“What you must understand,” Armand insists, slapping the table with his palm, “is that even a fantastic guitarist can have a bad day. So if you genius people make a mistake onstage, I will be waiting in the wings.”
“Juerta’s here,” Larry says, referring to the eminent judge. “He’s not going to be put off by a few wrong notes.”
“A few wrong notes,” Armand interrupts, “is a catastrophe if —” he lowers his voice “— you cannot instantly recover.”
A short silence follows this remark as each musician imagines himself flubbing onstage, spotlight burning.
“Those of us who have been around these events for years, the judges understand how we play, what we can do,” Armand says, then leans back, hands clasped over his trim belly.
Toby calculates — twenty-one competitions. The man’s been at it for years. He must be well over thirty. Unlike most competitions, this one is open to all ages.
Toby’s name, briefly known in classical guitar circles beyond Canada, means zip to this lot. Whatever reputation he once enjoyed has long since disappeared into the ether of flamed-out early promise. It will happen to many of these characters, too, though such a possibility is far from their minds now. They trade news of master classes attended, guitar gods glimpsed in the hallways, luthiers who use traditional fan bracing versus radial. There had been a day when Toby was in the thick of it, and he wipes his mouth with a paper napkin and waits for all this to feel different, more how it was.
At the far end of the table a woman with tangled blond hair smiles at him. When he meets her gaze, she glances away, then back again. Shy? Perhaps. What he can see of her face intrigues him: she must be at least forty and is dressed with some care in a yellow blouse and silver necklace.
“Where are you from?” she mouths.
“Toronto.”
She points to her chest and mouths back, “Me, too,” then indicates an empty chair next to her. Toby picks up his tray with the remnants of lunch and joins her there.
“Another refugee from the virus,” she says in a too-bright voice, then holds out her hand. “Lucy Shaker.”
They shake, and he sees milky skin under the framing hair and violet rings under her eyes.
“I know you,” Lucy says.
“What?” Unsettled, Toby looks down. Here goes — the moment he’s been fearing.
“I heard you play years ago.”
He recovers, memory spinning. “Where?” he asks, hoping it wasn’t that final recital in Toronto at the Women’s Art Association, the show he’s mostly forgotten. Legend goes that he interrupted his playing to rant to the audience, then launched into an improv that went on so long that everyone tiptoed away, leaving the rented hall almost empty.
“That church nestled inside the Eaton Centre,” Lucy reminds him.
Little Trinity, an urban marvel rescued from the developer’s wrecking ball, surrounded by a shopping mall. Toby smiles in relief: that concert was a triumph, broadcast on CBC Radio for its Young Artists series.
“I played Boccherini,” he recalls. “The Grand Sonata by Sor and a set of Tárrega.”
“You were just a boy.”
“I was fifteen.”
The table has gone quiet as other competitors eavesdrop.
“You were amazing,” Lucy says. “In a world of your own.”
“Still am.” That old self can seem remote one moment, then reappear in dazzling Technicolor the next.
She waits a beat before asking, “Did you ever stop playing?”
“Never.” He senses them leaning in, wanting to hear more. Most are too young to realize that a life contains detours, more detours than highways.
“But you didn’t perform?”
“That’s right.”
He feels their attention burrow in and is grateful when Lucy notes his discomfort.
“What number did everyone draw?” She turns to the group, still speaking in a brittle voice. She’s referring to the lottery that determines in what order they will play in the preliminary round, a two-day marathon that will weed out most hopefuls.
“Fifty-one,” Toby volunteers.
“Out of sixty?”
“Afraid so.”
Lucy winces in sympathy.
“The judges will nod off,” Toby says, though he doesn’t actually believe this for a minute. His performance will shake them out of their torpor.
“Budapest guy number one,” Hiro offers in uncertain English. “He finish early, then practise second round. Lucky guy.” He nods several times, confirming this opinion.
“If he goes to a second round,” Armand points out.
A cloud passes over the crew as each member enters the possibility of being cut before the real competition begins. Months of work, travel expenses, cocky assurances to those back home …
“I can’t worry about it,” Toby says, feeling worry creep in, anyway.
“Their ears will be numbed by repetition,” Larry adds.
Lucy turns to him and asks, “And you?”
“I drew six.” Larry smiles smugly, as if this were an achievement, not merely luck. Drawing an early number gives him ample time to work up his program for the semifinals. Everyone must play the same compulsory pieces plus the killer Mark Loesser sonata composed especially for competition. Finally, each artist gets five minutes to strut a favourite from his own repertoire.
Lucy turns to Trace. “And you?”
“I pulled twenty-something.” Her studied indifference is a cover.
No one thinks to ask Lucy what number she drew.
Armand checks his watch. “Important technique workshop in five minutes. Myles Boyer demonstrating cross string ornamentation.”
The institute is topsy-turvy, and before Jasper can even hang up his jacket, Rachel, the intern, hands him a stack of papers striped with her highlighter pen. Someone wheels in a monitor so staff can watch the morning press conference. It’s Dr. Steve Rabinovitch issuing the latest statistical report and — surprise, surprise — their very own Chairman Luke stands on tiptoe at his side, offering a sober face to the camera. The disease may be gearing up into another round as the virus mutates. They aren’t front line here at the institute: Jasper and his staff sweep up after the parade has gone by, caring for survivors after discharge from hospital and the first run of rehab. Despite the fraught word epidemic, there have been fewer than eighty cases confirmed in total.
Jasper can’t contain a snort when the camera lens flies past Luke. Look at his tidy blond hair and moustache and the way he nods whenever the good doctor makes a point. Luke is small but muscular — a ferret, Jasper decides. Soon as the cameras switch off, Luke will pull out his phone to issue directives that counter every decision they’ve made the week before. Sirens wail up and down University Avenue. Someone is making a fortune flogging latex gloves and surgical masks.
“Hey, Jasper,” Rachel says. “He looks just like you.”
Jasper glares. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
She’s not the first to note the resemblance. It was Luke himself in that first board meeting who hung back when the others left and confided to Jasper: “We’re much the same, you and I. Bodes well for our future working relationship.”
Soon after, the freshly elected chair fired off a memo declaring that the institute