The Great Conductor

Sebastian was in a good mood. This morning was rather special, and it called for a nice breakfast.

The first rehearsal with the violinist that took place yesterday could not have gone any better, and the Great Conductor was very pleased to hear about the results of their collaboration. He had called Sebastian late last night. The new colleague had been properly initiated into the shrine of music and had become a part of the future little orchestra that would perform Sebastian’s piece. His instrument fit nicely into the fabric of the piece.

Sebastian was so elated that he even thought about canceling his student’s class later in the afternoon but decided that it would be too premature to cut off that type of income just yet. Besides, he liked Emily, a teenage girl who worked hard and tried her best to please her parents, who had bought her a very expensive cello. He doubted that she really wanted to become a musician, but she enjoyed playing, which was, according to her mother, “much better than vaping and wasting her life with her friends.” Sebastian agreed with the lady and had made some good money by referring her parents to the music store he knew to buy Emily’s cello. A common practice for many music tutors to get additional income.

Today, however, the only frivolity he decided he could afford was to skip practice this morning, listen to some great music, and take a nice walk. Maybe even buy some ice cream. Heck! He could go and chat with Everett—the old owner of a small store whom Sebastian had known ever since he was a kid—and even buy candy (another formerly forbidden item) from him.

Sebastian sat down and started eating the omelet, alternating the eggs with small bites of sausage and bread—a perfect mixture of tastes and textures. The piece was still playing in his head, adding a rather pleasant sensory sensation to the process of eating. The breakfast would last as long as the opus, which famously ends in a sudden, abrupt whimper, and then he would take that walk.

For fun, he even considered getting one of Lydia’s bottles of bourbon, which was still miraculously half full, and drinking a shot to commemorate the complex Variation 24 of the Rhapsody. Granted, he did not have the sweet, mint-flavored alcoholic beverage that Rachmaninoff was said to drink when performing the piece to steady his nerves, to make it a historically authentic celebration. After trying and finally succeeding in recalling the name of the beverage (crème de menthe), he decided against it as well. Unlike many classical musicians, Sebastian did not care much for alcohol. He had seen too many unfortunate examples of alcohol ruining the careers of musicians who used it “to calm down” before concerts; after a while, they could not live without it. Sebastian always believed that he had the strength and mental power to stay away from artificial sedatives and other “bodily” distractions that were supposed to help him relax.

Sebastian was not against seeing other people. In fact, he did try to date and once even got as far as having some sort of sex with a young woman who played the flute in the chamber orchestra where he played one summer. Of course, he kept it under wraps to make sure no one, especially his brother, who was always more popular with women, would find out about it. Needless to say, it never crossed his mind to share the supposedly groundbreaking news of the end of his virginity with his mother, who was repulsed by any carnal manifestations she happened to watch on TV. Sebastian felt that Lydia was somewhat hypocritical in this regard—he had heard her occasionally entertaining some late-night visitors in her room after his father’s death.

As for the sex . . . After the relatively unexciting intercourse, due perhaps to a lack of experience on Sebastian’s part and a high level of alcohol intoxication on his partner’s part, whose name he couldn’t remember (which was already an indication of the insignificance of the event), Sebastian decided from then on that he would take care of his bodily needs himself.

He read that masturbation could take care of anxiety-related problems—it’s a simple process that doesn’t require awkward time with the opposite gender. Of course, his brother had a lot to say against that, because he preferred the “body-to-body” approach when it came to relieving whatever pressure he had. It was baffling to Sebastian why other people had to go through all sorts of ordeals to stay together just for sex. Well, maybe his parents, whom he never suspected of physical attraction, had some other reasons.

The Rhapsody ended, and he was ready to go out. He checked the weather report: overcast with a possible stray shower or thunderstorm, eighty-one degrees. He took his light, waterproof, hooded windbreaker with him and left his house. He always enjoyed September and liked to walk whenever it was possible.

As he walked down the street, Sebastian saw Everett Jackson, wearing his usual Ravens baseball cap, sitting outside his little store and chatting with another old man. Sebastian did not want to interrupt them and slowed down a bit but noted with relief when the old man waved his hand to Everett and trudged away.

“Hey there, Mr. Jackson,” Sebastian said, approaching the old man.

Everett scanned Sebastian with his squinted eyes for a minute.

“In your sandals today, I see,” Everett said with a smile.

“It’s still pretty warm,” Sebastian said.

Everett nodded his head in agreement. “Sorry ’bout your mother, kiddo. Ain’t seen you since . . . you know . . .” He smacked his lips. “You know, we had our disagreements—Lydia and I—but it ain’t no fun when somebody kicks the bucket. On the other hand, maybe it was her time to meet the Lord.” He pointed his index finger up to the sky.

“I guess it was,” Sebastian said, not really knowing what to add to that statement. “Well, she liked . . . um, talking with you . . . sometimes.” It wasn’t really true, but it was the only thing he could think of.

Everett laughed. “Lydia did? Come on, boy, you know that ain’t the truth. She used to hate my black guts, and she never liked you hanging ’round my store ever since you was this high.” He lowered his hand, palm down flat, to the level of his hip to show the height of little Sebastian. “Oh, hell, I think she hated me even before she had you. But . . . you sure liked sneaking out the house to buy them candy bars with your pocket money, didn’t you?”

The thought of a little Sebastian secretly buying chocolate apparently amused the old man, and he laughed loudly, slapping his knee with his hand. “I remember, like it was yesterday. Lydia scolding me and forbidding me to sell you anything ‘unhealthy.’” He wiped his eyes with his hands and stopped laughing. “She was something else, your mother. But . . . I did like your father. Stephen was a good man. He would stop and chat with me ’bout this or that and buy his smokes. Not too many white folks chatted with me back in the day, you know. Oh, well, he’s with the Lord too.”

Sebastian was patiently waiting for the end of the usual nostalgic routine. Everett enjoyed going through it one way or another every time they met. Their conversations were always brief because Sebastian was always in a hurry—running errands for Lydia, seeing his students, and being late for occasional gigs. Today, however, it was different. He wasn’t doing any chores.

Everett, as if sensing the same, said: “You ain’t running nowhere today, huh?”

“I have a . . . morning off. Sort of,” Sebastian said, musing about the last time he had actually said that.

“Good for you, kiddo. You gotta smell the roses once in a while, ain’t that right? You know what else you need to start doing?”

Sebastian knew what he was getting at, because the topic of “dating a nice girl” had come up almost every time ever since Sebastian had mentioned his rendezvous with the flutist. In fact, Everett was the only one who knew about this and had decided to take on the role of father figure and help find a woman for Sebastian. Sebastian had been successful in finding different types of excuses not to call the numbers the old man had been providing him with, which were mainly granddaughters of his friends and some single women who happened to live in the neighborhood. Sebastian had no idea how Everett was able to procure those numbers and had been apprehensive about the idea of some women waiting for him to call.

“What?” Sebastian asked, knowing that he had to let Everett finish his usual pitch.

The candy had to wait.

As he listened to the old man, Sebastian remembered another thing that was on his to-do list for today. After class with Emily, he needed to start looking for his next colleague. The Great Conductor had asked him to find a violist. Another instrument would definitely add colors in rehearsals.

Chapter 14

On a warm Sunday morning, Christine was checking her phone for work updates while waiting for Laura for a brunch meeting she had been promising her friend for some time. Christine had made a new string of beads—black onyx—as compensation for rescheduling their previous meeting and had brought it with her in a small black suede pouch. Onyx is known for its calming and soothing effect on emotions, promoting a sense of inner peace and emotional stability. She hoped the stone would help calm her unreserved friend down so they could enjoy a nice day together.

It was Christine’s day off, but she had been expecting the autopsy results from one of the cases she was working on. She didn’t want to think about how Laura would react if she were called into the office. The beads were meant to cushion the blow in case of a work emergency.

Christine knew that Laura would, as usual, be late because she was one of those people who started getting ready for a meeting when it was already time to be there. Christine had taken the liberty of ordering her first cup of coffee. She hoped to get all the work updates she needed before Laura arrived so she could fully embrace the old American tradition of brunching.

It felt nice to sit among the motley crew of carefree weekenders, whose only worry was what to do for the rest of the day after they ate—go for a walk or do a bit of shopping—before they would eat again in the evening. The place, Five and Dime Ale House, had been chosen by Laura for its healthy brunch options. She had been craving their South Cali Toast “for way too long.” Christine didn’t care much about food and rarely had time to think about it, but she tried to limit her fast food intake to two or three times a week whenever possible. She did, however, enjoy bustling spots like this one and, thanks to Laura, had the chance to join the foodie crowd once every two or three months.

“Am I late, hon?” came Laura’s voice through the noisy sound wall of the patrons.

“Just a smidge?” Cristine turned around and saw her friend whom, in fact, was twenty minutes late—almost on time by Laura’s standards.

Laura McKenzie was sporting a white hooded sweatshirt with a large print that read, “Have a Faerie Nice Day,” and a pair of blue harem pants that looked very comfortable. She plopped herself into the seat across from Christine with a loud sigh of relief and smiled.

“There. I’m here,” she said, taking the menu that Christine had asked a friendly waitress to bring about fifteen minutes earlier. “I heard they’re going to shut this place down soon.”

“This place?” Christine whirled her index finger in the air. “Can’t be true. Look how busy it is.”

“Yep. They can’t seem to rebound from the pandemic.”

Christine looked around and saw that the place was packed with happy customers.

“Are you sure?”

“Some company is buying them out, and they’re going to sell it. So, this might be the last time we’re here,” Laura said, scanning the menu. “I’m going to have—”

“—my first and last—”

“—where is that? Oh, yeah—avocado toast with an egg. You should try that, too, hon. It’s heavenly.” Laura signaled to a waitress to come over.

Christine knew it would be impossible to order anything else after that “recommendation,” which sounded more like an order. She didn’t bother looking at the menu and simply nodded in approval. If the place was going under, she might as well try their most popular dish before it disappeared.

“So, let’s hear it,” said Laura after placing the order for both of them. “The prince on the white horse, Sir Victor O’Brian—is that it? Can’t say I remember him well. Any relation to Conan O’Brien, by any chance? Because that could be . . .” She raised her hands to the level of her ears and rubbed her thumbs over the tips of her index and middle fingers, implying that such a connection could have been very lucrative for Christine.

“I don’t think so. He isn’t ginger, and he doesn’t tell too many jokes,” Christine said.

“Not everyone in the family has to be funny, but they could share the bank account,” Laura replied, followed by another money gesture.

“Stop,” Christine said, laughing. “He’s doing well on his own, even if he isn’t related to any celebrity.”

“Good for you, I say,” Laura replied with a smile, turning to the waitress who brought them two cups of coffee. “Thank you very much,” Laura said, taking a sip. “Ah, that’s exactly what the doctor ordered. I definitely needed that.”

“Working late again?” Christine asked, knowing that Laura preferred to work late at night when “the birds and humans couldn’t bother the muses.”

“Yep. But . . . let’s get back to Mr. O’Brian.”

Christine shrugged. “What can I tell you? He’s nice. I kind of like him, and—”

“You do? That’s . . . about freaking time, I say, m’lady. Hang on.” Laura raised her index finger. “He’s single, right?”

“Yes, he is. How many times do I have to tell you that I didn’t know Eric wasn’t legally divorced?” Christine said, referring to one of her unsuccessful office romances that had almost ended in a big scandal a couple of years ago. “He told me he was single, and—”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it? Water under the bridge. Yesterday’s news. We’re talking about Mr. O’Brian—Conan’s possible nephew—who is a single, successful bachelor and is interested in this”—Laura pointed at Christine—“damsel in distress. Am I getting it right so far?”

“The damsel isn’t in distress.”

“Not yet, but it could be if she continues to avoid men—no cap.” Laura took a long breath, as if preparing for another wave of “motivational” criticism. “So, what about your job and that ‘cleaning Charm City of scumbags’ twenty-four-seven routine you enjoy so much? How does he fit into all that?” Laura took another sip of coffee.

“It’s a . . . um . . . well, I kind of wanted to run it by you.”

“Oh God!” Laura put down her coffee mug and gazed at Christine. “You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

“You need to have sex to get pregnant, so no,” Christine said with a smile. “I’ve been sort of thinking lately . . . you know, those therapy sessions I have to attend, and . . . I don’t know, maybe I’m just getting older.”

“Can we please get to the point?” Laura put her palms together as if pleading for some revelation.

“Well, I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I’ve been thinking about the possibility of having a normal life.”

“You want to have sex with Victor O’Brian,” Laura concluded with a serious nod.

“What? No. I mean, that could definitely be on the table, provided we get along and—”

“How long are you going to wait for this ‘getting along’ part? Until you’re sixty and introducing him to your cats?”

Christine laughed.

“I mean . . .” Laura continued. “When was the last time someone properly banged your brains out so that you could forget about your . . . what do you call it . . . ?” She snapped her fingers, trying to remember the correct word. “When you examine the dead bodies?”

“The autopsy reports? That’s funny, ’cause—”

“That and ‘ongoing investigations.’ You were the prettiest girl in class and are still a knockout. A freaking ten. Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans, you know. John Lennon said that. You’ve been making plans for too long, hon. Ah, there it is,” she said to the waitress who brought them two orders of South Cali Toasts. “Thank you.” She took her fork and stabbed a strawberry with it. “I think you’re moving in the right direction,” she said and popped the fruit into her mouth. “It’s about time to think about—what did you call it? A ‘normal life,’” she added, chewing.

The rest of the brunch consisted of a list of things Christine would have to do in her future relationship with Victor, based on Laura’s personal experience with her husband and things she had read online. By the time the food was gone, Laura was describing the schools Christine’s future children would have to attend to get the best education in the country. Christine didn’t even notice when she joined the discussion, comparing the pros and cons of different educational approaches for children—despite her extremely limited knowledge on the subject.

The jolly discussion was interrupted by the aforementioned autopsy report, which reminded Christine about the beads she had brought for Laura. The two women left the soon-to-be-closed rustic-chic spot in good spirits—Laura showing off her new beads to almost every passerby on the street, and Christine wondering how much of what they had just been talking about could possibly happen in the future.

Christine drove to her office after promising to meet with Laura again soon and spent two hours going over the report, adding details to her investigation, and outlining her work plans for the next week. As she was getting ready to call it a day and head to the shooting range for an hour of practice, she received a message from Victor. He asked if she had time for dinner tonight and offered to pick her up from wherever she was. She liked the spontaneity of the message, which felt like a step toward future closeness and, perhaps, even intimacy. She sent him a reply, telling him to pick her up from her home at 8:00 p.m.—she would have enough time to shoot a few rounds at the range, drive home, jump into the shower, and be ready for another date.

Chapter 15

After touring for a few weeks with the orchestra, Paul returned with some interesting news about a highly talented Chinese violinist named Li Mei, who had helped out the band during the Chinese leg of the tour—she had substituted for a sick musician during a few performances. According to Paul, she had done so quite successfully.

She was twenty-five years old, came from a wealthy family in Shanghai, and dreamed of playing in the United States and Europe to “gain some experience and provenance” before pursuing serious solo work back in China. Paul, who had had a few conversations with Li Mei after their performances, was eager to put in a good word for her with some of the influential musicians he had established a professional rapport with. However, it seemed unnecessary, as the conductor of the orchestra himself—Maestro Fabiano Giulini—had already noticed her skills and, more likely, her striking appearance.

There were rumors that the maestro did not only value musical skills—for which he had the highest demands, without exception—but that he was also a seasoned connoisseur of the pleasures a female body could bring, reportedly even in latex outfits. As such, the conductor paid extra attention to any female musician who met his exquisite standards outside of music. He often suggested tête-à-tête discussions “to delve into the music piece” after performances or rehearsals, conveniently held in his luxury hotel suite whenever the orchestra was on tour.

Sebastian knew well that carnal activities—such as swapping hotel rooms to be together, having affairs, getting wasted, and waking up in someone else’s bed—often occurred among musicians when the orchestra was away performing in different countries. What else could one do to bring a bit of joy into one’s life when the supposed glamour of touring boiled down to a monotonous plane-bus-hotel routine? Musicians rarely got to see the places where they performed—you considered yourself lucky if you caught a glimpse of the town through the bus window on a clear day. So, in a way, being the maestro’s “tour wife” could have been seen as a career boost and wasn’t frowned upon by colleagues. Envied, perhaps, but there was never any open judgment. What happened on tour stayed on tour.

There was no indication, however, that Li Mei had been invited to such meetings—her family in China was far too wealthy and influential to engage in such dalliances. Still, many had noticed the lascivious glances and exceptionally kind remarks the maestro had directed toward the young musician during the tour. So, a week after the orchestra had returned, Li Mei arrived in the US to explore a possible position in the orchestra—a position that, curiously, no one had heard about until then.

Sitting in the living room—which Sebastian had converted into a semi-study by placing an old desk and his laptop near the bay windows—he found a few videos of Li Mei and was impressed by the way she reinterpreted the pieces she performed, adding intriguing nuances to well-known works. There was something about her that could undoubtedly enhance the concerto Sebastian had written—a certain colorful stroke to broaden the range of emotions in the piece. However, one thing distracted Sebastian during his research: a pop-up announcing an upcoming performance by Boris Nazaroff. Sebastian was a huge fan of the famous Russian cellist, who happened to play one of the oldest cellos in the world, on loan from a wealthy oligarch. He made a mental note to ask Paul to get him a ticket to the performance and then returned to watching Li Mei’s videos.

After studying the videos for an hour, Sebastian decided to discuss Li Mei’s candidacy with the Great Conductor and see if there was a way to arrange an interview with her to find out whether she would be interested in joining the project. Knowing his brother’s proclivity for occasional seductive approaches when it came to women—Paul, in his usual black Calvin Klein outfits and his slick ponytail, liked to think of himself as an homme fatal—Sebastian considered trying to meet the young musician himself and have a strictly professional discussion. Perhaps he could put a bit more effort into his attire—find a shirt without stains—for this occasion, ditch his sandals for leather shoes, shave, and comb his shoulder-length hair to create a pleasant impression before starting to talk about his piece.

He had better find a way to do it sooner rather than later, though, because the Great Conductor had given him the second condition for their collaboration—they would have to be ready to perform at a grandiose celebration of Mstislav Rostropovich’s birthday, whom the Great Conductor had personally known. The event was being organized by the most prominent music philanthropists for a special audience. It was going to be better than any music competition—the opportunity was not to be missed. The Great Conductor had high hopes for Sebastian’s piece. With the best available talents and their beautiful instruments to match, he wanted to create a perfect performance in front of the discerning audience.

The revealing of the second condition had taken place unexpectedly a few days ago. Right after another productive rehearsal with Sebastian’s new colleague, the Great Conductor had decided to show up and share his amazing plans. It was late in the evening. The colleague, who had chosen to stay at his own place, had left. Sebastian—dressed in his worn-to-shreds crimson robe that had belonged to his father—was having a bowl of Korean spicy rice noodles with some vegetables Martha had cooked for dinner when he heard the Great Conductor’s voice behind him. At first, Sebastian had thought that his tired mind and heavy head from all the work was creating noises that sounded like someone’s voice, but then he realized that he was in the presence of the maestro.