Lovely Flawed Page 3

  “Let’s meet at the bar near the bad Indian food place,” I’ll tell Jeff. Or, “Let’s grab a drink where you played that Irish jig on a dare.” He understands my shorthand. We only drink where we see an illuminated neon-green shamrock in the window.

  Let’s have another drink. That’s what I want to tell him. I want to keep this buzz going. We can miss rehearsal. But Jeff won’t shut up. He keeps yammering on about Tony the violin teacher. About Tony the horn dog, the pussy hound.

  “But watch yourself, okay, Li Hua? He has a fetish for your people.”

  “What do you mean, ‘my people?’”

  “Asian girls.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tony’s seen more naked Asian girls than a Beijing gynecologist.”

  I grimace, then feel goose bumps run down my arms. I’m surprised by the reaction.

  Jeff’s my good friend and the orchestra’s assistant concertmaster. He’s second in command of our violins, next to Zheng, our concertmaster. Then there’s me. I’m third in the violin hierarchy. As third chair, I report to them both.

  As assistant concertmaster, Jeff has a lot of responsibilities. He plays the violin harmony to Zheng’s melody. Sometimes he plays the same notes as Zheng to increase the musical output. During performances, Jeff turns the pages for them both. Jeff has one goal when he plays alongside his boss: Make Zheng look good.

  Since Jeff is assistant concertmaster, he’s my direct superior. I’m lucky, because we’re friends. Like most musical wunderkinds, Jeff’s pedigree is storied. He graduated from the University of Rochester (Eastman School of Music) at the top of his class. He was a Radha S. Eisenberg scholarship winner and holds the Chaverim Chair in our orchestra. He’s won the Oscar A. Bellach and Riola B. Sanderberg Prizes in classical music. He’s also won Best Solo Performance four times in a row at the Classical Violin Consortium of Brussels. Blah, blah, blah. His CV is too long to read. He’s also a walking poster child for Jewish overachievement in the arts.

  Zheng Bao Chow, our concertmaster, is crazy talented. Beijing-born, he’s a recent import to the States, part of a Beijing-NYC musical exchange program. Zheng’s the cutting image of a classical star. He’s tall, with model good looks and sexy, shoulder-length, wavy black hair. He’s in his early thirties with a chiseled jaw and a permanent five o’clock shadow. He speaks English like a native and his thousand-watt smile dazzles any room.

  Female fans swoon over Zheng, and with good reason. The man looks hot in a tuxedo. Zheng’s the main reason our season’s tickets sell out minutes after they go on sale. When he’s not wowing with his pizzicato and triple stops, he’s at the gym. Aggressive and arrogant, he’s our classical alpha male. He’s also in the closet.

  Zheng’s management style can best be described as benevolent Ceaușescu. He lords over our twenty-plus violins as concertmaster and dictator. He’s known for his 18-hour workdays as much as for his use of the word motherfucker—as noun, adjective, and compliment. He favors intimidation, gift-giving, and raging temper tantrums to achieve his ends.

  Lately, Zheng’s psychological beatdowns have thinned our ranks. His tirades have created both orchestra buzz and churn. I’ve noticed a cadre of über-violinists emerge in our ranks. Some of our new players are Zheng-esque doppelgängers: fearless musical machines. He calls our section his bad motherfuckers. In concert, he gets all 100-plus musicians in tune and leads us musically under our conductor, Salazar De La Gottari.

  Zheng works closely with Salazar. If Zheng is the vice-president of the orchestra, De La Gottari is president. Zheng’s literally a heartbeat away from the top job. If anything should happen to the maestro, everything would fall on Zheng to conduct us in concert.

  I look over at Jeff and see him lost in thought. I take out my phone and check Claffer. Let’s see what the latest is in the world of NYC classical music.

  @CLASSICALMUSICGOSSIPNYC WILL MAESTRO DE LA GOTTARI BRING THE MAGIC THIS SEASON? #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA #CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC

  @SEXYCLASSICALMUSICGIRLSNYC WELCOME CONCERTMASTER ZHENG BAO CHOW #WELOVEZHENGBAOCHOW #ZHENGMEALLNIGHTLONG #CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA

  @SEXYCLASSICALMUSICGIRLSNYC WE DREAM OF ZHENG... SHOW US YOUR VIOLIN! #WELOVEZHENGBAOCHOW #ZHENGMEALLNIGHTLONG #CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA

  @CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC @SEXYCLASSICALMUSICGIRLSNYC THANKS FOR THE WARM WELCOME... HERE’S TO A GREAT NEW SEASON #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA #BEIJINGTONYCIAINTNOABC

  Salazar De La Gottari better deliver this season or it’ll be his last. And what’s up with Zheng? Does his ego really need to be stroked by these fangirls?

  Jeff and I met at a music studio on the Lower East Side a decade ago. I was a last-minute addition to a small chamber orchestra for a studio session. Since then, we’ve supported each other through career and relationship ups and downs. We’ve survived things that make ghosts of most long-term relationships. Bumps that even romantic couples couldn’t stomach. I was there for him when his first wife left him. And he was there for me when I split with my ex. Now that he’s been married for six years and has a little boy, we’re close friends. And a little more.

  The soul of a classical musician is complex. We have to be both strong and open, but not too much of either or we risk alienating our audience. Good players need both ego and emotion. Without them, there’s no performance. Ever seen a musician perform something perfectly, but leave the performance feeling empty? Then you know what I mean. The key is balancing the two competing traits. That’s why I sometimes sleep with Jeff when he comes to the City. Only musicians understand each other.

  After Jeff got engaged, we cooled things. We didn’t have sex because I didn’t feel right about it. We got close a few times, but I always stopped him. The week before his wedding, Jeff really wanted me. Still, I resisted his advances. After his wedding, I was hoping he’d cool off and give us some space. The truth is, neither of us were sure how our relationship would work once he put on the gold band. Turns out he likes cheating on his wife. I know I’m not the only one he’s creeping with. It feels right when we’re in bed, but I always hate myself after. I feel ashamed.

  Jeff’s wife, Wendy, isn’t one of my favorite people. She’s cold and hasn’t done much for Jeff personally or professionally. She parcels out her emotions like fun-size candy bars, making Jeff work for every piece of her love and affection. That isn’t love. She’s also a flirt and an alpha female. It’s no wonder she’s a ball-busting CFO at a corporate behemoth on Greene Street. She works at a place that’s secretly sodomizing the American consumer with sub-prime mortgages and credit default swaps. Wendy’s problem is that she’s not creative. This leaves Jeff with a big hole in his life. He has no one to talk with about his true passions. About music, love, and the thrill of performing. No one to talk to about Rachmaninoff or Bach, or to weep with emotion over a Brandenburg Concerto.

  I guess what I’m saying is that I sleep with Jeff because I care about his artistry. Sex is how I nurture his soul and encourage his creativity. I hope I don’t sound all freaky-psycho.

  I’ve never been “the other woman” to Jeff because he loves Wendy. He’s not leaving her for me and I’m okay with that. I don’t like seeing Jeff step out of his marriage, but every time I see his wife, I feel less guilty. Wendy’s a piece of work. Yes, he’s betraying her, but I’m divided. I want to nourish and care for Jeff. But I don’t feel good about lying. I believe that sex nurtures and heals. Maybe I’m selfish. I like knowing that at least one man wants me.

  These days, Jeff and I stick to above-the-clothing behavior. But Zheng’s putting the screws to him. Asking Jeff to play more, practice more, and learn more pieces. Zheng’s a merciless drill sergeant and the pressure is killing Jeff. Jeff’s been working 5 a.m. to 11 p.m. for months straight.

  Sometimes when we drink, it’ll all come pouring out of him. Jeff will break down and start crying and tell me he can’t do it anymore. The music isn’t worth it, he’ll say. I’ll wrap my arms around him and hu
g him. I’ll tell him that I’m there for him no matter what. That no amount of pressure and unhappiness is worth the cost to his soul.

  After the tears, we’ll make out all passionately at the bar. We’ll kiss and touch and comfort each other. It’s nice being wanted by him. I know he had a tough time growing up. He’s worked so hard to get where he is. We both feel pressure to remain at the top of our field. That, in itself, exacts a brutal toll.

  But when Jeff confides in me, I get emotional. I’ll well up with tears and wonder, “If this isn’t love, what is?” I’ll teeter on the edge of my own emotional avalanche, wanting to say something to him. To share how I really feel. But, he always beats me to it. He’ll put his hands on my shoulders and look me square in the eye. “I love you, Li Hua,” he’ll say. “I really do. Don’t ever leave me.”

  “I love you, too, Jeff. Always.” I’ll say. And I’ll mean it.

  Lately he’s been telling me that he’s not in love with Wendy. That it’s me he’s always loved. That I’m his real soul mate. He says that when we make love it’s like his soul is kissing my soul on the surface of the sun. That always makes me emotional.

  But Jeff has something else on his mind these days. A fetish that most men wouldn’t admit. He’s so obsessed that he can’t use the bathroom without company. The only thing on his mind is the Guarneri.

  Jeff sets his beer down on the bar and looks at his feet for the umpteenth time. On the floor, his ankles form a headlock around his violin case. His vice-grip guards his prized possession, an 18th century Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesù violin. It cost more than a Lamborghini, Jeff says. More than a pre-war 3BR/2BA on Central Park West. More than taking out a hit out on a Julliard concertmaster. I know enough not to ask him how he paid for it.

  “The Guarneri’s are good, but they ain’t no Strads,” I say, winding him up.

  “It’s NOT second to a Stradivarius. It’s the other way around. Don’t even joke about it, Li Hua,” he says without humor.

  I’m disgusted by his obsession with vintage instruments. He’s a grown man, for god’s sake. A good player is a good player. You don’t need a multimillion-dollar instrument to sound good. Eric Clapton isn’t good because of “Blackie,” his prized black Stratocaster. He’s good because he’s frickin’ Eric Clapton. Put a $200 violin in Itzhak Perlman’s hands and he’ll still sound like Perlman. But, Jeff’s a friend, one of my bosses, and my best drinking buddy. I can’t deconstruct him.

  Jeff takes another pull on his beer and takes out his phone. He presses a few things and then looks over at me. “I just sent you Tony’s information. Make an appointment with him, okay?” Why does he want to pimp me out to Tony? Jeff puts his phone away and launches into a monologue about Tony.

  Tony went to Julliard as a teenager, Jeff says. Okay. He was a prodigy. Naturally. He’s an insatiable womanizer. Note to self.

  Tony graduated from music school early, at age 20, top of his class. Brash and talented, Tony’s achievements generated buzz in classical music circles. Shortly after graduating, he met and married a Chinese girl, also a musician. Then, he landed a fat recording contract. A classical label tapped him for a touring and recording deal that required him to relocate to Beijing. He got a sweet advance from the label, so he and his wife decamped to China. They loved it there, flush with cash and a little musical celebrity.

  In the go-go ’80s, Tony and his wife partied in Beijing. They bought a big house and lived high on the hog, hosting dinner parties and recitals for the glitterati. Soon, Tony got hired to teach at a top music academy.

  Eventually the two of them settled in a villa outside the old city of Beijing. Secreted away from the city people, they hired a house staff and went crazy decorating. They bought lush carpets, pillows, and drapes. Every room in their home got a day bed and every window got flowing drapes. They covered their walls in exotic fabrics, making every surface soft to the touch. People who saw their home called it upscale brothel. It was a sumptuous haven for the two of them, and they relished being international jet-setters.

  In time, they became oenophiles and foodies. They started a winery and hired a private chef. They threw wild parties, entertaining their guests in their lavish salons or outside in their half-acre garden. While Tony’s wife entertained partygoers, Tony would offer house tours to female visitors. He’d sneak away with other men’s wives, bedding them in the upstairs rooms. Tony loved Beijing. He smoked a lot of hash and read a lot of books. He even played a little violin.

  But Tony lost his shit, Jeff says. There were rumors of improprieties with young girls at the music college. There was a formal inquiry and Tony lost his job—and his recording contract. Then his wife left him. He finally repatriated to the States after nearly a decade abroad, settling in New York City. But the stink followed him. No music school would touch him, so he turned to private teaching. Even found himself another Chinese girl. An ABC. They married and had a son. And he got divorced. Again.

  Jeff finishes his monologue and drains the last of his beer. He sets the bottle on the bar and tells me he has to leave for rehearsal early. Early? He clinks my glass with his empty and kisses me on the cheek before bending down to grab the Guarneri.

  “Don’t stay too long, Li Hua.” He looks at my drink and a flash of concern crosses his face. He looks directly in my eyes. “There’s no problem you can have that alcohol won’t make worse.”

  I laugh, then fiddle with the zipper on my violin case. I watch him move toward the door and stir the ice cubes in my drink with my finger. I look up and catch the eye of the bartender. I think I have a little time before rehearsal.

  HE HARDEST PART OF PLAYING ISN’T THE PERFORMANCE. CONCERTS ARE THRILLING, but routine. Walking onstage doesn’t phase us. The hardest part of being in an orchestra is walking in to the one place where rigid hierarchy reigns supreme: the green room.

  The group has to assemble en masse before we walk onstage. So, we pack into a green room until we’re called. Then the show can begin.

  The green room is a glorified holding pen. TV talk shows use them to corral their guests. After hair and makeup, shows pin down their guests so they don’t wander off. They don’t want their guests to, oh, leave the building to score some blow up the block. But TV shows go overboard on the pampering. Their green rooms are impulse havens. They’re pleasure zones chockablock with booze, junk food, TV, video games, computers, and magazines.

  Our orchestra green room, on the other hand, has nothing for the attention-challenged. No geegaws or thingamajigs. There are no amenities here—unless you count the bathroom or a water fountain. Food and drink aren’t allowed near our multi-thousand dollar instruments and formal attire, for obvious reasons.

  But the caste system is what makes our green room unique. This is the visible representation of the orchestra hierarchy. Career mobility doesn’t exist here. Hard work won’t get you anything—other than the derision of your fellow players. To succeed here, you need more than skills. You need provenance.

  Who’s your family? Where’d you go to music school? Who’d you study with? How hot do you look in your tux or little black dress? No one ascends to the first chair without the right pedigree. And no one advances unless someone dies.

  Today, I enter the orchestra building off Amsterdam Avenue. Inside the lobby, I wait in line at security for my turn at the metal detector. Finally, I’m allowed to walk through the machine, but am stopped on the other side. Something on me is sending the detector into histrionics. Back and forth, I walk through the machine and each time, the alarm goes off. I attempt to placate the machine by discarding pieces of clothing, one at a time. But, again, I set off the alarm. I look over and see the operator scratching his head. Neither of us can figure out why the machine doesn’t like me. I wonder if this is a metaphor for my career. Finally, they break out the hand-held scanner. I’m wanded by an earnest, pale-faced, black-lipsticked twenty-something. Goth boy spots the problem right away: the silver bracelet on my wrist. I’m embarrassed at havin
g forgotten its presence underneath my long sleeves and ad-lib apologies. I’m allowed to pass.

  I reach the turnstiles and swipe my ID at the card reader, then walk about forty steps past the elevator banks. Before me lies a long, dark, cavernous tunnel. End to end, it’s nearly as big as the underground pedestrian tunnel at 42nd Street. This is the passageway that connects the unwashed masses to the hallowed world of classical music. A long walk through the darkness takes you to our dressing rooms, equipment lockers, and stage. The women in the group call the cavernous passageway “the rape tunnel.”

  If you’re lucky, you’ll have company on the long walk through the rape tunnel. An old security guard in a golf cart with flashing lights will visit you. You’ll be walking along and hear the electronic whine of the golf cart as it nears. You’ll look up and see an old man in a powder blue uniform driving toward you, his bony hands at the wheel. You’ll acknowledge him as he approaches and he’ll nod his head “Hello!” He’ll smile brightly at you, then zip past without stopping.

  After ten minutes of walking, I arrive at the dressing rooms and makeup stations. I head to the women’s room to change. Not because we’re performing—this is just a rehearsal, but I want to stash my purse and coat and change my shoes. Once I’m done situating myself, I unsheathe my violin and bow from their case and head further down the tunnel.

  It’s always the same cliques. Brass stick with brass. Woodwinds stick with woodwinds. You look around the open assembly area and see competitors, not collaborators. Every seat is occupied by someone with an agenda: posers, haters, brown-nosers, climbers, dinosaurs, and corpses.

  Dinosaurs are the orchestra old guard. These players aren’t necessarily old, just entrenched. Maybe they came to the orchestra at sixteen and have been here for twenty years. The result is inflexibility and blind obedience. Every word they utter refers to the “good old days” (translation: before you arrived). Their smug words of condescension tell you to be thankful for your job. They’re risk-averse in every sense: socially, intellectually, creatively, and musically.