23 THE NOTES DON’T LIE
23
T HE N OTES D ON ’ T L IE
Damien prepared his lessons before showing up to the Dutronc household. He set himself an objective, and once he defined it, he looked for the easiest and most entertaining way to teach it to Margaux. Nothing was complicated with the amount of enthusiasm the girl put into things. But everything required time. One day, before beginning the session, Damien asked her to imagine a small child.
“When he’s a year old, he doesn’t get up and start walking out of nowhere. First, he crawls, then he holds himself up, then he falls on his butt. A day comes when he takes two steps and teeters until he’s able to walk a little better each time. It’s the same thing with the oboe. First, you tremble, because you don’t think you can do it. Then, you stumble. But it all comes together, little by little. It’s the same with any instrument. There’s a process. You don’t go from amateur to expert like flipping a light switch.”
Another day, as he unloaded his oboe pieces from the case, he told Margaux to let go of her romantic notions, because there is no inspiration in learning. There is only work.
“Do you want me to share the real trick to playing the oboe? Hours of practice.”
And Margaux, whose eyes crinkled when she laughed, responded that maybe one day there’d be a pill you could take to play an instrument. You’d go to the pharmacy and say: “Here’s my prescription. The doctor said if I take it three times a week around dinnertime, I’ll be playing the violin by next month. If I switch it off with another pill at breakfast and lunch, I’ll be playing the violin and viola. And by the end of the year, I’ll know how to play the pas de deux from Swan Lake , and the audience will cheer me on.”
Another day—they enjoyed these meetings more and more each time—Damien told her to pretend he was performing Rimsky-Korsakov with his best students at the Saint Petersburg Conservatory. He’d gather the students and give them a preview of how the year would go. “In the beginning, I’ll speak, and you all shall listen. After, I’ll speak less, and you will all begin to work. In the end, I won’t say anything, and you’ll be working tirelessly.”
“Which stage are we at?”
“Which do you think?”
“Where you speak less, and I”—she brought the oboe to her mouth—“work harder and better.”
Once they finished chattering, they set to work. They sat next to one another so Margaux could more easily copy Damien’s gestures than if she were looking at him head-on, like in a mirror. She paid attention to the way he placed his eight fingers to draw out B-flat major, the lowest note. He watched her closely. He corrected her air flow. He helped her find the stability to prevent air from producing variations in sound. He insisted she put adequate pressure on the reed with her lips. He interrupted her when he thought the sound was weak, lifeless. They repeated three notes, again and again, until she was the first to notice that it came out the way it was written on the sheet music.
“The notes don’t lie, Margaux.”
“But they don’t always sound the same.”
“Because the sound that comes out of an instrument is always the effort you muster out of yourself.”
“I have to speak ... through the instrument? Is that it?”
“Exactly. I once had a professor born in Kyiv who snatched the oboe right out of my hands and said, ‘In a low register, you have to believe you are a bassoon. In a middle register, you have to believe you’re a clarinet. And in a high register, you have to believe you’re a flute. You imitate other instruments and, unconsciously, your sound heads in that direction.’”
“Maybe I should sign up for lessons with that teacher. I’ll learn faster.”
“But you won’t have as much fun.”
Margaux didn’t want to admit he was right, but she turned red. She wasn’t aware her face revealed how pleasant those hours they spent together were.
“Come on, let’s not get distracted,” Damien said when he noticed her head was in the clouds.
Conscious of her hand placement, he was exacting. She was like a sponge. She absorbed everything after the first explanation.
“The left-hand pinky manipulates five keys. Stretch that small finger farther ...”
“Your fingers are longer,” Margaux protested.
“Hardly. You also have to be able to reach it easily.”
“Let’s see something ...”
Margaux placed the oboe on her lap and gave him her palm so they could compare finger length. She demanded Damien place his hand against hers. He didn’t resist his student’s game.
“Don’t cheat,” she insisted, making sure there wasn’t even half a millimeter of space between the base of their thumbs.
They put their hands together. Hers were colder.
“I could chop off the piece of your finger here, and you still wouldn’t have an excuse.”
“Why are your nails so round? Let me see ...” Margaux suddenly took his left hand and opened it wide.
“Do you know how to read palms?” Damien muttered.
She didn’t respond. She examined those four lines on his palm whose purpose is unknown. To start conversations, perhaps. Margaux looked at the lines closely. She inspected his palm like someone looking for a shortcut on a treasure map.
“Congratulations, Dami. This is your life line.” She followed it with her finger, tickling him. “Do you see how long it is?”
“Honestly, does it matter how long your life line is when you’re in a war?”
He’d said the word.
The lessons, the oboe’s vibrations, the hours they spent together were an oasis. Both of them were isolated from the world. From the fifth floor, you couldn’t see the German soldiers, heads held high like they owned the city. Even when they leaned out the window, they couldn’t see the fear, the low morale, the ration lines, or the hot water bags the elderly kept in their beds to endure the cold of winter. And despite it all, seasons passed, from the summer skies of truce to the tortured grayness of January. In between, there was everyday misery and the dragging of feet. Every month was the same story. Retaliations. Punishments. Arrests. Deportations. The four seasons. The prisoners of spring were maybe already dead by fall. Who even knew about the men who’d enlisted voluntarily or by force? Who could know what had happened to the soldiers who’d been imprisoned? They didn’t talk about it at Margaux’s school, and everyone acted like nothing had happened at Damien’s orchestra. They argued about musical scores among themselves. During a rehearsal break once, someone said they’d heard Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony as a kid and that it stayed with him for the rest of his life. Someone else added that Beethoven was the most temperamental of the geniuses, in stark contrast to other composers who were more reserved. They spoke of music, always of music, never about the character of its creators. Still, someone else responded that Ravel was like a clock, where everything ticked with an unusual precision. And whenever anyone dared compare French and German music, there was a stinging discomfort, and someone would change the subject right away. Just in case. Especially because the Pierné Orchestra knew how the Germans acted. They would always be the Colonne Orchestra, but they had been forced to change their name out of necessity. édouard Colonne was Jewish. There were lines you couldn’t cross.
The Montmartre attics weren’t just an escape. It was paradise for the two of them. After a year of adjusting to a more limited lifestyle, she tried to play the duck’s entrance in Peter and the Wolf . She’d spent days secretly rehearsing it so she could surprise her teacher. She invested several hours of practice. Her parents chided her, “This song again?” And she repeated it and persevered. That is, until the evening came that Damien and his artist’s curls climbed up the five flights, oboe case on his shoulder, and suddenly Margaux greeted him with two commands that were unusual for her.
“Sit and listen.”
She took all the time she needed. She searched for her concentration and the duck’s voice. She closed her eyes to internalize it. She softened the reed with her lips. She began playing, and the music flowed.
It was a lethargic duck. The lower notes of the score presented him that way: lazy and gloomy. Later, however, when the wolf eats him and the duck revives, Margaux knew to draw out the same melody but with a different hue. She knew how to change the oboe’s character. He became a sharp and happy duck. She was able to describe him the way the composer had imagined, and it felt like a miracle to her while she played.
Damien was fascinated. He hadn’t expected the small concert Margaux had secretly planned for him, never having mentioned it to him. He was even more astounded she’d missed so few notes. He didn’t even want to tell her. It was the moment to applaud her for having dared to play it and for having been able to differentiate between the downtrodden duck and the revitalized duck.
“I didn’t expect this, Margaux. Brava.”
“What’d you think?” Her heart raced.
“Impressive. Really.”
They stood from their chairs and hugged. Margaux, oboe still in hand, wrapped her arms around Damien’s waist. He squeezed her in his strong arms. The fact that her hair brushed his cheek didn’t bother him. They were happy. They stayed that way for a while. She would have liked to live in that embrace.
On the walk home, Paris didn’t feel as tired or as tinged with solitude. At once, the building facades regained the serious elegance of his city. He walked down boulevard de Magenta and thought about Margaux’s hopeful eyes as she awaited his verdict regarding her private concert. He couldn’t believe she’d grabbed his palm with the excuse of reading his life line. He liked how decisive Margaux Dutronc was. How she had slowly become that way, either as they began trusting one another, or as she’d grown older. She’d turned seventeen in February, and she was already a woman. When they hugged, he felt her close. Both emotionally and physically. He liked to think of what they did afterward. They sat back down and, each with their own oboes, played the duck’s melody at the same time, in synchronicity, like two instruments in an orchestra. They played with one eye on the score and the other on one another’s laughter. He would never forget this afternoon of new feelings.
“Damien? Damien Devère?”
Someone shouted after him on a shadowy corner. He’d only barely heard the man’s voice, but he couldn’t see him with how dark it was.
“Who’s there?”
The man took two steps forward.
“You don’t recognize me?” he asked, his voice subdued. “Are you pretending you don’t know me or something?”
Frightened, Damien approached him to look him in the eyes. His face was familiar.
“From the orchestra, I’m guessing ...”
“Hot.”
“Mirailles, maybe?”
“Hotter, hotter.”
“Cello, right? Now that’s it.”
“Michel Mirailles. They call me M. M.”
“You’re kidding me. At school they called me Dédé.”
“The youngest and best-looking of the orchestra. Here you are ...”
“Sometimes I sign my name as D. D.” As he got closer, he noticed that Mirailles’s breath reeked of warm wine. “What are you doing around here?”
“Waiting for curfew. When it’s time to go home, don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
“Sleeping off the hangover.”
“Who? Me?” Mirailles had to make an effort to keep himself up straight. “Come on, buy me a drink ... There’s still a bar open two streets up from here.”
“I know it. It’s full of green uniforms until the witching hour.”
“So what? They won’t do anything to you. They’re like dogs. If you don’t say anything to them, they don’t bother you.”
“I’m going home, Mirailles.”
“Come with me, come on. They won’t bother you.” He tried grabbing his hand, but Damien shook himself loose.
“I’m heading home. I haven’t seen my mother all day.”
“Of course. You’re a kid who still lives with his parents.”
“With my mother. My father—”
Mirailles grasped his face to shut him up.
“Look at what fine skin you have.”
Once he had Damien trapped, his mouth in the shape of a circle, he kissed him on the lips.
“What the hell are you doing, man?” Damien stepped back and pushed him away. “Are you crazy or something?”
Damien looked around, worried someone had seen the kiss forced upon him. If he’d known how to, he would’ve punched Mirailles. He wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. He was a bundle of nerves.
“If anyone saw us, we’ll be dead by tomorrow. You’re a jerk.”
“Don’t worry about me. The Germans won’t hurt me.”
“How are you so sure?” He continued to wipe his mouth.
“I know it ...” Michel had said too much and corrected himself. “I know it. That’s all.”
“Good night, Mirailles. Go home. You’re wasted.”
“Wanna know something?” He grabbed him by the collar so he wouldn’t leave. “They used to call me M. M. for Michel Marieta . Faggot.”
“Well, congratulations. I don’t—”
“But you—” He was about to say it, then he stopped. “You’re so cute, Dédé.”
“I’m what?” He wasn’t going to let Mirailles get away with anything else. “‘But you’? What does that mean?”
“Everyone in the orchestra knows. Everyone talks about it.”
“About what?”
“That the conductor, the great Delphin Moureau, hired you for the orchestra because ...”
“Say it.”
“You had your way with him.”
“Me? What you’re saying is absurd, Mirailles. You’re really drunk.”
“They said you played it good ... That oboe.”
“That’s not true!” he shouted angrily.
“Everyone knows Moureau likes his boys young and skinny.”
“I don’t know anything about that. He’s never put his hands on me. Not the conductor, or anyone else.”
“I have,” Mirailles said proudly, raising his finger.
“You’re an idiot. And stop drinking. Auf Wiedersehen. ”
He said it that way to make it hurt, and then he ran quickly home.
The next day, Mirailles didn’t remember anything at the noon rehearsal. He found it strange that when Devère squeezed through the music stands to find his place in the center of the orchestra and he said good morning to him, the oboist didn’t even acknowledge him. He just shot him an angry glare. Somewhere deep down, he had the sensation of a vague and remote nightmare in which Damien Devère appeared in some way, but even if he was promised the end of the war, he wouldn’t have been able to remember where they’d run into one another or what they’d said.
Damien clearly did. From a to z . So much so that, during the rehearsal break, he approached Imtold and said, “Tell me everything you know about our cellist. Everything.”
Like always, Imtold Lefebvre was well-informed. Even if he wasn’t, he pretended to be. He recited it with a credibility that provoked an “amen.” On more than one occasion, they joked that he’d chosen the wrong career. “You’d make a better living on the radio than with your violin.”
“About Michel Mirailles, you mean?”
Once Damien assented, Imtold began recounting everything he’d heard from his various sources. He kept it all stored in his head.
“I’m told he’s the type who can’t keep his pants on. He doesn’t like to sleep alone, and he doesn’t have a wife or a girlfriend. I’m told you won’t find him at One Two Three, the brothel on rue de Provence that’s overrun these days. I’m told he’s a drunk and plays better during evening concerts than morning ones, because his hangover is still dragging out. I believe that one.”
“Me too,” added Damien.
“I’m told he’s been seen at 52 Champs-élysées, which is where the headquarters of the Propagandastaffel is located. I’m told they have about fifty offices all over the occupied zone, but where does Goebbels go when he comes to Paris? To 52 Champs-élysées. He’s even got an office there, because it’s a key location. It’s where he manages the organization of the whole department of propaganda. I’m told nothing happens unless it’s approved by Colonel Schmidtke, Heinz Schmidtke. I’m told that’s where they decide the programming for Radio Paris, and they say which artists can play and which can’t. That’s where they control the newspapers that have surrendered to the Germans. Le Matin , the Paris-soir ... That’s where they censure and go after people. They don’t let anyone publish anything that attacks Hitler or hurts the Wehrmacht. The newspapers are printed in French but written in German. I’m told they’re the ones who prohibit our theaters from playing American movies. And the British ones too. I’m told nothing gets past 52 Champs-élysées. They’re a well-oiled machine. A weapon of war. So, I’m told that one morning, Michel Mirailles was seen entering the Propagandastaffel, and then two weeks later he started writing opera criticism under a pseudonym in Je suis partout .”
“What’s Je suis partout ?” Damien asked.
“The magazine that’s everywhere. The weekly that outs Jews and communists between art and culture reviews. It was already a fascist media outlet before the fascists arrived.”
“It’s like Signal then? Nazi propaganda?”
“Worse. There are days they publish the names of Polish, Czech, and Romanian Jews in Paris, and they print their addresses so they can be hunted down.”
“What pseudonym does Mirailles use?”
For once, Imtold Lefebvre rolled his eyes as if to say, “Now you got me stumped.” He knew it, but he couldn’t remember. It was on the tip of his tongue, but it wasn’t coming to him. It made him so angry not to be able to answer a question that he shut his eyes so hard his eyelids hurt, and with one last effort, he blurted out a name like a snake spits out venom. “Jean du Silence.”