“In a senior-level course Travis is auditing, he’s shown a wonderful talent for composition. It’s something I suspected he possessed, but I had no idea of its depth. That he’s waited until now to show it is puzzling, to say the least.”
“And?”
Petrinski paused, scowling at me like a headmaster dressing down a student. “I believe Travis has something of value to communicate through his music, not only by interpreting the writings of others, but also with his own compositions. Despite your son’s finally beginning to do work commensurate with his abilities, something’s holding him back. I believe it has something to do with you.”
“I’ve never had a thing to do with Travis’s music.”
“Do you think that could be part of the-”
“No. His mom encourages him enough for the both of us,” I interrupted, checking my watch. “Alex, I have a one o’clock appointment. Can we cut to the chase?”
Petrinski sighed. “All right. Does intuition sometimes play a role in your job?”
“Sure. Cops go with gut feelings all the time.”
“Well, I have a gut feeling, too. It’s telling me that something’s wrong with Travis.”
“And you think I’m the cause.”
“I don’t know. You and I have had our differences over the years, but I know you love your son. Unfortunately, sometimes that’s not enough.”
“I’m not following. What do you want me to do?”
Petrinski slumped, suddenly seeming old. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But I believe Travis needs help. And although I don’t know why, I think you’re the only one who can give it.”
Puzzling over Petrinski’s words, I returned to my car. Deciding to forego lunch, I jammed more quarters into the parking meter, asked directions from an attendant at a kiosk, and walked two blocks north.
Another addition to the university since I’d attended, the Colburn School of Performing Arts, or the Performing Arts Annex as it is better known, sprawled the better part of a block between Thirty-Second and Figueroa. I entered through a door on the west end. Glancing up at the forty-foot-high ceiling, I surmised that the rambling structure had once served another purpose-probably, if the now abandoned catwalks and grids traversing the ceiling were any indication, as a sound stage during Hollywood’s heydays of years past. Now, like cells in a hive, row upon row of rooms partitioned the cavernous space. I followed a narrow passage, checking a warren of deserted practice rooms as I went. Many of the small chambers contained only a chair and music stand; others had upright pianos crammed in, some even two.
After several wrong turns I arrived at a central receiving area. At a desk in the middle, a young woman with tortoiseshell glasses and a bored expression glanced up as I approached.
“I’m looking for Travis Kane,” I said.
The young woman flipped through a register. “D-eighteen,” she said, indicating a walkway behind me with a slight inclination of her head. “Straight ahead, left at the first bend.”
“Thanks,” I said, starting for the corridor.
Making my way down the hall, I began to hear the faint tones of a piano coming from somewhere up ahead. The sound grew louder as I rounded a corner. I listened as I walked, recognizing a piece I had occasionally heard Travis play at home. Now, however, the work contained subtle, foreboding alterations I couldn’t quite pin down. I paused as I reached a glass door marked “D-18.” Travis sat at an upright piano on the other side, concentrating on his playing. Abruptly, the music stopped. As I raised my hand to knock on the glass, Travis resumed, now playing an unfamiliar work. Letting my hand drop, I stood outside and listened.
The new piece got off to a rocky start, stumbling in the opening. Travis began again, faltered, then set out once more-changing chords and phrases in the right hand, trying different combinations and colors and shadings. Realizing that I was hearing a work in progress, I leaned against the opposite wall and watched my son through the glass.
Finally his new piece got off the ground, and for the next several minutes, as I waited outside the practice room, I found myself captivated by Travis’s playing. In those few minutes, almost against my will, I experienced a flow of unexpected emotion, indefinable yearnings, surprising and sometimes overwhelming moments of both arrival and despair. And for the first time, with a mix of both pride and amazement, I realized the true extent of my son’s ability and talent.
The playing stopped. Looking up, I saw Travis staring at me through the glass. Clearly surprised by my presence, he closed the keyboard and walked to the door. “Hi, Dad,” he said uncertainly, joining me in the hall. “How long have you been here?”
“A while.”
“Is there something…?”
“Petrinski’s been leaving messages that he wanted to talk to me. I finally made it over.”
“What did he want?”
I decided to take a direct approach. “He thinks you have a knack for writing music,” I answered. “Talks as if you could be the next Beethoven. He also thinks you’re going to blow it. He says you’re not really trying, like something’s holding you back. Is that true?”
“No. At least I-”
“Tell me the truth, Trav. If something’s wrong, I want to help.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Dad.”
I decided to try another tack. “I didn’t recognize that piece you were playing. What was it?”
“Schubert’s Wanderer Fantasy.”
“I mean after that. That was yours, wasn’t it?”
He lowered his eyes, clearly embarrassed. “Uh, yes, sir.”
“Hell, Trav, why are you acting so secretive? Has anyone else heard it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not done yet. Besides, I didn’t write it for anybody to hear. It’s sort of private.”
“Travis, I’ll level with you, and I want you to level with me, too. You know I want the very best for you, right?”
“I know.”
“Then talk to me. Petrinski told me that classes are over till after Thanksgiving. If nothing’s wrong, instead of coming home, why are you here working on a piece you say nobody will ever hear? We have a piano at home too, in case you forgot.”
“I was planning on making it home tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner,” said Travis. “I stayed here to catch up on some of my studies.”
“There’s more to it than that,” I said. “Petrinski thinks that whatever’s eating you has something to do with me. If that’s the case, I need to hear about it.”
Travis remained silent. “It’s not you,” he said at last.
“Then what?”
Travis shifted uneasily.
“Come on, Trav. Spill it.”
Travis looked away. “Dad, for as long as I can remember, everyone’s expected me to do big things. Mom, Petrinski, lately even you. Since starting here at SC, it’s become even worse. I feel like an impostor. Like I’m going to let everyone down.”
“What do you want, a guarantee?”
“No, but-”
“Petrinski says you have talent. I’m no expert, but from what I just heard, I’m inclined to agree. It’s natural to have doubts, especially as most of the big boys began writing music early on, but you wouldn’t be the first composer to start late. Hell, Schumann didn’t get going till he was in his early twenties.
Travis, well acquainted with my magpie memory for useless facts, shook his head. “I’m not Schumann.”
“How do you know if you don’t try? If you do something, kid, go all the way. You don’t score touchdowns sitting on the sideline.”
