Lovely Flawed Page 4

  Corpses, on the other hand, are past their prime. These are the fifty-, sixty-, and seventy-year-olds (and up) that look like death. Everyone secretly guesses they plan to expire on stage. Dropping dead like poor old Mr. Paul H. Kadaver. Yes, that was his real name. Our oldest cellist just flopped over dead two years ago during Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony at Carnegie.

  The corpses hold the best spots in the group because they’ve outlasted everyone else. They ascend once other corpses pass on. They rarely leave the orchestra for other opportunities, because there are no other opportunities for them. Other orchestras don’t want them on their payrolls because their salaries are too high. And regular employers don’t want the hassle of hiring one. Who wants to train a seventy-year-old trombonist?

  The corpses are also sticklers for tradition. That’s the way we do things around here is their mantra. You can always tell when you’re talking to a corpse because they’re preoccupied with their vacation days and the number of years they have until retirement. Our music unions may be apathetic, but they’ve successfully protected our dinosaurs and corpses.

  I look around and see a few friendly faces. The members of the group sit on tiered bleachers, like teens in a school gymnasium, or convicts in a prison yard. A few members say hello to me and nod their heads as I look around.

  Just like in prison, the powerful sit atop the highest tier of the bleachers. These are the top music school grads with the best pedigrees. The lower you sit relative to the top tier, the lower your caste. Some musicians try to shirk their caste by sitting in a chair or on the ground with a group of friends. That, in itself, confirms your position in the lowest caste. A ten-second glance around the assembly area tells you exactly who holds the power.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” I look up and see Jeff standing right in front of me. “How was your break?” he says loudly, trying to confirm our professional relationship.

  “Fine, fine,” I say. Jeff wraps his arms around me and gives me a quick hug.

  “Li Hua!” someone shouts.

  I look up as a running projectile crashes into us, bifurcating Jeff and me. I glance down to identify the person hugging me. It’s a she. She has a beautiful head of straight black hair, with a large hair clip secured in the center. Her signature style tells me who it is. I could spot her big, fluorescent green hair clip from outer space. It’s my favorite person here.

  “Whoa! Steady there,” I say as I regain my balance. “Hi to you, too, Mingmei!” I’m filled with happiness and wrap my arms around our youngest violinist. I hold her close and kiss the top of her head. I squeeze her and feel nourished by her warmth. I hug her again and then drop my arms to my sides.

  Mingmei doesn’t break our embrace. Instead, she grips me tightly, holding me like a child with a new puppy.

  “Well, hello again, Mingmei!” I say, arms at my sides.

  She still doesn’t break our hug. She leans back and smiles brightly at me. This is what a friendly face looks like. At sixteen, she’s the orchestra’s youngest member and our most junior violinist. Mingmei has high cheekbones, smooth skin, and gorgeous black hair. She developed early and has the figure of a girl several years older. Like me, she hails from Southern Taiwan. Over the years, I’ve grown to love her like a sister. Some day, she’s going to blossom into a beautiful woman. I look at her and feel like I’m looking at a younger version of myself. A healthier version. Before I veered off a cliff.

  “I missed you,” Mingmei says. “The time off is always so hard on me. I miss my friends.”

  She breaks our hug and immediately takes out her smartphone. She swipes the screen of her device and starts typing things at lightning speed. She’s obsessed with Claffer, the New York City classical music news application, and I watch her scanning the headlines and news items.

  It seems like the millennials can’t handle a moment of solitary reflection. Phones have taken the place of silence. Human conversation is merely an interruption to the quality time one spends with one’s smartphone. I calm my internal annoyance meter and regain my composure. I wave my hand in Mingmei’s face, trying to get her attention.

  “I missed you, too. It’s so good to be back. How’s your photography coming?” She looks up at me and I notice how her long hair frames her delicate face. She’s a strikingly pretty woman for being so young.

  “My father sent me a digital SLR from back home. I got some new lenses and am getting even better. I’ll send you a link,” Mingmei says cheerfully.

  “I’d like that. I’m interested in seeing your work.”

  I hear some laughter and animated conversation, and look up. Our feared orchestra manager, Mrs. Notrabi, enters the staging area. She’s all smiles and greetings as she passes several musicians. A few people acknowledge her presence with head nods and small bows. From my vantage point, it looks like she is parting a sea of people as she floats into the room. I catch her eye and she starts heading toward me. This can’t be good. She walks right up to me and gives me a serious look.

  “Li Hua, may we see you for a moment?” she says gravely.

  “Sure.”

  “In Audition B,” Mrs. Notrabi says, referring to one of our small conference rooms. “Please, come with me.”

  She takes the lead and we start walking away. I turn around and see that most of the members of the orchestra have turned their eyes away. Out of respect, they don’t stare. They know what’s happening. I see the eyes of a few violinists on me, including Mingmei and Jenny, one of our other young players. They look at me, but say nothing as I’m led away.

  Mrs. Notrabi and I exit the open air staging area and walk down a side hallway. My lips are chapped and my stomach is queasy. I really want some water right now. We finally get to “B” and Mrs. Notrabi cracks the door. She motions for me to enter, but I pause at the threshold, immobile. “Please, Ms. Hui,” she says, touching my elbow. I walk in and see a row of four chairs behind a rectangular table at the front of the room. Three of the seats are occupied by people I know.

  In front of me are my two bosses, Jeff Goldburger and Zheng Bao Chow. Next to them is our conductor and musical director, Salazar De La Gottari. Mrs. Notrabi takes her seat in the remaining empty chair. I look at Jeff and try to make eye contact, but he avoids my gaze. Zheng stares daggers at me.

  I stand alone at the front of the room facing the committee, my violin and bow my only defense.

  “Your position has been eliminated,” Mrs. Notrabi says, without preamble.

  “What?” I say.

  Zheng straightens himself in his chair and flares his nostrils. He clears his throat and looks down at his notes. “Ms. Hui, you played flat during Scriabin’s Third Symphony, you’ve showed up drunk to at least three performances, and you didn’t turn the fucking pages during Scheherazade,” he says angrily.

  “Mr. Chow! That language isn’t necessary here,” Mrs. Notrabi scolds him.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, old woman,” Zheng fires back at her.

  “Please! These proceedings will remain professional and beyond reproach,” De La Gottari says.

  Zheng clears his throat again and looks at me. “Ms. Hui, you will never embarrass me like that again. That night in Munich was a disaster,” he says. His scowl suddenly disappears and he grins from ear to ear. “Your career is now over.” He’s getting off on this.

  It’s true about Munich. We were playing Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade and I really screwed things up. Jeff was sick, so it was just me and Zheng that night. I was filling in as assistant concertmaster and I was a little toasted. I had a few too many steins at the beer hall the night before. So, I had some hair of the dog the next morning. And a few more drinks during the day just to steady things. Before we went on, I had a couple more so I could stay even.

  It was just Zheng and me leading the violins as the show opened. Scheherazade has a lot of violin solos. Part of the job of the assistant concertmaster is to turn the pages of sheet music for the concertmaster so they can kee
p playing. I lost my concentration and didn’t turn the pages in time. It only took a few seconds for Zheng to fall behind. His timing was off and he butchered the piece. The audience started murmuring and we lost their confidence. Zheng stormed off the stage embarrassed, mid-show. We had to cancel the performance and issue refunds. The press had a field day with him.

  “Then there are your activities, Ms. Hui,” Zheng says. “We’re well aware of your... how shall I put this delicately? Your appetites and excesses. Your private behavior is not on par with a member of this professional organization.”

  “My private behavior? But all of us have our private lives. Aren’t I entitled to a little privacy?”

  “Privacy, Ms. Hui, is dead,” Zheng says. I look over at De La Gottari and note his sympathetic eyes. Mrs. Notrabi wears a poker face and Jeff is still avoiding eye contact. “All of your drinking, drugs, and sexual hookups aren’t allowed here,” he says, smiling. This isn’t a termination. It’s an execution.

  “Mr. Chow! Stop this right now! This is not a witch hunt,” Mrs. Notrabi says.

  “For starters, we’d need a burning stake,” Zheng mutters.

  “This is not how we conduct terminations,” Mrs. Notrabi says. I look over and see Zheng sneering, his arms folded across his chest. Mrs. Notrabi pauses and looks at me. “It is the decision of this committee that you be terminated, effective immediately. These proceedings are regrettable, but necessary. You should know that we take no delight in this. We all wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors, Ms. Hui.”

  Mrs. Notrabi stands and approaches me. She motions with her outstretched arm, indicating for me to walk toward the door. She touches my elbow as we walk out, guiding our passage. I look back over my shoulder, trying to catch Jeff’s eyes. Finally, he looks up at me, his face laden with emotion. He silently mouths, “I’m sorry.” Zheng and De La Gottari stand up from their seats and follow us into the hallway.

  “We’ll take her from here,” Zheng says to Mrs. Notrabi.

  “I’d like to escort her out privately, not through the green room,” Mrs. Notrabi says to him and De La Gottari. “Her belongings are at the security desk and she can get them at the front. That’s the way we do terminations here, gentlemen,” she says.

  “We’d like to make sure she gets a chance to say goodbye to her friends,” Zheng says.

  “This is highly unusual and against protocol,” she says to them both.

  “Mrs. Notrabi,” Zheng says, putting a hand on her shoulder. “We’re fortunate to have your professional expertise in these matters. We assure you that we have only the best intentions. We’d like to ensure that Ms. Hui exits the building properly.” Zheng looks at me seriously, then raises the corners of his mouth. Shit.

  Zheng takes me from Mrs. Notrabi, with De La Gottari in tow. He gently nudges me toward the green room. Now, assembled in the green room are over a hundred musicians ready to rehearse. I’m perp-walked into the middle of the room and Zheng stops. Every eye is on us. You’ve made your point. Asshole.

  Zheng says loudly, “I’m afraid I’ll need to ask for your security pass, too.” I hand it over to him, gritting my teeth. Zheng waits several long seconds to prolong my public shaming, then escorts me to the dressing rooms.

  Out of earshot of Zheng, De La Gottari leans over to me. He says the decision to fire me was not universal, but he can’t say more. He hands me an envelope with my final paycheck and pats me gingerly on the back. I look up at De La Gottari and note the concern in his face.

  “Take care, dear,” De La Gottari says respectfully.

  “Oh, and your career?” Zheng says. “Good luck with that.” He smiles at me icily.

  I take the long walk down the rape tunnel for the last time. I have my violin and bow at my side and a check in my hand. Soon, I arrive at the building lobby and retrieve my belongings from security. I get situated and push through the revolving lobby doors into the sunlight. I emerge to a warm sidewalk in the springtime air. It’s sunny, it’s bright, and the day is filled with possibility. The heat from the sun warms my skin. I think it’s time I call Tony.

  GOURMET SAKE SHOP DOESN’T BELONG HERE. AN UPSCALE SNEAKER SHOP DOESN’T EITHER. The gourmet lobster shack should pick up its tail and go home. These places weren’t always here. The Lower East Side used to be working class.

  A hundred years ago, immigrants poured into the Lower East Side (L.E.S.) of Manhattan. They created homes and built their lives among the cohort. They took working-class jobs and eked out a meager existence. They aspired to better things, but their goal was the same: survival.

  The Chinese were part of these L.E.S. émigrés. In the 1900s, they were bound for Chinatown—and became bound to it. It was their home, but it circumscribed them. It brought them culture and community and jobs, but little in the way of mobility. Very few Chinese ever left Chinatown.

  To the Jews, the L.E.S. was a shtetl—a community. Like the Chinese, the Jews staked their claim among the towering tenements and storefronts. They built businesses, grew their families, and tried to improve their lot. Italians and Poles built and created, too. As did Germans, Russians, and dozens more.

  Back then, the L.E.S. was barbers and cobblers, tailors and funeral homes. Gourmet olive oil certainly didn’t have its own store front here. The streets I walk on today are far removed from those my ancestors walked in the early 1900s.

  I look at the businesses on East 6th Street as I walk, and try to reconcile them with my sepia-toned memory. I imagine the old-country stores and city dwellers on this block. I see women in big dresses and hats. They wear black shoes and carry canvas grocery bags with toddlers in tow. Their world-weary faces reveal purpose, not leisure.

  I imagine men and women in overcoats walking past me briskly, arms swinging at their sides. I see their faces and note their hollow eyes, exhausted after eighteen hours of piecework in the garment district. These are the people on whose backs New York City was built.

  I snap out of my reverie and continue past First Avenue. Nearly a week has gone by since I was fired, but I’m hopeful. I’ve gotten some supportive texts from Mingmei and Jeff. Both are asking me how I’m doing. Tonight I have plans to go dancing with Mingmei. And Jeff finally convinced me to reach out to Tony. That’s why I’m here in the East Village. I promised Jeff I’d see Tony at least once.

  I stop mid-block and look down at my phone for the address. I look back up and across the street. There it is. On the opposite side of the street I see a dilapidated four-story cinderblock building. The front of the building is kissed by a latticework of rusting fire escape stairs and a decade of grimy filth. I cross the street, climb the stoop, then scan the names on the outside directory. I see ALOBARDO on a peeling sticker and press the corresponding button. I wait a few seconds. No answer. I buzz the intercom again. Finally, I hear a gravely voice.

  “Yeah!”

  “Uh, hello. This is Li Hua for Tony Alobardo.”

  “Fourth floor. Down the hall. It’s on the right hand side. 4B,” the voice says, through the static squelch of the intercom. The door buzzes and I push in on the heavy metal door. The door scrapes on the floor as I step into the vestibule, then closes behind me with a resonant thud. It smells like mildew.

  I see a dozen newspapers wrapped in blue plastic lying on the ground, and rows of identical metal mail slots against the right wall. Many of the boxes are bursting at the seams with uncollected mail. I push past another door and enter the lobby. It’s large and expansive, covered in gray industrial carpet with brass accents. I ascend the center staircase, but go slowly, as the stairs sag underneath my weight. I grab the banister to steady myself, but that, too, is rickety.

  When I reach the first landing, the sounds of the street begin to fade. I pause and hear both street traffic below and classical music in the distance. On the second floor landing, I hear the music more distinctly. Violin for sure.

  By the fourth floor landing, I’m certain it’s him. I follow the sound to Tony’s door and knock
gently. No answer. I rap more vigorously. Still nothing.

  A man in an adjacent apartment cracks his door and looks down the hall. He gives me a two-second glance and barks, “Just walk in. He never locks his door,” then closes and latches his own. I open Tony’s apartment door tentatively and peer inside the dark hallway. “Hello?”

  I walk into his apartment hallway, repeating my salutation, carefully stepping on his area rug. I reach a corner and crane my head around to the next room. And that’s when I see him. He’s in the bathroom with the door wide open. He’s playing the opening bars of Massenet’s Meditation from Thais. The natural reverb from the bathroom makes the violin sound even richer. Every musician loves playing in the bathroom, because the sound waves bounce off the hard tile surfaces to create a fuller sound. It’s a musician’s trick. The warm sound fills Tony’s small apartment.

  I continue watching him play through the open bathroom door, taking it all in. Tony’s barefoot, and sits on a wooden stool next to the toilet. He’s wearing a pair of cotton pants and a short-sleeved button-down island shirt. His skin is tan and his thick mane of gray hair has been slicked back into a pompadour. He’s handsome, but no lady killer. Tony’s face shows calm and purpose as he plays, and I see the lines that crease his face. They’ve marked him with character and he looks better for it. There’s a lit cigarette smoldering in an ashtray next to him on the bathroom sink.

  Meditation is usually played by a violin soloist accompanied by a harp. The two are usually backed by a full orchestra. But Tony, despite playing solo, loses nothing in translation. I observe how tenderly he plays each measure and can see his reverence for the music. I’m rapt with attention and lean against the hallway wall. I should say something or interrupt him. But I don’t want to stop the magic.

  I imagine myself as his violin.

  Before he picked me up, I was rigid. I was voiceless and strung tight, I waited for him to notice me as I lay on his couch. I hoped he would consider me and see my beauty. I needed him.