“The audience doesn’t hear any of that. They do their make-up and warm-ups in their dressing rooms. Even if they did do it backstage, they’d never be heard by the audience. So it’s not the same as all that racket we’re hearing now . . . although the feeling must be the same. Getting ready for any audience is a nerve-wracking experience. You never know what to expect. Each audience has its own character and no two are exactly alike. And if you don’t grab them at the opening curtain, you may never get them. At least that’s the way it is in theater. I assume it’s the same with a concert.”
“I suppose so,” said Lynn. “Except that a concert like tonight’s has three chances to catch or lose you.”
“Three?”
“Um-hmmm. If you don’t like the Beethoven, then how about the Schubert or the Mendelssohn? Speaking of those three old faithfuls, I don’t guess the situation makes him very happy.” She nodded toward the front of the hall.
“Who’s that?” Mitchell craned to see.
“Down front, second row, on the aisle . . . see?”
“Damn! Groendal! Did you have to point him out? All he has to do is show up and an evening is shot. I think his motto must be, ‘Help Stamp Out Fun.’ I hope those poor souls backstage don’t know he’s here.”
Lynn shook her head. “If they don’t know now, they certainly will after his review is printed.”
“What was it you said . . . something about old faithfuls?”
“The program. It’s three composers from the same general era. And worse, there’s nobody from this century represented.”
“Well! A sin that cries to heaven for vengeance, I assume. You know, probably a whole bunch of these people came tonight just to enjoy some beautiful music. But just seeing Groendal and knowing the kind of review he’s bound to write, they’re going to be hypercritical themselves—see if they can guess what he’s going to find wrong and try to agree with him.”
Lynn sank down in her seat so Groendal was no longer in her line of vision. “I don’t know how he keeps getting away with it. Just because he used to be with the
Mitchell shifted nervously. “Uh, honey . . . I haven’t mentioned it to you . . . but . . . I did.”
“Did what?”
“Told him where to get off.”
Lynn turned to face her husband. “You did
“About a week ago. I sent him a letter. I’m afraid I really let him have it. It may have been foolish . . . but I don’t regret it. Besides, I can’t take it back. He must have gotten it by now. I haven’t heard a word . . . but undoubtedly he’s mentally composing a killer review for my next play.”
“He won’t have to wait that long; isn’t Marygrove going to do
“Yeah. But that’s been around awhile; he bashed that all over the place a couple of years ago.”
Lynn shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s done it before. Knocked the performance and kicked hell out of the play. Well, dammit I’m proud of you! It’s about time someone had the guts to let him have it. I’m glad you did it. I can just see him when he got your letter. He must have been furious. I doubt that anybody ever had the guts to do that before. Matter of fact, the shape he’s in, I’m surprised it didn’t kill him.”
“Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have minded one damn bit if we had read that he’d been carted off to the hospital. I guess I just didn’t quite reach the old boy’s notoriously short fuse. I feel sort of like somebody in an old Western who takes on a hired gun. I drew and fired—and missed. Now he can shoot me down at his leisure.”
“Never mind.” Lynn patted his arm and snuggled close. “I’m proud of you no matter what happens.”
“Isn’t that Carroll Mitchell and his wife up ahead?” Valerie Walsh asked.
“Where? Oh, yeah, I think so.”
Bill “Red” Walsh was much better qualified than his wife to verify the presence of the Mitchells. A professional basketball player, at six-feet-eight he was sixteen inches taller than his wife—a petite and beautiful local actress.
The usher showed them to their seats near the rear of the main floor. There was a stir among nearby patrons. Some recognized Valerie. But from his size alone, not to mention the frequency of his appearances on the local sports pages, more people identified her husband.
Valerie paged through her program.
“Now, that’s a coincidence, isn’t it?” Walsh did not bother with a program. He was present only because his wife wanted his company. “I mean Mitchell’s being here just a few rows ahead of us. Aren’t you supposed to be in one of his plays soon?”
“Yeah, you did that one before, didn’t you?”
“Um-hmmm; a couple of years ago, when it first opened.”
“Was it that long ago . . . God!” Walsh squirmed, attempting to find comfort in a space definitely not meant for a large person. It was by no means an uncommon challenge. “Hey, isn’t that the guy you’re always talking about?”
“Who?” Valerie looked up.
“There . . . down front near the aisle . . . you know the guy.” Walsh seldom adverted to the fact that others’ sight-lines did not give them the same view that his aerie gave.
Finally, by half-standing, Valerie was able to spot him. “Groendal! Well, you’re wrong about one thing, Red. I don’t ‘always’ talk about the bastard. Only when I’ve been fouled and the referee refuses to call it”
“Gotcha!” And he did. “If he weren’t so old, I’d pop him for you.”
Valerie smiled. “That’s sweet of you, love. But it wouldn’t solve anything. He’d just come back needlessly hurting people twice as much as before . . . if that’s possible.”
“Well, we know you can’t get his attention by batting him around, eh? Any of you people ever think of putting out a contract on him?”
Valerie looked up, startled.
“Just kidding.”
“Well, I should hope so.”
“Seriously . . . he sure seems to be making life rough for a lot of nice people. I wonder how long he’s gonna go on doing that?”
She sighed. “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Ordinarily, we don’t get so worked up over criticism, even when it’s negative. After all, I’m in a field where everything is pretty much subjective. Either you like a person’s performance or you don’t. It’s not like you and basketball. There you can measure a performance by some pretty objective standards—points scored, percentages, assists, shots blocked, rebounds, things like that. With me, I can deliver my lines perfectly, make no mistakes in performance; the audience may love me . . . and still a critic can blast me just because he didn’t like what I did . . . or maybe just because he’s got something against me personally.”
“Yeah. There’s some sportswriters that are like that. No pleasing ’em.”
“Well, that’s the way it is, I guess. You’re right; there’s an element of subjective evaluation even in sports, I suppose . . . though not as much as in the arts. But a jerk like Ridley Groendal goes beyond that. He’s vindictive and mean. He’s the type of critic who needs to feel more significant than the artist he’s critiquing.” She paused. “You know, I didn’t think I could get more angry at him, or loathe him any more than I do. But his latest review of the Detroit Symphony really reached me. He even singled out Dave Palmer for individual blame.”
“That’s bad?”
“There’s really no way, from the vantage of the audience, to tell if one specific musician in the entire first violin section has made a mistake. God, even the conductor can’t do that! But Ridley C. Groendal can!
“He’s really got it in for Dave Palmer, along with just about everyone else, and he’s going to nail him every chance he gets. You watch: When he reviews tonight’s concert, odds are he’ll single out Palmer and blast him.”
“But from what you tell me, he does things like that all the time. How come
