Chapter 8

It came to be that time of the year when late spring and early summer intermix in curious ways, often divvying up the days of the week. The days were either inviting and pleasant or hot and sweltering and there was no way of figuring out from the early morning hours just what the day would bring. Of course, I was rarely able to feel for myself just how the weather had been getting on with its business because I had been stuck at work almost continually for the previous two weeks.

Being the most knowledgeable person in the office, in regards to what these damnable machines were doing (or at least supposed to be doing), I found myself leaving for work at strange hours and returning at even stranger ones. With software failing, hardware breaking and a network that earned some nicknames not suitable for use around clergy, my occasionally odd hours became consistently so. However, with the frequency of computer related insanity that had been going on, a calm Thursday allowed me to leave work early and get the hell someplace else with the intention of enjoying some fresh air.

Fresh air, of course, is a hard commodity to come by when you are living in a city as large as New York on a day as hot as that one was. Instead, the air was a dense, polluted, sticky mire that one did not so much breathe as swallow. As a result, I was very happy around two in the afternoon when I finally arrived at my building for some relatively cool, conditioned air.

As I walked in the front door of the place, I heard, once again, that cello playing upstairs. It was a very familiar sound, most every weekday I would return from work to hear it playing. In fact, my peculiar comings and goings had allowed me to figure out the rough schedule it kept.

Mornings seemed to be reserved for practicing pieces that were pretty solid. A sort of review session. The cello would usually go through those early morning pieces without a break. They were played confidently; though, on rare occasions, the cello would stop to repeat several measures before continuing.

Afternoons were a mixed bag of selections, but they were all played as though they were still in the working stages. The cello might play through a somewhat long section of music; or it might repeat a phrase over and over again. The notes were all in order, that wasn’t the problem. It seemed the cello was searching for yet unearthed nuance.

Early evenings were the part of the day that I never enjoyed. Unfortunately, it was the part of the day with which I was most familiar, as it was right about the time when I would get home from a normal day at work. These were the pieces with which the cello was not the least bit familiar. Start, stutter, start, stop, stagger, stop and start. Over and over again, that cello would be put through pieces that it did not want to play. Unfamiliar, jagged little snippets that would not fall into place were the norm. Often, the cello, frustrated with a particularly disastrous sequence of failed attempts, simply broke into scales, as though washing from its strings the remnants of such an egregious butchering.

Late evening, however, made up for any such offense. Music obviously designed for cello solo would graciously welcome the onset of night. Sometimes rapid, thrilling music would emanate from upstairs; forceful, and urgent, they could quicken the heart in just the time it took to walk up two flights of stairs. Other times, sonorous melodies would float through the stairwells with a feather-like lightness, resonating tender harmonics within the listener. Any one of a myriad of tones and tempos could be set by that evening music, and, no matter what its attitude, I would be in that much less of a hurry to my apartment as I tried to catch just a few more bars before I closed the door behind me.

Back to the point, I walked in the front door as Andrew was, once again, playing the cello. I worked my way up the stairs, listening to his skillful playing of a piece that sounded vaguely familiar. The cello was surprisingly loud as it reverberated through the stairwell. Louder, in fact, than I had ever heard it. As I walked up the side of the atrium that was opposite his and Lori’s apartment, I looked up to his floor and noticed his door was left open, which I had never observed him doing before.

Either way, as I walked up the stairs, it popped into my mind that I’d never really heard him play for a span of time longer than that required to walk from the front door up to my apartment. With my afternoon suddenly free, I continued up the stairs for a listen.

I stationed myself just outside the open door such that he wouldn’t be able to see me. Andrew was playing a piece that, apparently, he’d ironed out the details on. He played confidently through it, not breaking until what I figured was the end. Though I could not call my ears finely tuned for such music, I found it impressive and very enjoyable. I made a mental note to ensure that I learned the name of the piece.

Upon finishing, I heard his lighter pop open and the flint fire against the wheel. After the lid was snapped shut and Andrew, presumably, took a drag from a cigarette, he gave a slow exhale and announced, "It isn’t very neighborly to go skulking about in others’ doorways."

Having been found out, I walked in the door with an innocent guilt.

"Tom, feel free to have a seat," he told me as he opened the window.

"It’s pretty warm in here," I noted aloud.

"Yeah, the air conditioner went out in our apartment, so I wanted to pull in some cool air from our stairwell." He slid out the window and sat on the fire escape. "So, what brings you to mill around outside my door this afternoon?"

"I finally had a quiet day at work, so I’m playing hooky."

"And you stopped between the ground floor and your apartment downstairs for what reason?" he asked me in what, to someone who was not used to Andrew’s to-the-point manner, could be considered accusatory.

"I’d never really heard you play before. I’ve heard bits and pieces, but never a section longer than a minute or two. I figured now is as good a time as any to hear more. It was very good, by the way."

"Thanks. I think I might finally have it down to where I want it."

"Time to move it up to the morning?"

He looked at me with an odd expression crossing his face before he understood what I was talking about. "Yes, I suppose it’s ready for the morning," he replied with a little smile. "I take it you’re familiar with my routine. Did Lori tell you how I usually divide my day?"

"No, I actually figured it out for myself."

"Good for you. We’ll have you listening to classical, yet. The piece I was playing was Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. It’s quite famous and exceptionally popular and we’d like to add it to our repertoire. We found an arrangement of it for the string quartet, but unfortunately the continuo is pretty sparse, so I’ve been trying some variations."

I had no clue what he was saying to me. "Sounds like you have it down pretty well," I offered.

"Eh, it isn’t everything I want it to be yet, but it’s getting close. I think I’ll get it right in a few more days."

"Think you’re ready to move your early evening piece up to afternoons?"

"Hm?" he asked, with a furrowing of his brow.

"It was still pretty rough the last time I heard it, but with the hours I’ve been working, I haven’t been getting home at a normal hour for a couple of weeks now."

"Oh yeah, that," he replied with a dismissive wave. "Um, probably not, no. I think I’ll put in something more familiar than that one," he told me. He took a final drag from his cigarette, put it out and lit another one before adding, "It’s still in the very early stages and my sight reading of it has proven difficult."

"What is it?"

"Oh, it’s a Haydn piece," he said, "I’ve never really played it until recently, so I’m having some trouble. All that counterpoint, you know. But, anyway, how was work?"

"Very good, actually, nothing broke."

"Glad to hear it, I know you’ve been working like a dog these past few weeks. You’re getting overtime for this, I hope."

"That is the one thing that is making it at least a little bit worthwhile: my consulting company pays me hourly."

"Great for you," he commented before looking at his watch and saying, "Huh, looks like I’d better be going; I have rehearsal not too long from now."

"Seems a bit early."

"Yes, well, the guy who’s running our concert next week actually asked for a couple of pieces. It’s very rare that we receive requests, so we’d like to do really well on them."

"When do you usually practice?" I asked him.

"Oh, it varies depending on a lot of things. By the way, if you’re interested, there’s a dinner tomorrow that’s open to the public. Tickets are kind of expensive, but it goes toward a multiple sclerosis charity."

"I think it might be doable," I said, a bit surprised. I had never previously been invited to any of Andrew’s performances. "If I get out of work in time, I’ll be there. What time do such things commence?"

"This one starts at nine PM, but Lori and I will probably leave here around seven," he said before he took a long drag, then very deliberately put out his cigarette in the ashtray. He slid himself through the window and closed it behind him. "By the way, can you sort of fan the door? I’d like to get a little more of that cooler air in here."

"Sure," I replied. I walked over to the door and waved it back and forth in a vain attempt to move air through the apartment while Andrew put his cello back in its case.

"Eh, it doesn’t look like it’s working," he told me as he walked toward the door. "Nothing against your effort, I should have closed the window behind me when I went outside. I hope your air conditioning is working, otherwise you’re in for a nasty surprise when you walk through your door. Anyway, here’s a card with the information on the dinner."

"Thanks. Say, don’t you need to have a musical instrument if you want to practice playing it?" I asked. Andrew wasn’t carrying anything, which I was obviously not expecting.

"Fortunately, I have another one where we practice. I wouldn’t want to carry that thing onto the subway every day," he said, motioning over his shoulder. Andrew shut and locked the door as we left.

"I take it you use the same one for both practice and concerts?" I asked him as we started walking downstairs. It had never before occurred to me that Andrew never carried that enormous case anywhere.

"Yes, the sound is better than that one in there. My home one is pretty good, though. It could work if the other one was out of commission for some reason."

"It appears that my air conditioning is working fine," I noted to him as I opened the door.

"Lucky bastard. Congratulations. I’ll talk to you later." Andrew quickly turned and headed down.