In the back of the hall, Hiro caresses his new fingernail, giving it suspicious glances in the dark. He needn’t worry, for Toby is an honourable man and used plenty of glue.
Like the others, Lucy has mailed a short list of repertoire to the judges and awaits their selection, not knowing what piece she’ll be asked to play next.
Nerve is nothing new to her. Try fishing a toddler out of a swollen river or marching into a hospital room to demand they not resuscitate your own father. Nerve is what you get by living a life.
An older judge rises to her feet and peers through spectacles at a sheet of paper. Visnya Brocovic achieved second place in this same competition during its inaugural year, and she returns every fall to help select the new generation. She examines the printout and says in a heavy Balkan accent, “We will hear the Briscoe, please.”
“The what?” Larry whispers from the back of the hall.
No one in the row of musician spectators has heard of a composer called Briscoe. Will Lucy get extra points for this departure from tradition?
Toby smiles tightly. He knows that Charles Briscoe taught Brocovic decades ago in Sarajevo and that Visnya, in turn, taught Goran, Lucy’s current teacher — a biblical order of transference. This is no coincidence. Lucy has done her research.
Turns out that Briscoe is hardly a crowd-pleaser. The first note rings as an harmonic and the sound decays into silence before the piece gets going, to be followed by a series of tone patterns overlaid with otherworldly key changes. Jasper would like this — dissonance excites him — but it’s a lousy choice for competition. Toby relaxes his fists until they fall open.
Jasper and the rest of the institute staff gather around the monitor. The city has flown in a noted epidemiologist from Calgary who stands outside Toronto General, surrounded by a squadron of reporters. Wind blows his hair across his face; he looks as if he packed quickly, wearing a scruffy shirt and windbreaker. It’s Bob Howell, the physician who firewalled Foothills Hospital with a series of screening procedures and protocols considered second to none.
Microphones bob while the doctor holds forth. “You know how this beast operates?”
A rhetorical question.
“A virus can’t do its business until it binds to a living cell,” he continues breezily. “The host cell is tricked, can’t sort out its own protein from the invader’s. The virus replicates thousands of times in less than an hour. While you ladies and gentlemen sip your morning coffee, a virus has already done a day’s work.”
Nervous laughter greets this observation.
Fifteen
“Manuel, dear friend and colleague, you have a soft heart,” Portia says, dropping an arm over the back of the leather couch.
Manuel Juerta stiffens, feeling himself shrink from the heavy limb behind his head. “I insist we consider promoting this woman to the finals.”
“We consider everyone.”
“It’s our job,” Jon Smyth adds.
Why does Manuel feel they’re ganging up on him? The judges have gathered in the faculty club lounge, a low-ceilinged room featuring leather furniture and walls of white pine. He feels as if he’s in a fishing lodge, not in the middle of a large urban university.
“Her performance was original and not ordinary,” Manuel says, hearing his voice rise.
“I agree,” Portia says, sliding a finger down to touch his shoulder.
“It was certainly both of those things,” Smyth concurs.
“Visnya, what do you think?” Manuel turns to the Croatian guitarist, her face, as always, set in a worried frown.
“An interesting case,” Visnya says, reaching for one of the digestive cookies on the tray. “In my opinion this performance had great vitality and originality, but it was the work of a gifted amateur.”
“A moderately gifted amateur,” Jon corrects, wielding one knobby knee over the other. He’s changed into a pair of cargo shorts and has been scarfing cookies since the group adjourned here half an hour ago. “What do we know about her?”
“She studies with Goran Petrovich, a student of mine in Yugoslavia before the war,” Visnya says.
“What does Goran say?”
“We haven’t spoken in years. He lives in Toronto. I live in Belgrade.”
Manuel interrupts this exchange. “What do we care about the viewpoint of her teacher? Are we not here to judge a particular performance?”
There is a short silence, then both Jon and Jean-Paul, who is head of the guitar department at this Montreal university, start to speak at once.
“We must determine who is most able to launch a solo career,” Jean-Paul insists. “I would have to agree with our British colleague that this woman is a moderately gifted amateur.”
Jon jumps to his feet, spilling crumbs onto the floor. “I can’t believe we’re even considering promoting this woman to the finals!”
“Settle down,” Portia warns. Then, in demonstration of her conciliatory powers, she turns to Manuel. “Tell us more what you are thinking.”
What is he thinking? Manuel hardly knows. Perhaps Mrs. Lucy Shaker is exactly what they say, no more, no less. He heard how she played, saw how she caressed the instrument in her arms, an intense, hunched figure whose hands shook, yet he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. After so many years of judging countless musicians, how many times has he felt compelled to listen to every note?
“I suspect it’s the narrative possibilities that appeal to our friend,” Portia says. “What a marvellous gesture to lift this woman from her regular life. We all want to be given a second chance — God knows I wouldn’t mind a crack — but is it realistic?”
They turn to Manuel and wait for his reaction, for he is the most eminent musician in the room.
Of course, he feels compelled to defend his choice rationally. “Her rendition of the Krehm was the most coherent and passionate of any competitor.”
“I grant you that,” Jon says, “but we must speak of the rest of her program.”
Manuel starts to list sideways on the couch. He’s exhausted after another sleepless night, not helped by someone pulling the fire alarm at 3:00 a.m. The truth is that he can’t remember much of the rest of Mrs. Shaker’s performance. His own scribbled notes reveal unspectacular scores, a fact that he shields from the others, but knows he must eventually share.
“What Manuel means to say,” Jon ventures, “is that we must realize this musician has achieved a personal triumph.”
“Well put,” Portia says. “Alas, we have no form of adjudication to reward such an achievement. Of course, I intend to take her aside and congratulate her.”
A note of relief enters the room — sanity has returned to the judging process. Only Manuel remains silent. His
