32 AFTERNOON OF THE FAUN
32
A FTERNOON OF THE F AUN
He didn’t open the case until he was alone.
He did it slowly, fearful about something he wasn’t sure of. Of the oboe not being there, of the wood cracking, or of something having broken. Even of not knowing how to play it anymore. The oboe was the same. Intact. He found it just as he had left it after Scheherazade in the theater at the time of his arrest. It was true that Margaux—out of superstition and in order not to further weaken it—hadn’t dared to open the black case during his long absence. She’d guarded it like a token of love.
In his imagination and when hunger had prevented him from sleeping, Damien had played an oboe for the bunks in the barracks, surrounded by men with parched skin and spirits. The music in his head had been one of the disciplines he imposed on himself so as not to go crazy in that camp of terror and death. It was comforting and lifesaving. There wasn’t a day he hadn’t imagined practicing his oboe. He started with Bach’s cantatas, continued with Richard Strauss’s Don Juan , and ended where he could before the shouts of some Nazi—those damned dogs—ruined his private concert.
He took out the three parts and put them together. It looked new with its sparkling-clean keys. He caressed the wood and inserted the reed carefully, sliding it into the reed socket like the instrument was a virgin. He had first-time nerves.
He put it in his mouth, closed his eyes, and played.
He searched for its soprano sound. He always recognized the timbre of a beautiful woman’s voice in the oboe. He blew and produced a miracle.
The voice had Margaux’s face.
If the Pierné Orchestra wanted him, he’d be ready for his first concert soon.
He was received at the Théatre du Chatelet with excitement, hugs, and the kinds of words you never forget. Musically, they told him yes, of course, they were missing an oboist, and they’d welcome him with open arms. Rehearsals for Prelude to the Afternoon of the Faun began that same afternoon. Before sitting in front of his stand, they had to catch him up on the highs and lows of the orchestra. No one knew anything about the conductor, Delphin Moureau. It was a bad sign. There hadn’t been news of Imtold Lefebvre. There wasn’t much hope there either. They didn’t talk about it, but a year after he’d disappeared, no one could ignore his fate. On the other hand, there was a lot of discussion in the hallway about Michel Mirailles, the cellist who’d stayed in the orchestra until liberation day. When they discussed him, Damien remembered the night M. M. had thrown himself on him in the middle of the street. Mirailles had been wasted, and Damien was able to throw him off before his discomfort turned into tragedy. During the last few days the Germans were in Paris, when everyone had assumed they’d escaped, someone had spread a rumor that Michel Mirailles was the spy in the Pierné for the Germans. His companions in the string section had guessed it for some time. He’d hidden under the pseudonym Jean du Silence to act as a musical critic in Je suis partout. Someone had ratted him out to the Germans, and in exchange for not deporting him like all the men who loved men, they’d given him a mission: spy on the orchestra. Everything he saw and heard he must report discreetly to the office of propaganda, with the excuse that he was going there to turn in an article. At the end of August, the morning of the great parade of liberation, with the big streams of people walking from the Arc de Triomphe to place de la Concorde, Mirailles knew a squad would search for him and make him pay for his betrayal. He took off his belt and hung himself in the stairwell before they arrived at his house.
The tickets to the Pierné Orchestra concert sold out. Once music lovers discovered it was an homage to those who’d been deported, they signed up without even knowing what pieces would be played. It was a farewell to so many fears, tears, and sadness. The program was the least important of it all. When they arrived at the doors of the theater and saw the posters, they discovered they’d be listening to three works by Debussy, a compatriot.
Margaux and Michelle, who’d entered through the back door, sat in the third row next to the aisle. They saved a seat for Ferdinand, who would take off his khaki uniform for one day and sit in the main hall once the lights went out. After so many years working at the Chatelet, he’d heard a thousand and one rehearsals, but he’d never watched a performance while seated in the audience.
“Papa, most importantly, don’t come out in your work clothes.”
“Why not?” he teased her. “It doesn’t look good on me?”
“Papa, please ...”
“Are you embarrassed of your father?”
The response was a peach-fuzz kiss on the cheek. The murmurs in the hall quieted as the main floor was left in half light. In the reverential silence, musicians appeared, like a trained parade of black-and-white penguins, and they took their places. Last to come out was the new conductor, tall as a giant, with a white head of hair and beard, and he walked to his platform to receive the courteous applause. Once he faced the musicians to open the musical score and grab the baton, the audience realized there was an empty chair in the middle of the stage. The robust conductor stepped off his platform and left so everyone could see what happened next.
An emaciated Damien emerged from the side of the stage, his oboe in hand. He was barefoot and wore his striped uniform from Buchenwald, which had turned gray from months of wear. Slowly, the oboist walked to his seat with the dignity of a survivor.
The gasp from the audience was unanimous.
The conductor didn’t have to explain anything. Everyone understood. Damien’s companions from the woodwind sections were the first to stand. The musicians placed their instruments on their chairs to applaud him. Instantly, the rest of the audience stood, and everywhere the word “bravo” resounded throughout the whole hall. It was an act of patriotic vindication, an homage to anonymous heroes.
“Did you know about this?” Michelle whispered into Margaux’s ear.
“No ...” Between her enormous belly, the wooden seat, and the explosion of emotions, it was difficult for her to stand up. “He didn’t tell me he’d saved the uniform.”
Stoic behind the music stand, Damien bore the ovation by looking down at the floor. When he lifted his gaze and saw so many people moved for such a long time, he had no choice but to wave his hand, with a knot in his throat and his oboe in the air. The tribute went out to the memory of those who hadn’t had as much luck. He immediately found Margaux in the third row. He saw how emotional she was, sitting next to her parents, the family that would be his as soon as they got married. He closed his fist, and with his eyes glued to Margi, he placed the oboe next to his heart.
The audience took their seats as soon as Damien sat. Michelle asked Ferdinand for a handkerchief, and the conductor took advantage of the magical moment of collective disturbance to raise his hand. Keeping it up was enough to silence everyone and place the orchestra on alert. Debussy began to speak immediately.
The first notes of the Prelude were for the faun’s transverse flute.
After a few bars, the oboe entered. Damien focused with all his concentration. He followed the score and played with his heart. His fingers worked, as always, like those of a perfect stenographer. His mouthpiece did not work so perfectly. Nervously, he pressed the reed too hard, and without expecting it, he had to stop to cough. With a modest gesture, the conductor stopped the Prelude . In the middle of the buzz, Damien looked at the conductor fearfully. What if that survivor’s cough stopped him from finishing the concert? Quickly, Ferdinand began clapping, and everyone else joined. The applause resounded once more throughout the hall. It was a knowing ovation, an understanding ovation. From the back of the theater, a man stood on his chair to shout, “Vive la France!” A woman from a lateral box responded, “Vive la vie.” And while people shared in celebration of their victory, the conductor walked up to Damien. He asked him only one question. Breathing deeply and trying to find the air missing in his lungs, he nodded in response. The giant returned to his platform and raised his hand, succeeding in silencing even a fly. He turned to his musicians and said one thing:
“Sirs, da capo.”
From the beginning again. Like always.