Milan shook his head. “Typical Evgeny. So dramatic.”
“What did he mean?”
“Nothing. Come on. We have a rehearsal. Go and get your violin.”
Chapter Eight
Mary-Ann tapped the music stand with her baton.
“Right then, guys,” she said. Lydia noticed how her style had altered over the weeks, from humorously ingratiating to unsmiling and brisk. Even in three months, the woman had aged visibly. “We have two days of rehearsals to get this absolutely down. The concert is tomorrow night, and it has to be good. A lot is riding on this. So I’m banking on your own professionalism and pride in your skills to get us through it. You are the talent—I’m just facilitating that talent.”
Milan grunted softly, but Lydia could tell that the speech pleased him. Mary-Ann had been underplaying her contribution to the performance more and more every week, until she’d begun to paint herself as some kind of passive vehicle, barely relevant to the music at all. She had lost confidence. Surely she wouldn’t last much longer.
“We have two Hungarian Rhapsodies, a set of Hungarian Dances and the Kodály Háry János suite to get through. I think we might as well start with a quick Hungarian Dance—number one, first things first.”
Lydia, caught up in the music and transported to the Hungarian plain where the wheat waved and the orchards hung heavy with ripening fruit, didn’t notice at first that the tempo was slipping. But when the moment came to pick up the original speed, it was a horrible mess, half of the violins coming in at least a beat behind the others.
Lydia looked sideways at Milan, noticing his cheekbones twitching mischievously. She pursed her lips, annoyed with him for orchestrating this new rebellion, and moved her gaze to Mary-Ann, who was shaking her head vigorously and tapping the music stand.
“Guys, guys! We’ve done this perfectly before. What happened there? Milan?”
“You’re the conductor—you tell me.”
“You’re the orchestra—haven’t you heard of watching the conductor? Following her beat?” Mary-Ann’s voice had risen to an unprecedented level and was shaking—she really seemed to be on the verge of losing her temper in grand style.
“Maybe you should let the ritardando come to its natural conclusion before picking up the beat?” suggested Milan, in such a sardonic tone that half the violinists snorted.
“Oh, really? That’s what you would do, is it?”
“Yes, that’s what I would do. I think you pick it up too quickly.”
“Oh, and do you know what I think? I think I’m the conductor and you play the thing the way I say.”
“The last note in that phrase is far too short. Who agrees?”
A forest of hands shot up to endorse Milan’s statement. Lydia half-raised hers, then put it down again, seeing the shimmer of tears in Mary-Ann’s eyes.
“Milan,” she whispered, but he was too busy enjoying his moment of triumph.
“I don’t care what you think,” stormed Mary-Ann, waving her baton around rather wildly, jabbing it to emphasise her point. “You’ve made it obvious that I’m not welcome, and if I conducted it that way you’d say that was wrong too. So just shut the fuck up with your constant undermining and do what you’re told.”
Milan put down his violin and folded his arms. A third of the string section followed suit.
“There’s no need to swear at us,” he said softly.
A tear of frustration spilled from Mary-Ann’s eye. Flinging down her baton, she turned and fled the rehearsal room.
“Oh, well done, Milan,” said Lydia sarcastically, though her words were drowned by the uproar that had broken out. Laughter and backslapping gave way a couple of minutes later to earnest discussion as it dawned on the orchestra that they had a concert the next day, and no conductor.
“I don’t want her, but she can’t quit right now,” said Milan thoughtfully. “Lydia—she likes you. Go after her. Talk her around. Promise her we’ll play Budapest the way she wants. Don’t make any promises for Prague, though.”
“Milan, just lay off her! I feel awful for her.”
“Your tender heart,” said Milan, ruffling her hair infuriatingly. “Hey, I could just step in and save the show. But that would ruin her career, don’t you see? So if you go and persuade her to come back, you are doing what’s best for everyone.”
Lydia sighed, grabbed her bag and headed out of the hall, figuring that the women’s restroom was as good a place as any to start looking.
But Mary-Ann was not to be found there, so Lydia left the building and scanned the street beyond. On a park bench in a small garden to the side of the concert hall, the routed conductor sat with her face in a handkerchief.