My Maestro

The New City Orchestra (NCO) – the words had a nice ring but meant nothing.  It was exciting that a new Orchestra was being formed in town, but with no information, it will either be a great opportunity or a colossal waste of time.  It was announced that the world-renowned conductor Maestro Samuel Genesis would be presiding.  I could find no one who recognized the name.  Still, I was young and desperate to make a name for myself as an emerging violinist, so I auditioned.  Maestro did not attend the auditions but his personal assistant Jacob was a full participant on the panel.  He was excited to tell us that our funding was coming from the National Science Foundation.  Peculiar indeed.  I made the short list, was called back twice, and was selected as a second chair violinist. 

‘Life is good’, a sticker on my violin case declared.

With two day's notice a practice schedule was announced with a list of orchestra members.  We would first be working on Gustav Hoist’s seven movement orchestral suite THE PLANETS.  An interesting list of Maestro quirks verbally circulated through the membership. A timpani player filled me in, suggesting I pass the word along. 

“We all need to be aware that the Maestro is painfully introverted,” he explained.  “If you want to stay, don’t try to interact with him.  Also, he hates tardiness and is always the first to arrive, the last to leave.” 

These were all traits that I related to, understood, and admired.  The last detail was that any and all communications would pass through assistant Jacob. I shared the facts with two viola players I knew.

I arrived 45 minutes early on Day One and quietly seated myself.  The practice stage was empty except for Maestro, who slowly paged through the score.  He looked ready to go, behind his podium center stage, standing on a small round stage/platform that gave him a good view of every chair.  I felt obligated to say something, so I cleared my throat.

“Good day, Maestro Genesis,” I quietly said.  “I’m one of your second chair violinists.  My name is Roberta.”

He slowly raised his head, turned and flashed his gorgeous green eyes my way, and cracked an eighth note’s worth of a smile.

“I am Maestro Genesis,” he said, then pulled out a pen and started to annotate the score.

I sat in silence as the chairs around me filled, spellbound by his deliberate, exacting motions-each executed with precision.  Efficiency personified.  Oh, to have a mind as highly trained as his!  Within 30 seconds of the published start time the house lights dimmed, his baton was raised high, and without a word we began to play the music that was sitting on the stands before each of us.

Eight measures in, a bassoonist’s hand slipped.  It was the audio equivalent of a well-fed pigeon decorating a new Mercedes Benz.  Maestro stopped, did not look up, pointed in the direction of the violation, then he raised his baton.  Most of us, unsure but desperate to do something, started over.  After 32 measures, he raised his head as he lowered his hands.  We stopped.  His gaze ratcheted around the room from seat to seat, engaging each and every one of us.  

“Very good,” he slowly said with a smile.  “I’m proud of each of you.”

We played for two hours.  Each audible error resulted in a full stop and start over, with accompanying groans.  It was a very effective way to encourage flawless playing – peer pressure (in addition to disappointing our Maestro).

At the end of the two hours Maestro, with a flourish, put his baton away in its case and resumed jotting notes on the score.  We sat, lacking instruction.  At the urging of the other strings, I made the first move.  I packed up, awkwardly stood up and started to walk out. 

“Goodnight Roberta,” he said, not looking up.

“Goodnight, sir,” I replied, setting the procedure for all.

Everyone followed my lead, each getting the same, surprisingly personal salutation, each responding as did I.  He knew all of our names.

I stopped and stood under the red glowing exit sign, watching Maestro as everyone filed out.  He remained in the place I’d found him. 

“Good evening, Roberta,” he repeated, as the house lights went dark.  As I walked out the door, exterior lights briefly cast a few photons on him, still at the podium, writing notes in the dark.

After a few practices I noted that roughly one hour into each session he would proudly look at each of us as he skillfully lead us through an especially challenging and difficult passage.  I loved watching him, loved contemplating how he chose to do this with the hardest sections.  His gaze moved from musician to musician in time with the piece!  It was, to me, just adorable.  He was a beautiful man.

I loved looking into his eyes with each and every opportunity that I was given.  I swear his gaze rested on me for just an instant longer than the others.  I must admit I was a bit obsessed with him, enough so that I risked quite a lot to pay him a visit 20 minutes after a Friday rehearsal.

As I’d been told, Jacob sat in the outer office.  Maestro could not be disturbed, and since I actually had no questions, I begged forgiveness.  Jacob smiled, opened his desk drawer, and handed me a small white box. 

“Maestro wanted you to have this,” Jacob said. 

Inside was an NCO paperweight with Genesis’ signature burned across the brass plate that was affixed to the marble base.  Nice!

There was no advertising for our first concert.  We didn’t understand why, but agreed as a group to not tell our friends that it was coming up.  The first thing we noticed when we finally walked on stage was that every seat was occupied.  People lined the back walls.  We were told to plan on a long night, suggesting a major post-concert gala.  I was up for that.

That evening I swear there were 96 flawless performances.  The crowd seriously went nuts as we ended, and Maestro took several well-deserved bows before the appreciative audience.

As the endless applause continued, three well-dressed people approached and surrounded Maestro.  He was unfazed.  With simple power tools they unscrewed the small circular platform, on which he stood, from the stage, tilting it and him back. Under the platform they disconnected many dozens of wire cable connections.  The arms on his tilted body relaxed to his sides as his head slowly dropped back.  Applause swelled. They picked him up and laid him in a long packing box that had appeared.  As he was carried to the edge of the performance area, audience members swarmed the stage asking questions about our experience.  It took us awhile to appreciate what had just happened.

Emotions were mixed to say the least.  I was furious.  I hopped off the stage and jogged to Jacob’s office.  He was in his office with three people.  He introduced me to them as the inventors of the first viable robot conductor  - a musician, an engineer, and a computer scientist from City University.  Jacob vigorously expressed his appreciation on their behalf for my participation in a fascinating and unique experiment.  Jacob opened his desk and presented me with a very nice white box with a paperweight inside.

“Maestro wanted you to have this,” he explained.

I noted tools on his desk, and surprised myself by asking if I might have a few minutes alone to speak with him.  The scientists enthusiastically cooperated.  As soon as the door closed I stepped behind Jacob, rolling his chair back from the desk.  His head and torso were strapped onto the chair.  He had no legs. There must have been 30 thick cables that fed into him.  I methodically disconnected them all, watching his body go limp and his green eyes point to the ceiling.  I stuffed the ends of a few cables down his throat, placed a very nice white box atop his manicured head, the box looking rather like a funny hat, and peeled the skin down from his lower lip, stretching it till it was anchored below his chin.  I poked through his desk, found a permanent marker in a lower drawer, and wrote “fuck you” across his forehead.

In the days that followed many of our musicians had their 15 minutes of fame, discussing Maestro’s precision, their shock at being unwilling guinea pigs, and everything in between.  No one wanted to hear what I had to say (my thoughts were clear) and I wasn’t about to confess how real my crush had become on the assembly of motors, microprocessors, gears and wires.

As quietly as it had appeared, the NCO disappeared from our view, into the academic journals; it was touted as a successful experiment, with so many options on where to go next.

life after orchestra

Three weeks later I bought a cup of coffee that I couldn’t afford at my old haunt, Beaners Coffee Shop.  It was surprisingly crowded there so I headed for the door. Mike the owner grabbed my elbow and guided me to a singly occupied table.  He introduced me to a beautiful blonde guy named Edward.  He actually kissed my hand as I sat with him, and I liked it. I looked into his eyes - such beautiful green eyes.  I leaned back in my chair, pushing my napkin onto the floor.  Under the table I looked. No wires.  He was completely self- contained.  I loved the way he said “Roberta”, which he often did.  I told him how beautiful he was, reached for his hand and could practically feel his body working, as calculations were being made to intertwine his fingers with mine.

“Oh, what the hell,” I murmured to myself as my other hand rested on his thigh under the table.  Time for me to make my contribution to science.  I was, after all, clearly selected for a reason!  While it was probably too soon to make a final decision, I was optimistic that he was going to be a much more satisfying gift than a marble paperweight.