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Fiction, © Copyright 2002, Jim Loy
He stood beside the grand piano with his trombone in his left hand, nearly petrified with fear. The audience portion of the concert hall was about half full of people. He heard a buzz of conversation. Then a young lady walked to the microphone and read from her clipboard, "Philip Merts, playing the Holy City by Stephen Adams." There was a smattering of applause. Philip looked at the pianist, and raised his eyebrows. The lady had mispronounced his name. Should he go to the microphone and correct it or not? Philip smiled weakly at the pianist, and nodded. The piano rang with the beginning of the piece.
Philip played, first somewhat hesitantly, then with more power as the music rose to a climax, then back to the beginning and then to the climax again, even more dramatic this time.
Then it was over, and Philip slowly became aware that there was applause, lots of applause. The audience was on their feet. It was a standing ovation. Philip grinned and bowed stiffly. The applause went on and on.
Then the man who sat alone in the center of the audience rose to his feet, and the applause quickly died down. "I'm sorry, Mr. Merts..."
"Marts."
"Excuse me?"
"My name is Philip Marts."
"My apologies ... Nevertheless, I'm afraid we have no need of your talents in our orchestra. Thank you so much..."
"But I played well."
"Yes, such as it was. But this Holy City is a particularly simple piece of music, and a little too religious for my tastes. If you are a capable musician, you should have played something more substantial, something to show off your skills. If the orchestra were to play, oh let's say The Ride of the Valkyries, how am I to know that you can keep up with us? What if I were to accept you into the orchestra, and then heard mud issue from the bell of your instrument."
"I can play it."
"Oh can you?" The man motioned a young man over to him, and talked to him for a moment. The young man rushed out of the concert hall. "We shall see."
They waited. Philip wanted to leave; he was not sure why he did not. There was more and louder conversation heard from the audience. Then the young man rushed in with sheets of music in his hand. He rushed up the stairs, onto the stage, and handed some music to the pianist. He then found a music stand back stage and set it up in front of Philip.
Philip said weakly, "I can't read music."
"I didn't hear you. Could you speak up?"
"I can't read music."
There was a long pause. "I see. Then why are you here, um ... Mr. Marts?"
Philip had no answer for that. He stood there a while in silence, and then turned to leave.
"Mr. Marts. How did you learn to play the Holy City?"
"Uh, a friend of mine played the trombone part on the piano."
"Let's try that then." He addressed the pianist, "Turn to the beginning of the third movement of this concerto please, and play the trombone part for a few measures."
The pianist pointed to the score and explained that there were 16 measures of rest before the trombone part began. Then he played the trombone part with one hand for a ways. It was a brisk, catchy tune. They talked some more. Then Philip faced the audience. He turned his head to the pianist, and nodded once.
He played very well. In fact, he played shockingly well. Every note was right; the dynamics were right; the phrasing was right. He reached the end of the part that he had just learned, and he stopped.
And there was silence.
Finally, the man in the audience said, "It seems that we do have a place for you in our orchestra, Mr. Marts."
Then there was noise throughout the concert hall. There was some applause. There was much talking. Some people were shaking hands and patting each other on the back, as if they were to be congratulated just for being there. People climbed the steps to the stage and shook Philip's hand. And they all remembered that night, as long as they lived.