Scrubbing mindlessly away at the kettle's burnt-soup-encrusted bottom, Robin Metier was mentally focusing on his fingers otherwise gainfully employed, zooming in ascent and descent upon his Yahama keyboard. Arpeggios. Scales. Particularly in f-sharp minor, b-minor and c-sharp major. The big day - November 12 - was rapidly approaching, and that faster in Robin's mind than the clock's hands could reasonably wind forward.
The stocky teen was grateful that Aunt Mabel employed his mundane talents as official pot scrubber at her Pine Cone Cafe in the little mountain community of Gold Peak. Some needed cash and three squares a day. In a few more days Robin would be mounting the Peerless Stage, heading off to The City by the Bay to do his thing, so to speak, on the piano. He was happy with the Yamaha keyboard he had saved for and purchased with his earnings. The thought of playing on a concert grand at The Ortega Institute, however, was sufficient impetus to keep his spirits high as he plowed through stacks of dinner plates, cups, saucers and, of course, pots, pans and kettles. The hot water was music to his played-out digits.
NOVEMBER 12:
Robin and nine other aspiring pianists each await his/her turn at the concert grand. Such waiting is always an excruciatingly painful exercise, not, of course, in proper piano technique, but in controlling one's nerves. Not running to the nearest toilet and losing one's breakfast.
At Last! First audition and, afterward, a polite thank you, we (the faculty) will be in touch. Another rendition of the ubiquitous Moonlight Sonata and a comment of "well done, Miss Steiner." Nods of approval. Thank yous. Why Robin has ended up candidate number 10, the nervous young man has no idea. "Mr. Metier ... if you please...."
Robin reverently approaches the Bosendorfer Imperial Grand, sits upon the cushioned bench and adjusts the knobs. Just the correct height. Right foot placed firmly upon the damper pedal, left poised upon the sostenuto. Hands in readiness, set to descend upon the usual 88 as well as those 9 extra coils of thunder in the bass that Robin shall certainly hammer upon for Olivier's Essay in F-sharp Minor. Upon completing the fire and brimstone of the opening section, the daring but now quieter and contemplative musician begins to ply his way through the transparent, sparkling waters of the essay as shore appears on the musical horizon.
As Robin's hands lift from the final chord cluster and his foot from the damper pedal, the rounded sonorities continue to resonate darkly eerie through the hall. Then silence. If there had been meant a pin to drop at this moment, well....
The young man, trembling with expectation over any scrap of approval or disapproval, waits a few moments more ... silence. Deafening silence....
Unable to cope with both the exhaustion and apparent lack of recognition for his rather well turned out performance, an overwrought Robin eyes the nearest exit and runs off the stage.
Back at the hotel room whose seediness Robin had endured all too long, he packed up his scant clothing and his manuscripts, took one last look in the dirty mirror by the door, and sneered at his reflection, "Loser!"
At the desk, Robin paid up the balance due and turned in his key. After a polite but empty thank you to the clerk, the hollow shell turned on his heel and exited the decaying lobby. As he shuffled along, young Mr. Metier looked cheerlessly upon the dreary edifices holding onto dear life for whatever crazy reasons and wondered about his own. Passing him by were tired men and women off to necessary but despised jobs, cranky children making their way to reading, writing and 'rithmetic. And a briskly trotting courier .... A few moments more and Robin would be on board the bus for home. He knew that dear old Aunt Mabel would welcome him home regardless.
Three squares a day ...
The youthful, rosy-cheeked courier bustled into Newbury Arms and handed the clerk a letter from Dr. Arthur Sewell, The Ortega Institute. Having no forwarding address for Mr. Robin Metier, the indifferent clerk marked boldly upon the envelope face, RETURN TO SENDER.
Dear Mr. Metier,
I hope you will forgive the jury the stunned silence that met the conclusion of your bravura performance of Essay. You see, Professor Olivier is one of our composers in residence at The Ortega Institute and he returned unexpectedly from an overseas tour. He popped in minutes before you had commenced playing and was sitting at the rear of the concert hall. While you were performing, he sent word for me to see him immediately.
As we sat enthralled, Professor Olivier said over and over under his breath, "Yes, yes ... he's the one!" Puzzled over what was going on, the remaining judges came to the rear of the auditorium, saw who was sitting there with me, and simply remained to enjoy your exquisitely rendered music from a better vantage point both acoustically and visually. Upon your completion of Essay, we were simply too overwhelmed with emotion to respond. Scarcely professional, I admit, but I respectfully request that you endeavor to understand our lack of clear reasoning. You truly possess that indefinable but nonetheless much sought charisma of the keys. One has it or one hasn't.
May this letter find you as soon as possible! Please see instructions below as to our next meeting with you. Professor Olivier is most anxious to meet you as well as to discuss your promising future.
Sincerely,
Dr. Arthur Sewell
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