Read Online Sight Reading by Daphne Kalotay - Free Book Online Page A

put forth the notion that brilliant ideas were always inherently original—which Mr. Elko immediately pointed out to be incorrect. He laid out a number of innovations composers had brought forth over the years, how each had borrowed from the others and made each successive musical development possible. And though this of course made sense, and was expressed with a certain exasperation (“Why, even in the past fifty years . . . you can draw an arrow from Schoenberg to Webern to Cage . . . !”), Remy felt compelled to stand her ground—until Mr. Elko’s wife came in and asked what was taking so long with the lemon slices.
    She was gorgeous, of course, the wife: calm and blond and floral scented. Remy had felt, all over again, unkempt, unruly. It didn’t matter that she had cut her hair; it was still a curly mess.
    Well, maybe tonight would be different. She would be the modest, self-effacing stand-in, as calm and composed as the stars in the sky.
    But of course Lynn was there for the concert. Her parents delivered her right to the door, her mother pinning a corsage to Lynn’s gown in a way that wouldn’t interfere with her violin. Pale and thinner than ever, wearing enough makeup to hide the fact that she had been vomiting for twelve hours straight, Lynn gave a wan smile. In case she was still contagious, she stood apart from everyone until it came time to go onstage. She then played, Remy noted, as strongly as ever.
    At intermission she disappeared into the bathroom, and Remy told herself it was still possible; Lynn might not have the strength to make it through Scheherazade . But she did, of course, summoning her stored talents, translating emotions into crafted sound, knowing when to stretch the music or speed it up, where to increase tension or release it, and just how long to hold a fermata. . . . The audience gave a standing ovation, and even Mr. Elko was amazed, Remy could see. When the soloists took their bows, the rest of the orchestra tapped their feet more loudly than usual, aware that they had witnessed a feat of human endurance. When they stepped offstage, Lynn said a tired, “Thanks, Remy,” grinned that goofy silver grin, and went to find her parents in the hall.
    Only about half of the orchestra converged in the lounge, where a somewhat dull party was taking place. As always, the concert had been scheduled too close to final exams; everyone was tired and anxious and had something better to do than sit around drinking wine that came from a box. Remy’s friend Jennifer had already rushed off to telephone her boyfriend, who was in the army and lived on a military base somewhere. Samantha had sauntered off to a rendezvous with Yonatan Keitle. Peter suggested he and Remy head back to the dorm together, but Remy told him to go ahead without her. Having spent ten hours thinking she might be concertmistress for the night, she was as exhaustedly giddy as if it had actually happened, and quickly downed a glass of pink wine. It was too sweet, yet she drew another glassful from the little plastic lever, and then slouched on a sofa with a bassoonist who lived on her hallway.
    When she looked up from her glass, Mr. Elko was approaching, holding a full plastic cup of wine. “Remy, I can’t thank you enough. You put my mind at ease enormously.”
    â€œMy pleasure,” she told him, but it didn’t sound as suave as last time.
    The bassoonist was just leaving, and Mr. Elko took his place. The side of Remy’s body next to his felt as if it were glowing. And then she was engulfed—by the urge to touch his skin, to lick his lips, to stroke the floppy dark hair of his head.
    â€œThis stuff drinkable, then?” Mr. Elko nodded at Remy’s glass.
    â€œIt works for me. But I guess I don’t know much about wine.”
    Mr. Elko took a gulp from his plastic cup. “Ghastly. We’ll have to get rid of it. I say we drink it