The Great Conductor

Chapter 3

It was an unexpectedly relaxed Friday in the office. After her usual greeting of the parents’ photo on her desk, Christine had a cup of coffee and started on some paperwork. She had a few reports to finish before the weekend, and although they wouldn’t make the pile on her desk much smaller, it was good to get them done.

She was finalizing a murder case—a young woman had been shot in her apartment by some gangsters who owed her boyfriend a debt—and was preparing to appear in court for the trial. She was reviewing her testimony when her phone rang. Her grandmother’s name appeared on the screen.

Christine knew the reason for the call—Veronica Heart was calling to check if Christine was coming to lunch that Saturday. Christine had canceled a few lunches previously, citing her busy schedule, but this was only half true. She knew her grandparents were worried about her working under pressure and being single, and they wanted to make sure she was okay. While she appreciated their concern, it was difficult for her to sit through lengthy conversations about finding a life partner. They were supportive of any decision she made, even if it meant she was into women. This had amused her at first, but then she realized they were serious. Her grandparents most certainly suspected that Christine’s lack of any romantic or sexual relationships with men meant that she was probably “playing for the other team or no team at all.”

Christine could not explain why, at thirty-five, she had hardly gone on any dates with men. She was reluctant to tell the people who had taken care of her after her parents died about the mess that her personal life had become. A few short-term relationships that meant nothing had convinced her that it was better to stay at home, doing what she enjoyed—making stone beads and reading about gemstones—rather than wasting her time on men who weren’t ready to invest emotionally in the dating process. So she resorted to telling them that it was her choice—whatever it was—and they should respect that.

She did have another, less antisocial hobby, though, which was somewhat related to her work. She liked going to shooting ranges, where she could let all her negative emotions and frustrations leave her mind as she shot bullets at targets.

Perhaps she could have invented an imaginary relationship, and at one point, she even considered bringing home a fake boyfriend to make her grandparents stop asking about her love life. She had decided not to do it—she couldn’t bring herself to lie to them. But this time, she felt that she had no other choice and reluctantly picked up the phone.

“Hello, Grandma,” Christine said, stopping work on her reports.

“Hi, hon,” Veronica said cheerfully. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Just wanted to make sure that you’re coming to lunch tomorrow.”

That sentence reminded Christine of the time when she enrolled at the University of Baltimore to pursue a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice. At the age of seventeen, she was the youngest student in her class. Veronica would call her every day to check on her, worried about Christine’s ability to take care of herself. This continued until her graduation from the police academy. By then, Christine had learned to survive on her own, but she would still allow herself to be persuaded into having home-cooked meals from time to time.

Christine’s parents had provided her with enough support not to worry about her finances, and they also left her a rowhouse so she could live on her own. However, she had decided not to use the trust fund for anything other than education, unless absolutely necessary. So, she did some waitressing when she could to make sure she had just enough money to cover her basic expenses before getting her badge.

Christine smiled. “Sure, Grandma. I’ll be there. Do you want me to bring anything?”

“A bottle of wine would be nice, I suppose, but only if it’s not too much trouble for you.”

“It’s not. I’ll bring something nice.”

“Oh, good.”

There was a familiar pause in the conversation—Veronica was forming her next “sensitive” question.

“Yes?” Christine said, not wanting to have a long conversation at work.

“Your grandfather and I think that . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Well, there is a nice young man—”

“Grandma!”

“No, listen. I’m just saying that . . . you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but our friends’ son—”

“Please, don’t tell me that you’re talking about your neighbors and their son.”

Veronica and Sam Heart were unfortunate to have the Ellisons as neighbors, the most pompous old couple Christine had ever known, and their forty-year-old son, Matthew, who thought of himself as the center of the entire universe and behaved accordingly. “Obnoxious jerk” were the two words that were synonymous with Matthew Ellison in Christine’s dictionary.

“Oh no,” Veronica said. “I’m talking about Victor O’Brian.”

Christine could hardly remember who that was. A few images came to mind of a handsome man who was working for his father and was always on the phone at the one or two family occasions where they had happened to be in the same room.

“Do you remember him, sweetie?” Veronica asked.

“I kind of do, but I don’t—”

“Listen, before you say no, please hear me out . . .”

Christine rolled her eyes, fully aware that Veronica could not see her, but she could not help it.

“He works for his father. You may not remember that—he’s in real estate and he travels all over the country selling apartments and houses to rich people. He’s quite successful, you know.”

“So what’s wrong with him?”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s successful and handsome, but . . . he’s single. Right?”

“Yes.”

“So, what is wrong with him? Why is he still single?”

Veronica laughed. “Oh, I see what you’re doing there.”

“What am I doing?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent with me, young lady.” Veronica tried to sound stern. “You’re getting back at us, aren’t you? For what we told you. Right?”

Christine was smiling, but she wanted to continue this game to make sure her grandmother realized what they had been doing to her. “Could you remind me? What was it that you told me about me being single?”

“Oh, stop it! You know it was different back when we—oh, heck, even back when your parents, God bless their souls—were young. People would get . . . what’s the expression they use nowadays? Hook up in their twenties.”

“But now?”

“Okay, now is different. There. Happy?”

Veronica could never win any debates with Christine—a fact that both of them were very well aware of.

“Quite. So . . . what about Victor? Is he looking for a life partner?” Christine asked.

Veronica laughed. “Your detective skills are extraordinary, but . . . it was his parents who are worried about him and they . . . well, they just suggested that—”

“Is that a blind date proposition?”

“It won’t be blind, will it? You know each other.”

“Sort of. I’ve seen him twice in my life. Don’t even remember what he looks like, really. He could be fat and sporting a ZZ Top beard, for all I know.”

“ZZ what?” Veronica asked.

“The band? Haven’t you heard of them? They’re pretty old. I’m actually surprised that I just used that reference.”

“Oh.” It sounded as if everything Christine just said went over Veronica’s head. “In any case, please, think about it. It could be good for you—”

Here we go again, Christine thought.

“—to meet someone.”

There it is.

“All right, Grandma. I’ll think about it.” Christine gave up.

“That’s all I’m asking, sweetie.” Veronica’s voice brightened considerably. “I’ll let you go now. You’re probably terribly busy.”

“Mission accomplished, right?”

“Excuse me?”

Christine shook her head, smiling. “I love you, Grandma. I’ll bring that wine. See you tomorrow.”

“Love you, too, hon.”

Christine put down her phone and was about to resume her work on the report, but then she changed her mind and decided to check the system to see if there had been any accidents involving cars similar to the one mentioned in her parents’ case. The car in question was a black 1999 Ford Super Duty, based on the testimony of some witnesses. She had been doing this every week whenever she had some free time.

Chapter 4

“Is dinner ready yet?” Lydia’s shrieking voice seemed to reverberate off the walls in the living room, amplifying its volume and sending it to every corner of their rowhouse. It always reminded Sebastian of his late grandfather Nathan Hasselbach, Lydia’s father, who was one mean old man and could not tolerate anything that was not to his liking. Sebastian remembered him yelling for his beer from the living room, just like Lydia, and his mother was the one to fetch it from the fridge—Nathan only drank it cold; otherwise, you were in trouble.

“Soon, Mother,” Sebastian replied calmly from the kitchen, where he was checking on a whole chicken in the oven. It would be another twenty minutes until the skin of the once-living hen, which had only been fed natural grains and probably had a nice cage-free life before it was slaughtered for the pleasure of people who cared about what they put in their mouths, would turn a succulent light brown color.

Sebastian’s father used to be responsible for all the grocery shopping and always bought good quality products. He subscribed to the “you are what you eat” philosophy. Lydia would often ridicule his approach, calling it a “nonsensical waste of money.” However, after noticing the positive effects on her skin, which would often manifest as an itchy rash when she ate certain ingredients, she gradually began to believe in the approach. She vehemently denied any suggestion from Stephen that her condition was psychosomatic or stress-related, strongly believing that her parents’ lack of understanding of proper nutrition was the real cause. To some extent, this was probably true, as Nathan, aside from the temperature of his beer, did not give a shit about what he ate as long as it had meat in it.

Lydia’s mother, Caitlin, was not in a position to vote on the matter within the family hierarchy. Nathan was the dominant figure that everyone had to reckon with, but Lydia was her father’s daughter and, as stubborn as a mule, she imposed the new eating habits on her father as well.

Wearing an apron, Sebastian sliced a few organic potatoes very thinly, covered them with salt, pepper, and ghee, and added them to the chicken in the oven.

“Hurry up, will you? I’m starving,” came another announcement. “Why can’t you be like Martha?”

Sebastian nodded in agreement—it was Martha’s day off and he was on cooking duty—and continued preparing a green salad with cheese, walnuts, and pumpkin seeds, dressed with organic pumpkin seed oil. As he worked on the salad, he thought about his music composition, which needed some fine-tuning before he could show it to Lydia.

He had decided that it was time for her to know what he had been busy with. He hadn’t been “horsing around,” and he was not “just a music tutor for lazy children,” either. Even if he was too old to attend serious auditions, he had enough skill and knowledge to create music worth performing onstage.

“Why aren’t you answering me?” Lydia’s authoritative voice barked behind him.

Sebastian turned around and saw Lydia standing next to their dining table, leaning on it with one hand and holding a music score book in the other. She liked to go over the music pieces she used to perform in the evening before dinner. She wore a black silk turtleneck and black pants; she looked as if she were ready to go out. Sebastian knew that Lydia’s evening routine had been her way to feel as if she were still working. He played along, never asking her the reason for looking formal.

“Sorry, Mother. Got carried away with the salad,” Sebastian said, stirring the salad in a big ceramic bowl. “The chicken should be ready in about fifteen minutes. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”

Lydia snorted—she did not like it when people told her what to do. “Is it chilled?”

“Of course,” Sebastian said and went to the refrigerator to get the bottle of Chardonnay.

Lydia sat down and placed her score book next to her plate after checking the surface of the table and finding it relatively clean. She folded her arms across her chest and glanced at her son.

“There’s something strange about you today,” she said. “You look . . . excited. What’s happening? Yesterday you didn’t want to talk to me, today you’re cooking—not that I’m complaining about it—and looking . . . I don’t know. Whatever you’re thinking about in that head of yours now makes your face look funny.”

Sebastian finished stirring the salad and brought the bowl over to the table.

“I want to show you something tonight . . . after dinner, of course,” he said, placing the bowl closer to Lydia’s plate.

“Well, whatever it is, don’t forget it, like you usually do. And may I remind you that I might have company later tonight? So I hope it won’t take long.”

Sebastian didn’t think it was true—another made-up excuse for looking proper—but didn’t say anything.

Lydia motioned for him to hurry. “Let’s eat already. I’ll have some of that salad and a glass of wine before the chicken is ready.”

Lydia would often have more than one glass of wine with dinner, moving on to stronger beverages “for dessert.” Her alcohol intake had been gradually increasing over the years.

***

With the last movement of the bow, the piece was over. Sebastian blew some of his hair off his sweaty face. It was the first time that he had played his “masterpiece” for someone else. Even Paul had not heard it. He looked at his mother and wondered whether it had been a mistake to play it for her, after all. He could count all those instances when she had been remotely indulgent toward whatever he had been able to do on one hand. He did not even need all his fingers on that hand to do it.

He looked at her.

“Well?” he asked.

Lydia took a deep breath and shook her head. She was sitting in her favorite chair—the same chair where Nathan used to sit—and looked as if contemplating what she wanted to say.

“You hated it,” Sebastian said with an affirmative intonation.

She took a sip of her bourbon, her preferred “after dinner” beverage that she had brought to the “presentation” in the living room, before answering. “It doesn’t matter whether I like it or not,” she said. “The question is, do you think it’s good enough musically? Do you think you fully conveyed the message with that piece?” she asked in a condescending tone.

It was clear to Sebastian that Lydia did not think much of the piece, and he started to put “Galina” back into her case without saying much.

“I mean,” Lydia continued, “there was just too much of everything, wasn’t there? It sounded like you were trying to cram Shostakovich, Beethoven, Smetana, and Mozart all into one small space and have them fight each other.” She took another sip of her drink. “What was it, some sort of short audition list? It’s like you’re trying too hard to hide the fact that you lack the ability to compose behind technicalities. Do you remember when you were a kid and used to hide your wet bedsheets?”

Sebastian’s face twitch at the mention of his “little problem” when he was a boy, and she nodded satisfactorily, as if to say, “you’re getting my point.”

“Pretending that something isn’t there when it is doesn’t make the problem go away,” she added, driving the last nail into the coffin of her assessment.

“Never mind,” Sebastian said, closing the cello case. He did not feel like discussing the piece with his mother anymore. She was clearly getting drunk and was not in the mood to analyze the complexity of his music.

He stood up.

“Where are you going?” Lydia asked, her speech becoming slurred.

“Out,” he said. “Need some fresh air.”

Lydia shrugged, took the TV remote control, turned on the set, and started to surf the channels. “Might as well. My guest is a bit late, but he’s still coming for a drink later,” she said without looking at Sebastian.

She was done talking, which suited Sebastian just fine. He locked the case, leaving the room with only the voices of the news commentators behind him and his mother steadily working through the bottle.

He had an important meeting himself that he did not want to miss. Even Lydia’s indifference did not spoil his mood that much—he had expected her reaction, or lack thereof. In a way, his mother had confirmed what he had always suspected—his music was only for outstanding minds, people who could appreciate the polyrhythmic and hypnotic melodious tranquility of what he had created.

Sebastian needed someone special, and that’s exactly what sheer, unbelievable luck (or providence?) had brought into his life. This man had seemed to appear as the desirable answer to Sebastian’s unspoken prayers. The Great Conductor—one of the greatest musical minds of his generation—had agreed to listen to his piece of music. It was a life-changing experience and the beginning of a unique collaboration. It was everything Sebastian hoped for—a true validation of his talent as a musician.

It had happened a couple of years ago when he had just started working on his piece. The meeting was so unexpected and surreal that he sometimes feared it might not have happened at all. He could not imagine that a musician of his caliber, hardly worth noticing from the perspective of snobbish professional orchestral musicians, could have possibly caught the attention of such a musical giant. But the Great Conductor was different; he could see the core of a true composer in Sebastian.

As for Sebastian’s musical skills, it’s not that he was a bad cellist. He was all right, but there were thousands of other players just like him who were constantly looking for ethereal orchestral positions around the world, through websites and word of mouth, who may have all sorts of strings attached to their applications.

What set him apart from the crowd was his unique mind as a composer. He had read somewhere that composers can hear the unheard, reach into the subconscious mind from the conscious mind, and shape emotions into sonic existence. This was exactly how he felt about his own mind. He did not just strive to be a great soloist, putting in tens of hours each week to master his performance skills. He wanted to be onstage, playing his own music. His compositions were the pinnacle of human creativity. His pieces would stand the test of time, like the Egyptian pyramids, and be enjoyed by people forever.

The Great Conductor was very patient and waited until Sebastian was ready to work on the final part of his concerto. He proposed his assistance, which was an extraordinary honor for Sebastian, who was speechless and flabbergasted by the offer.

However, there were two conditions. The first was that Sebastian’s mind had to be free from any negative thoughts, and he needed to create a perfect environment for music composition. This meant that he had to be free from anyone’s influence, including his mother’s.

Once this condition was met, the Great Conductor would reveal the second condition.

Tonight, though, the Great Conductor was going to meet with Sebastian and see the progress on the piece. Sebastian would forget about Lydia’s reaction and concentrate on meeting the man who would most likely change his life.

Chapter 5

It was Sunday evening, and Christine was on her way to her first ever blind date, with Victor O’Brian. She had finally agreed to this date in order to make her grandparents happy or because “constant dripping water wears away a stone” as her grandfather Sam Heart had put it. During lunch on Saturday, the topic of the date was avoided until dessert—a carrot cake that Christine had brought along with a bottle of wine. They had agreed that if the date went badly, there would be no more attempts at matchmaking. Christine had shaken hands with Veronica and Sam to make sure that they had a deal—“the deal of the century” was another wise input from her grandfather.

She had agreed to receive Victor’s call, which she did later in the evening. A pleasant male voice assured her that he was also feeling a bit weird about the situation—it turned out that he, too, had agreed to go on a date with her for his parents’ sake, and he promised to end the date as soon as she felt uncomfortable.

One point goes to “Victor’s pro column,” she thought with a smile.

Victor had given her a few options for the place for their rendezvous and also had asked if she had any favorite spots.

Considerate—one more point.

She had let him choose the place, which he had done (a nice Italian place), and messaged the details a few minutes after they had finished their conversation.

Efficient—another point.

Christine had opted for a taxi to be able to have a drink—never drink and drive—in case the date went south. So now, she was in the cab wondering if the man she had seen only two times in her life—a son of her grandparents’ friends—could be someone she could actually date. She had checked his social media page and found some pictures of a quite handsome, healthy-looking man in his forties with a full blond mane of hair on his head.

His company’s website had revealed that Victor went to a good university to study business and had his master’s in real estate and property management. He liked rock music (thank God! she did not want to have any conversations about classical music) and traveling (could potentially be a deal-breaker because Christine didn’t have time for trips). He enjoyed a good novel and nonfiction in his free time, of which he “hardly had any.” One more point. Christine liked people who read, even though she, too, almost never had time to do it for pleasure.

She texted Victor to let him know that she would be a few minutes late. Although she was usually punctual during her non-romantic work hours, she decided to be fashionably late this time for their date. By making him wait, she hoped to reveal some of his personal traits that he might have tried to conceal on the first meeting. When she received his message saying, Don’t worry, I’m here, she gave him another point for being so understanding.

Four good points so far. Was he working too hard to impress her? There must be something wrong with this man. No one can be perfect.

Or was it that she was subconsciously eager to give him a chance? She fiddled with her beaded bracelet as she watched the streets of Baltimore rush past her.

***

“Hi, sorry I’m late,” said Christine as she walked into the restaurant and spotted Victor sitting at a table by the window. Another point for choosing a good spot—she liked to observe passersby when she ate. He looked stylish in his expensive grey pants and white dress shirt, which showed a hint of chest hair. Christine noticed that Victor was not wearing socks with his loafers. This was a man who was comfortable in his own skin.

“It’s all right,” Victor said, standing up and offering her a chair. “It gave me a chance to relax a bit.”

“You don’t look nervous,” Christine said, sitting down and catching a whiff of Victor’s clean and balmy aftershave.

“I guess it’s a professional habit—I need to project confidence in order to sell expensive lots,” he said, sitting down across from her.

Christine smiled. “Fair enough . . . For the record, though, I don’t quite know what we’re supposed to be doing. Never been on a blind date before.”

“That makes two of us. Why don’t I start by saying that you look beautiful. Will that be all right for an icebreaker?”