss,” Portia says. She grabs his elbow, then leads him in a trot down the hall.
“Where are we going?”
“Outside.”
Thank God. What he craves is air untouched by anxious music.
She propels him down the labyrinth of hallways to a door that warns, in French, that it must be opened only in the case of fire. Without hesitation she pushes it open, and the musicians step outside onto a spongy carpet of moss. They’ve entered a tiny precious green spot, flanked on three sides by institutional buildings. Someone has planted herbs in a clay pot and dragged out a pair of plastic garden chairs. Portia lets go of his arm and rustles in that oversized bag until she finds her cigarettes. She holds out the pack, and Manuel shakes his head, tempted as he is, for he means to quit for good.
“Promising crop?” she asks in that distinctive raspy voice.
Manuel
