In all, Koesler was grateful that his small talents did not qualify him for Interlochen, not even as a paying student. Not the type who was driven to win at any cost, he was better off out of the competition.
Gradually, the audience—mostly mothers, occasionally a father, of the performers—gathered in the auditorium. There were quite a few guests no one could place. More than likely, they were just interested parishioners responding to the notice of the recital in the previous Sunday’s parish bulletin. But somewhere among those strangers were the Interlochen scouts.
Their presence had different effects on different people. Nervous amateurs became more apprehensive. The more talented performers became a bit more keyed-up. But none more-so than Groendal and Palmer. If there is a single moment that dictates the remainder of one’s life, this was that moment for each of them.
The orchestra opened the program. It was as Koesler had suspected: They did not “get away” with “In a Persian Market.” Never had the beggars of that piece been more in need of help.
The recital began at the bottom with the youngest students. Some few forgot their memorized sections midway through and fled the stage in tears. Others, particularly considering their tender ages, did quite well.
“Which ones do you think they are, Bob?”
Koesler was startled. Peeking at the audience from the backstage wing, he had not heard Ridley come up behind him. “Which ones do I think who are?”
“The scouts! The scouts from Interlochen,” Groendal whispered.
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably some of the people who keep going out and coming back.”
Groendal thought that made sense. As the afternoon wore on, the performers played to a radically changing audience. Some of the adults exited as soon as their children had finished performing. Others arrived in approximate time to hear their children, scheduled for later in the program. Still others, if one cared to note, returned periodically as if to hear selected individuals.
“Nervous?” Koesler asked.
“Butterflies in my stomach,” Groendal confessed. “But I don’t think nervous. I know what I’ve got to do.”
“Too early for you to get nervous anyway. I’m the one who’s on soon; you got a while to wait yet.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.”
It was evident that Groendal had nothing on his mind but his own performance.
The time came for Koesler and Palmer to take the stage. As far as Koesler could tell, those in the audience who had been going in and out all were settled in their seats. In all truth, Koesler knew it was not to hear him.
They played “Air for the G-String” beautifully. Or, more specifically, Palmer performed it expressively, caressingly. Koesler accompanied him adequately. They concluded to enthusiastic applause. Koesler basked in the acclaim, while realizing it was his only in very small measure.
After a few more performers, it came Groendal’s time.
He exuded great presence as he came onstage, bowed confidently and spent a few moments collecting himself before beginning Rachmaninoff’s “Prelude in C-Sharp Minor.” He managed to capture the initial sound—three notes with their corresponding chords—of church bells. In the second section, he accelerated with near abandon. He brought the piece to a close in power and dignity, and received a justified ovation at the conclusion.
Groendal returned to bow for a curtain call, all but unheard-of in a parochial school recital. He came off the stage beaming with Moseslike incandescence. Whatever it was—adrenalin, the power of prayer—he had played well beyond his natural ability. He could not have picked a better time to do so. As of this moment, his future as a professional musician seemed assured.
“Congratulations, Rid!” Koesler greeted him enthusiastically. “You did it! That was great!”
“Yeah, I did! That was terrific. I don’t think I ever played it better. Wow!”
Others backstage gathered around, congratulating him. Sister Mary George was forced to shush them so the recital could continue undisturbed. But it was evident she was pleased with his performance.
It was obvious to Koesler that Groendal had completely forgotten that his time on stage was not yet over. As far as Ridley was concerned, the climax had been reached; there was nothing to follow.
But Koesler was acutely aware that the end had not come. Indeed, it was precisely the coming moment that had been the cause of all his foreboding. Strange that it seemed to so trouble Koesler while Groendal, whose moment of truth this might well be, was so unconcerned that he appeared to have forgotten entirely his engagement on stage with Palmer.
It came. After the rest of Sister’s other prize pupils had finished, the showplace of the recital was at hand.
Koesler began to wonder if he was alone in his premonition of disaster. Maybe he was. Sure, that’s the way he was. He tended to be pessimistic about things. Nothing would go wrong. Rid Groendal certainly would not pull another dumb stunt like his “Bumble Boogie” rehearsal. For one thing, he’d had his little joke. And for another, presumably he had garnered quite a few credits with the Rachmaninoff “Prelude.” There was no doubt he’d done extremely well. The assumption was that the Interlochen scouts had heard him. From all appearances, a pretty safe assumption.
Finally, Palmer would do nothing to foul up the performance. This was his big chance. Outside of playing it beautifully, Palmer had proved little in his “Air for the G-String.” But “Flight of the Bumblebee”! Great artists could demonstrate virtuosity with that.
Groendal and Palmer entered from opposite sides of the stage. Groendal seated himself at the piano, arranged the music, and sounded an “A” as Palmer gave his violin one final tuning. Palmer fixed his instrument between chin and shoulder and glanced at Groendal. Both nodded: they were ready.
Here they go.
Palmer tapped his right foot against the floor. Koesler’s eyes popped wide. It was too fast—way too fast, impossibly fast! But Palmer cut into the melody at just that impossible pace.
The tempo was much more demanding on Palmer than it was on Groendal, who was merely playing accompaniment. Still, Palmer was the one who had established this speed. And it was he who was maintaining it.
After the first several measures, he left Groendal floundering. At first, Ridley tried to keep up. Finding that impossible, he tried playing on the first beat of each measure. But that was foreign to his practice of the piece.
Finally, shoulders sagging, he surrendered and played no more.
It became a solo.
And what a solo! The audience—those who could block out Groendal’s humiliation—sat mesmerized by Palmer’s merciless attack. If anyone had any doubt that this was a certified prodigy, all hesitation was erased by this singular presentation.
Especially at the speed he had set, it was no wonder that Palmer completed “Flight” in near-record time. The conclusion, executed with a flair, drew a standing ovation.
Few were even aware of Groendal slinking from the stage. Koesler was. “It’s not the end of the world!” Koesler put both hands on Groendal’s shoulders, halting his progress toward the exit.
“Yes it is!” Groendal tried, but was unable to get by Koesler.
“Don’t leave! You can’t leave! You’ve got to stick it out! If you just leave now, you’ll never live it down.”
“You don’t understand! You don’t understand!” Tears were streaming down Groendal’s cheeks. “It’s the end of everything! I had it. It was mine. If it hadn’t been for that damn Palmer!”
“Don’t let him see what he did to you. Come on over here and get yourself together.” Koesler led, or rather forced, Groendal into a recess of the wings.
No one else paid much attention; they clustered around the stage as David Palmer made his triumphant exit. Inspired mainly by Sister Mary George’s ebullience, everyone was congratulating Palmer.
“Excellent David!” Sister enthused. “Even I had no idea you could play that well. I’m sure our special visitors were impressed. Oh, my, yes.” And then, as if giving a fleeting thought to the accompanist Palmer had left behind, “It’s really my fault. I should have scheduled The Flight as a solo.” She looked about. “Where is Ridley? Has anyone seen Ridley?”
It was a command performance. Koesler was glad he had kept Ridley from running off in humiliation. He pushed Groendal into the group that encircled Sister and Palmer. At least, thought Koesler, Ridley’s tears were dried. Maybe nobody would notice the red eyes.
“Oh, there you are,” Sister said. “Now don’t feel bad, Ridley. You did your best. Nobody could have known
