this performance would, if Kettelby were not already dead, kill him. Only two exceptions mitigated this: the piano and what in a professional orchestra would be the concertmaster—Ridley Groendal and David Palmer. Groendal was correct and accurate. Palmer’s tone soared.
Sister finally dismissed the orchestra with the hope that “we can get away with that.” It was not to be. But in the inner recesses of her heart, she was allowed to hope.
Instruments, chairs, and music stands were removed noisily to prepare for the special numbers in the recital.
Robert Koesler waited in the wings while a series of extremely nervous younger children blundered through solos, duets, and trios. Most of them left—some in tears—immediately after their respective performances.
Koesler was scheduled to play a duet with David Palmer near the end of the program. When their turn came, the two took to the stage, bowed to an imaginary audience, and began. Their number was Bach’s simple but tender “Air for the G-String.” Palmer’s interpretation was so virtuosic that Koesler found himself playing beyond his ordinary ability.
As the last note died away, the hush was almost reverential. Then a burst of applause from the few remaining students as well as from Sister Mary George herself.
Koesler had to admit that this was pretty heady stuff. He might like doing this more often . . . as long as he could accompany David Palmer.
So inspired was Koesler that he resolved to stay for the final few compositions, rather than to seek out that inevitable baseball game.
After the remainder of the more talented students performed—Sister always kept the best wine till last—the final duo was ready. The finale was to feature Palmer and his violin, accompanied by Groendal on the piano. They were to perform Rimski-Korsakov’s “The Flight of the Bumblebee,” a demanding piece that could spell frustration or be a tour de force for violin, trumpet, piano—whichever chose to carry the theme.
The two young musicians appeared on stage. They, as had each previous performer, bowed to a nearly empty house. It would be filled on the following day for the actual performance.
Something was going on. Koesler could feel the vibes. They were not good. Groendal struck an “A”; Palmer checked his instrument for tuning. There was a pause as the two collected themselves. Palmer’s right foot tapped out the third and fourth beat of a measure, setting the tempo.
They began. Or, rather, Groendal began. He was playing “Bumble Boogie,” a popular parody of the famed “Flight.” Palmer, taken completely by surprise, had clearly been tricked. He stood as if he were a still photo mounted on stage.
Sister Mary George leaped from her seat as if catapulted. “No! No! Now, stop!” she shrieked.
With a smirk, Groendal lifted his hands from the keyboard.
“Ridley! Whatever possessed you, boy?” Sister was both bewildered and quite angry. “Is this all you think of our concert? That you should fool around like this? Honestly! You could have Job chewing carpets! What is the matter with you, young man?”
“I’m sorry, Sister.” It was not even a good pretense.
“Now you settle down! This is the finale of the whole concert. Perhaps you don’t think you could be replaced. Well, think again, young man! It’s true that this is short notice. But nobody is irreplaceable! Nobody! I could have Robert Koesler, here, take your place. It would require all-night practice, practically. But you could do it, Robert.” She was now looking at Koesler, who slouched even further down in his seat. Please God, not me!
“Now, you start again from the beginning. David? Are you all right?”
Palmer, still frozen in the same position, nodded.
“Then,” Sister ordered, “set the tempo and begin.”
“The Flight of the Bumblebee” began in the tempo in which Rimski-Korsakov had written it. But the tension was deep. Groendal punched out the staccato chords too loudly. Palmer’s rendition of the melody was not unlike that of an angry bee.
They finished at last to cautious applause. Not that the performance was not good. Indeed, it could have been described as inspired. But there was concern for Sister Mary George and her temperament. However, she seemed somewhat mollified by the reading Groendal and Palmer had finally given the work. So, with a few additional warnings, she dismissed the remaining students.
Koesler sensed that this was not the end of the matter. He lingered until everything had been packed away, then followed Groendal and Palmer as they left the auditorium. Palmer left first, but waited just outside the side door. Once Ridley was down the steps, Palmer was on him.
Shortly they were three as Koesler joined the scuffle. There was a lot of rolling around, threats, mild curses, even a tear or two. Since all three were roughly of the same slight build, not much damage was being done. No one was getting mauled by the others. Nevertheless, Koesler’s participation—intended to bring peace—was not altogether successful.
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Koesler shouted. “Come on! Break it up!”
They rolled around a bit more. Eventually, all three were standing, with Koesler somehow between the other two.
“That’s better,” Koesler pronounced. Though it wasn’t much better.
“What was the idea, anyway, you jerk?” Palmer said.
“There wasn’t any idea, smart guy,” Groendal replied. “It was a joke, just a joke. Can’t you take a joke? Or is the great genius too high and mighty for a joke!”
“Some joke!” Palmer shoved Groendal, nearly restarting the fracas.
“Wait a minute!” Koesler stepped more firmly between them.
“What’s this to you, anyway, Koesler? This isn’t your fight,” Palmer protested.
Koesler had more altruistic reasons than either Palmer or Groendal would comprehend. So Robert alleged a more mundane, if no less true, motive. “’Cause I’ve got a stake in this thing, too. If you,” to Groendal, “injure him, I’m out one-half of my duet and I won’t get to perform. And if you,” speaking to Palmer, “injure him, I’m gonna have to learn ‘The Flight of the Bumblebee’ overnight. You heard Sister!”
Both Palmer and Groendal found Koesler’s reasons too laughable to pursue a fight neither of them really wanted. But they were in no way over their ill feelings toward each other.
“Okay . . . but this isn’t the end of this, Ridley,” Palmer said. “You can bet your bottom dollar on that! We’re not done!”
“Suit yourself, hotshot. Any time!”
And thus they parted.
After an uneasy evening and a night filled with portentous dreams, Koesler began the next day in an exhausted state. His parochial morning Mass was marked by the sort of prayer one expected from the trenches. Still, there was nothing he could pinpoint. Just a general feeling that this day might well see an event that would have lasting and horrible consequences. He went through morning classes in a kind of trance.
The students who were to perform in the orchestra and/or one of the recital numbers were excused from afternoon classes.
Koesler’s apprehension was not alleviated when Sister Mary George announced that representatives from Interlochen Arts Academy would attend the recital. She said it with a glint in her eye that was meant for David Palmer.
Unfortunately, her ambiguous statement was intercepted by Ridley Groendal. He considered himself easily qualified and deserving of a scholarship to Interlochen. This was his chance, his golden opportunity. He had anticipated this moment. He would not let it slip by. As far as he was concerned, his entire future hung on his performance today. He was ready. His overwhelming craving for this scholarship completely emptied his mind even of all thoughts of David Palmer.
Koesler, seated near Groendal, somehow sensed Ridley’s reaction to Sister’s announcement. Koesler’s forebodings intensified. He knew for whom the scouts came. In a sense, he was happy for Palmer. David deserved the best possible musical training and his parents certainly needed the aid of a scholarship. In that, their financial situation was no different from nearly all the families of that lower middle-class section of the city.
The Groendals could have used a scholarship too. Ridley came so close to qualifying. But close was as near as he would come. Tragically, Groendal’s proximity to an Interlochen free ride put him, at least in his own mind, in competition with Palmer. It was a competition Ridley was doomed to lose.
