Free Sight Reading by Daphne Kalotay Page B

finger and thumb. But it was his father’s voice, an angry grumble . . . A stupid accident . Nicholas didn’t fight the sensation that shimmied through him, some other truth lurking nearby, a shadow that when you turn around isn’t there anymore. It wasn’t the first time he had felt this shadow—yet he was relieved when the feeling evaporated. He waited to make sure the moment had passed, and told himself that memory was a tricky thing. Then he closed his eyes, to try to find again the village, the beach, the cry of gulls. He continued working into the wee hours.
    ALONE IN THE REHEARSAL ROOM, Remy leaned closer to the mirror, examining the swollen purple abscess that had emerged on the left side of her neck. It hurt to touch it. In the mirror she saw that it was close to rupturing. Though this wasn’t the first time she had suffered a minor affliction from intense practice, this particular grievance was new.
    â€œI hope you’re keeping that clean,” Julian said when he arrived.
    â€œIt’s disgusting,” Remy said, still peering into the glass.
    â€œStop touching it! Put a hot compress on it tonight. You can’t afford an infection right now.”
    â€œTell me about it.” Both her senior recital and the audition with Conrad Lesser were only days away. Plus her parents would be here for graduation and to help her move. The boil on her neck seemed ominous.
    As she played the Brahms for Julian, the music sounded limp, not artful at all, her rubato mechanical, her marcato too heavy, as if she were mimicking rather than playing. When she could no longer stand it, she simply stopped and looked to Julian desperately.
    â€œYou’ve practiced too much,” he said matter-of-factly. “Well, not too much, but in the wrong way. It’s become rote. That’s what’s happening.”
    Remy felt her panic rising. “What can I do?” She whispered, so as not to cry. “I need to play it next week. Should I just not play it until then?”
    â€œTaking a day off won’t hurt you. The work you’ve done will still be there inside of you.” He thought for a moment. “Here. Let me see that.” Julian took the score from the music stand and began going through it with a pencil, marking it here and there.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Remy asked, even more panicked.
    â€œI’m changing some of the fingerings. To keep you on your toes.”
    â€œBut I can’t change the fingerings now! It’s too late, I—”
    â€œWhy not just try it, Remy? I’m trying to make it less familiar to you.”
    â€œBut you already changed the fingerings in the Bach. I worked hard to figure out the most comfortable fingerings—”
    â€œAnd now you’re too comfortable,” Julian said.
    â€œMaybe I’m just tired. Anyway, I’m just in rehearsal mode. When it comes time to actually—”
    â€œRehearsal mode! Remy, please. What have I told you for four years now?”
    â€œThat each time we play a piece is an event.”
    Julian nodded. “Even a rehearsal is a performance, Remy.”
    â€œI know that. I—”
    â€œDon’t ever let yourself slouch, just because there’s no audience. The body remembers. The music remembers. Today I’m your audience—even this room is your audience. The rehearsal is the performance.”
    Remy felt suddenly exhausted. “Please don’t change the fingerings.” She began, silently, to cry.
    It wasn’t the first time she had cried, in frustration, in front of Julian. He wasn’t one of those teachers who forbade any show of mental weakness. Even now he just reached out and put his palm behind her head, gave her curls a brief rub. “I still remember the first time you played for us. You were this timid young thing with big brown doe-eyes. I could tell that it had been a challenge for you to get here, that you probably