Read Online The Rehearsal by Eleanor Catton - Free Book Online Page B

hard. It is the language of orphans and bastards and whores.”
    Bridget stands with her sax limp in her hands like a wilted flower.
    “The saxophone is the cocaine of the woodwind family,” the sax teacher continues. “Saxophonists are admired because they are dangerous, because they have explored a darker, more sinister side of themselves. In your performance, Bridget, I see nothing grimy or sexy or sweaty or hard. Everything I see is scrubbed shiny pink and white, sedated and sanitized like a poodle at a fair.”
    “Okay,” Bridget says unhappily.
    Tap-tap goes the bloody fingernail on the side of the mug.
    “What do you think makes a good teacher, Bridget?”
    Bridget draws her lips in between her teeth as she thinks. “I guess talent,” she says lamely. “Being good at what you’re teaching.”
    “What else?”
    “I guess being patient.”
    “Shall I tell you what makes a good teacher?”
    “Okay.”
    “A good teacher,” the saxophone teacher says, “is somebody who awakes in you something that did not exist before. A good teacher changes you in a way that means you cannot go back even if you might want to. Now you can practice and learn the pattern of the notes and have good control over your instrument and you will be able to play that piece very competently, but until you and I can work together to challenge and awaken and change some part of you, competent is all that piece will ever be.”
    “I was just trying it out how Mrs. Critchley said,” Bridget blurts out. “She’s Mr. Saladin’s replacement. We had jazz band today.”
    The sax teacher narrows her eyes briefly, but all she says is, “Is that Jean Critchley?”
    “She’s Mr. Saladin’s replacement,” Bridget says again.
    “I’ve seen her play live. She plays trumpet.” The saxophone teacher is suddenly withdrawn, her voice cold and calm and careful, looking Bridget up and down as if she is seeking visible signs of treachery.
    “Why didn’t you apply?” says Bridget, her eyes widening with the thought.
    “I don’t like high schools,” says the saxophone teacher.
    “She doesn’t look like a Mrs. Jean Critchley. She has red glasses and she wears baggy tee-shirts with leggings and sneakers. First thing she said,” Bridget says, brightening now, “first thing she said was, All right, shut up so I can talk about myself. I’m the teacher who comes after the teacher who had the affair. Let’s blow it all out of the water now so we can get on and make some music and have some fun. And you can all relax right away. They made me promise not to have an affair with any of you.”
    Bridget blinks innocently at the saxophone teacher. She is good at voices.
    “Did anyone laugh?” the saxophone teacher says.
    “Oh, yeah,” says Bridget. “Yeah, everyone likes her a lot.”
    “So they laughed. They laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it. The prospect that Mrs. Jean Critchley might seduce one of you, might draw any one of you toward her by subtle and insidious means, might push one of you against the music-cupboard door and press her cold cheek against yours so her lips are almost touching the feathered lobe of your ear. The prospect that one of you might want her , even, and pick her out as an object and a prize. That one of you might blush every time she looks at you, might stammer and stumble and take every opportunity to divert through the music block in the hope of brushing past her in the hall.”
    “Yeah,” Bridget says. “She blew it all out of the water, so we could get on and make some music and have some fun.”
    “So you got on and made some music and had some fun.”
    “Yeah,” Bridget says again.
    “And Mrs. Jean Critchley suggested that you play this piece like an ice-cream jingle.”
    “She didn’t say that.” Bridget senses she’s winning, in some obscure way, and draws herself up a little higher. “She just said, Sometimes it’s not about originality. Sometimes it’s just about having fun.”
    The