pricey work.
“What about you?” Toby remembers to ask.
“Ditto.”
He stares at her. “Ditto you made it?”
She shrugs. “I thought it would be way harder.”
The crowd begins to thin as the lucky ones head for the exit to practise like demons for round two while everyone else makes for the pub to drown their disappointment in beer.
“Fifty-three people tanked,” Trace proclaims in awe.
Toby cringes: does she have no pity for the poor devils slinking off? Many will roll back to the dorm at two or three in the morning, making plenty of racket — a tiny but satisfying revenge on the successful. He inhales the whole sweeping drama, and only when the foyer is nearly clear does he walk over and read his name in bold type. It’s like breathing snow, and he feels the back of his throat tingle.
“And now you must go fishing.”
Toby spins to face Manuel Juerta, who stands before him holding his upturned Panama hat full of bits of folded paper. Juerta gives the hat a shake, and Toby plucks a number. He’s never seen the task done in such an improvisatory way. The draw will determine playing order for round two.
Unfolding the bit of paper, Toby makes a face. “One,” he reads aloud.
Juerta makes a cooing noise, possibly sympathetic.
So he will play first. He’s barely finished the opening round and now he must dash back to the dorm to prepare for the second program, a different set of pieces. In fourteen hours he’ll be onstage again. It’s all happening so fast. After years of waiting, it’s full steam ahead.
Trace steals up, sandwich in hand, and Juerta jiggles the hat near her nose. “Determine your fate, young lady.”
She dips her greasy fingers into the hat, lifts a chit and unfolds it. Six. “Is this good?” she asks.
“Ideal,” Toby reassures her. “Centre of the pack.” He watches her face soften.
“A guy your age must be pretty relaxed about all this,” she says.
A guy my age, thinks Toby, can go days without sleep when necessary, can live off hardtack and water, can bathe his sorry fingers in saline solution.
Back in the dorm he plunges into a run-through of the new program before supper, setting the alarm to remind himself to eat.
Later, Toby joins the thinned-out crowd in the cafeteria for supper, selecting a protein-rich soup with no drowsy-making carbs. When he sets his tray down at the communal table, everyone applauds. It’s a nice moment.
Armand hasn’t made the cut. “They do not like my style — too romantic,” he says, sighing. “Also, maybe I have a small problem with the repeat.” He’s donned a Greek fisherman’s cap and looks pale.
“What was your free choice?” Toby asks.
“Third cello suite, first two movements.”
Bach is dicey, especially the cello suites. Every student plays them, and there are so many transcriptions, all contentious.
“I was sure I would convince them with my interpretation,” Armand says, but he sounds discouraged.
The statement cranks everyone into an animated discussion of different versions of the suites. Do you listen to cellists? If so, which bowings do you prefer? No one wants to deal directly with Armand’s disappointment. He is thirty-five years old and has never made it to a competition final. Does he have a family back home? No point in checking for a wedding ring, for his fingers are bare. Think of swimmers with shaved heads, no extra weight, no drag.
“Bach is supreme king!” Hiro cries and everyone agrees with this indisputable fact. Having made the cut, Hiro is regarded with new interest.
It turns out that Javier has also made the cut. He’s the silent Argentine who sits at the end of the cluster of tables. Since day one, he’s held himself apart from competition fever and gossip. And there have been rumours about another guy, possibly from Winnipeg, who hides in his room, practising and sleeping, only stealing out after dark for food.
Texas Larry bites down on a vegetable burger, glancing neither to the left nor the right. Was his name posted? Toby can’t remember.
“I still can’t believe it.” Lucy pulls her chair next to Toby’s, and he gets a whiff of tea-rose fragrance.
“Believe what?” he obliges.
“I’m so amazed and honoured.” She touches his wrist. “Am I shaking? Have I entered a state of delusion? If so, please give me a sharp kick. I need to know.”
Her head tilts against his shoulder, and he feels the heat of her, the pulsing flank of a small, nervous dog.
“You made the semis?” he asks.
She seems hurt: he should know this. “Unless there was a typo.”
Armand reaches into his pocket and removes a pewter flask. “Next I will enter the Barcelona competition,” he advises the group. “World-class judges, huge audience, such aficionados you can’t believe.” He drinks quickly and wipes his lips. “If you make it in Barcelona, you establish an instant career. You know Stanley Blake?”
Everyone nods. Of course, they know Stanley, or rather, they know of him.
“Barcelona, grand prize, 2003.” Armand smiles, point proven, and takes another pull of whisky.
“Larry ran aground,” Lucy whispers in Toby’s ear.
Toby swings to face her. “What happened?”
“He was playing during some breakdown with the ventilation system, and Smyth actually jumped up in the middle of the Loesser first movement to fiddle with the thermostat. So Larry stopped playing, thinking he was meant to — and they wouldn’t let him start over.”
Toby glances at the Texan, who is peeling the label of a bottle of mineral water.
“Remember the year Christophe Poulin walked off with the Miami prize?” Armand is getting excited. “In 2001 I was in exactly the same competition.”
“Who’s Poulin?” Hiro asks. He sits on the edge of his seat, wearing a flaming orange singlet.
“Nobody! The guy played like shit, but his teacher was related to one of the judges, ja?”
Toby nods. He is perhaps the only one here who remembers the scandal.
“At the gala the jury didn’t arrive for two hours,” Armand goes on, becoming even more animated. “Because they were hauled on the rug by the organizers for total incompetence. Everyone knew the best players didn’t make it past round two.”
Hiro scrambles to his feet and excuses himself. “I run,” he says, and escapes into the night, trotting into the crowded sidewalks in his shorts and singlet.
The institute
