Chapter Eight
Eight
Marcel’s foot tapped in time to the rhythm of the violin, his pen still against the paper on his clipboard. He would take notes afterward, but for now he kept his attention on the performer who sat in the single chair on the stage.
He’d been in that very place before—or, well, a few feet behind him, where the piano waited even now for its next auditioner.
At the time, he’d thought it rather cruel for auditions to be held on a stage, with the lights glaring down and the seats empty but for the four judges.
Why couldn’t they be held in a classroom? Or an office? Or even a practice room?
Now he knew. If you were too anxious to play to a nearly empty house when alone on stage, you weren’t likely to do better at a concert. You wouldn’t be alone, true—but neither would the house be empty. It was the closest facsimile they had to real-world conditions.
The current violinist didn’t seem overly nervous, though he kept speeding up. Not usually a problem when a conductor was there to keep the beat—assuming he paid attention. He’d make a note of it once the lad finished.
Vivaldi’s “Autumn” wasn’t exactly difficult for the violin, but it was a favorite nonetheless.
This lad was the fourth to choose it in the last two days of auditions.
He brought it to a close, and Marcel clapped, as did the three other judges.
They’d agreed from the start to do so after each performance.
It took courage to audition like this. That deserved applause, even when the performances left something to be desired.
“Thank you very much, Nello,” Marcel said, projecting his voice to reach the stage.
“Now, behind you you’ll find a music stand with some sheet music on it.
Since we’ll be learning new pieces every week, sight reading is an important skill.
If you would be so good as to play bars one through fifty-two for us? ”
While Nello moved the stand, Marcel jotted down a few quick notes on his performance so far. Though when the silence stretched longer than he’d expected, he glanced back up. The violinist’s eyes were still on the music, traveling over the lines.
Understandable. Bartók’s Sonata for Solo Violin was far more challenging than “Autumn.” But it was the sort of thing they’d be playing and was meant to divide those ready for an orchestra from those who could master a piece only after months of practice.
They wouldn’t have months—they’d have days.
Marcel smiled so that his tone would reflect it. “Take your time—and feel free to slow it down. That’s what we would do when learning it together.”
The young man blustered out a breath, drew in another, and set his bow to the strings. Marcel contained his wince, but his new secretary, Vivianne, wasn’t quite so successful. “And a no to this one,” she murmured quietly, drawing a line through the fellow’s name on her own clipboard.
Vivi, as he’d been invited to call her within five minutes of their meeting, was old enough to be his mother but dressed and acted like she was still in her early twenties, despite the deep laugh lines on her face proving otherwise.
Which somehow seemed perfectly normal coming from her.
She could type ninety words a minute, always intuited when he needed another cup of coffee, could rattle off composers and compositions in her sleep, and had been a friend of Zelie’s mother all her life.
Vivi, Zelie had said, was the reason she loved music. So when she’d suggested her for his secretary, he’d agreed. And hadn’t regretted it for so much as a moment.
He jotted a no on his paper too but waited until the fellow gave up before speaking again.
Given the sinking of Nello’s shoulders, he knew very well he hadn’t made the cut.
Marcel wouldn’t push any more discouragement at him.
“Thank you.” Marcel stood, moving into the aisle and to the base of the stage so that the boy could see his smile through the lights.
“We appreciate you coming out—I remember how terrifying it can be, especially when someone shoves unfamiliar music at you. The fact that you tried speaks volumes about your character.”
Nello’s lips wobbled upward. “I’m sure I could learn it, if given time.”
“I have no doubt you could. You have definite talent, especially for being only . . .” He consulted his clipboard quickly to make certain he’d remembered correctly.
“Fifteen! Remarkable talent for your age. Another year or two, if you keep challenging yourself and growing, and I think you’ll be ready for an enterprise like ours. ”
“But not yet.” The boy’s shoulders slumped.
Marcel hated this part—because he’d been there.
But it was part of the process. If he hadn’t been rejected, he never would have applied himself as he needed to do.
He leaned onto the stage. “I was about your age when I auditioned for something for the first time. I was so terrible the maestro stopped me halfway through the piece and sent me home with a scalding tirade about wasting his time.”
Nello’s mouth dropped open. “You? But you’re Marcel Laurent!”
Marcel laughed. “And Marcel Laurent had a lot to learn about really studying the art. I set my mind to proving that chap wrong when he said I’d never be a professional musician.
” He pointed at the violin. “You have talent—but talent only takes us so far. You can stay at this level and enjoy the hobby. There’s nothing wrong with that.
But if you want to play professionally, it’s time to put in the hours to go from good to great.
It isn’t a matter of if you can—it’s only a matter of if you want to. ”
Nello’s fingers went tight around the neck of his instrument, and he nodded. “You’re right. I never really practice—not beyond with the group at school. Never had to, to be the best there.”
It was like looking into a mirror at himself, sixteen years ago. Well, aside from the instrument of choice. And the blond hair. And the three inches this half-grown lad already looked to have on him. Marcel grinned. “Think how good you could be if you did.”
Nello nodded and stood, shoulders back and determination in his eyes instead of defeat. “Thank you, monsieur.”
“Of course. Best of luck to you in all your endeavors, Nello.” He kept his smile in place as the boy left the stage and waited until he heard Gustave’s door swing closed before looking over to where Emile manned the one in the opposite wing. “Send in the next one, Em.”
His cousins could “play nothing but the radio” by their admission, but they’d both shown up in town today and apparently needed to stay off the streets—he hadn’t asked why—so he’d put them to work.
Emile pushed the door open and smiled at whoever waited in the wings. “Come on in, mon ami. Hand Monsieur Laurent there your form, and he’ll let you know when to get started.” To Marcel, he called, “He’s the last one.”
The lack of instrument in hand told him the next young man was a pianist even before he glanced up and saw the familiar, smiling face. “René Faye, bonjour. I was hoping you’d show up before auditions ended this afternoon.”
René nodded and hurried over to hand him the sheet of paper he’d filled out with all the relevant information. “I wanted to come sooner but couldn’t get away from Vichy until now.”
“And what do you think of my hometown?”
The boy’s eyes went wide. “I’ve never seen so many different kinds of people in my life!” His cheeks flushed. “I mean . . .”
Marcel laughed. “You’re not wrong—we’ve always boasted the most diverse population in France, thanks to the port. Even more so now, with so many people here who had hoped to find passage out of the country but were stranded here.”
All the so-called “undesirable” people who had been forced to flee occupied territory had apparently found their way here, but there’d been no ships to take them back to their home countries.
Marcel loved seeing the variety of skin tones and hair colors, and he’d been hoping to include some people from other countries in this orchestra.
Vichy had put their foot down on that one—no doubt a direct order from Von Eberstein. Native Frenchmen only. Aryans all. No females, either—they were to be encouraged to learn homemaking, not something that could become a career.
He had taken perhaps too much glee in making Vivi his first hire. They’d said nothing about guidelines for who would help him run things behind the scenes, after all.
He nodded toward the piano. “Begin at your leisure.”
René wiped his hands on his trouser legs and moved to the piano with a nod.
Marcel returned to his seat beside Vivi. At her lifted brows, he said quietly, “René Nicholy’s nephew. I met him in Vichy.”
“Ah.” She jotted down the name.
He passed the form down the line so the others could write down pertinent information too. His other two judges were local musicians he knew and respected, Messieurs Allard and Simon.
René had adjusted the distance of the bench, taken a moment to play a few chords to get a feel for the keys, and now put his fingers into position.
Please let him be good. A selfish prayer, he could grant it. He didn’t want to have to tell his boss that his nephew didn’t make the cut—though he was prepared to, if it came down to it.
Within a few notes, he recognized the Scarbo section of Ravel’s “Gaspard de la Nuit”—nearly as challenging as the Rachmaninoff that Zelie had been playing. An ambitious audition piece, to be sure. If he performed it well, it would all but guarantee him a spot.
If nerves got the better of him and he didn’t . . .
Within a minute, Marcel relaxed. René navigated the quick-paced beginning with ease, fingers dancing up and down the keys.
He obviously wouldn’t do the entire twenty-plus-minute section, but the five minutes he played were superb—not quite flawless, but on a piece that complicated, two missed notes weren’t egregious.