Page 43 of Symphony of Salvation

“Well, not anymore.”

Titters rolled through the classroom. A few more boys made chicken noises, and I was ready to throw in the towel.

I forced a smile. “You’re correct, Dean. Bach was a late Baroque composer, and the next person who clucks is getting extra theory homework.”

They shut up, but only marginally.

The students were almost too unsettled to teach. I debated getting into the stylistic diversity of the era but took pity instead and let them get their instruments out so they could practice before the bell rang in twenty minutes. It wasn’t a lot of time, and their solo pieces should have been polished and ready to perform, but it was better than pulling my hair out to get them to participate in a lesson. I had a vast supply of patience, but it wasn’t endless.

August sat at my desk in the back corner, stacks of musical scores surrounding him. His lips moved to a tune only he could hear. Be it a time-keeping bass beat, a steady tempo of rhythm,or a fast flurry of sixteenth notes, it no longer surprised me. It was a quirk I’d seen in August a lot this past week. Stress did different things to different people. For August, it made him fidget with the buttons on his jacket and incessantly adjust his ill-knotted tie. It also transformed his thoughts and emotions into symphonies, and those symphonies leaked out of his mouth without him realizing it. Sometimes, he played air piano on the desk or his thighs.

It had been a trying week since our quibble on the top floor of the recreation hall. I had hoped the previous weekend and subsequent five days would repair the damage, but it hadn’t. August, professional to the extreme, assisted wherever needed. He was not a teacher, and his influence tended toward harsh, nitpicky comments he should have swallowed. The man’s personal supply of patience and understanding was slim at best.

He accepted responsibility for warmups and was available during free practice time to lend a hand or offer advice to struggling students, but he’d gone out of his way to avoid being alone with me.

Although I’d caught him staring a few times from across the room, he did his best to evade eye contact and conversation, always showing up at the start of second period, never a minute before the bell. We didn’t discuss Constance or his private life. He spoke no more about Chloé or his struggles with parenthood. Any suggestion of interest had been effectively erased.

One week remained before the Christmas holiday. Students would go home for a much-needed break and to spend time with their families. It marked the middle of term one and the true beginning of winter in Ontario—despite its early onset that year.

Apart from the annual Christmas concert happening the following Thursday evening, solos were scheduled to begin Monday morning. August and I were supposed to collaborate and share our thoughts for grading purposes and choose who wewanted to perform at the spring concert. He’d originally agreed to be present the entire week since there wasn’t enough time to fit everyone into his reduced schedule, but since the mood had shifted, I had no idea if that was still the case.

At this rate, it would be an uncomfortable task. It wasn’t that August outright ignored me—he was too mature for that—but the tension that existed between us would be easily picked up by an observant teen. Someone needed to break the ice, and it wouldn’t be him.

As the students stuffed binders into backpacks and opened instrument cases, I crossed to the desk, unobserved by the man still humming and singing an undefined concerto. The task he’d assigned himself occupied all his attention.

Stopping a few paces away, I strained to pick out notes and catch the tune of his random vocalizations.

“Handel?” I asked, startling him. “I want to sayWater Music?”

August stared blank-faced for a moment before his gaze turned inward as though accessing an internal data bank—a man checking what record he’d put on—and nodded. “Yes. That seems to be the case. Second suite. I didn’t realize I was humming. Bad habit.”

He averted his attention to the score he’d been scrutinizing. “I’m considering ‘Chorale from Jupiter’ for the concert band.” He held out a thick folder containing the sheet music for all the sections. “Thoughts? I played it with the Royal Philharmonic. It’s complex, but I can modify parts to fit the parameters of the students’ skill levels.”

“You plan to rewrite it?”

“Not exactly. Modify. Adjust some of the trickier sections. Essentially, it would be a ‘Chorale from Jupiter’ variation.”

“Modify.”

“Yes.”

I glanced at the pristine folder, opening it to peruse the sheet music. Its immaculate condition spoke to its challenge. I’d never felt any class was ready to tackle this particular piece by Gustav Holst. And August planned to modify it? Every part? The idea was preposterous. It would take ages—for me, anyhow. Maybe August could manage it over afternoon tea.

“Um… sure. If you think they can handle it.”

“Some of them. But with discipline, I have hope.” He shifted a few folders around and plucked another from a pile. “And potentiallyBoléroby Ravel. It needs a strong flutist, but Abby Young can manage. I’ll give her some pointers. I’d like to find a piece to highlight Dean’s trumpeting. He should have first chair. His skills are beyond the girl’s… What’s her name? Gretta?”

“Gina.”

“Dean’s better.”

“He’s in ninth grade.”

“So?”

“I don’t give first chair positions to grade nines, no matter their skill.”

August’s brow furrowed. He didn’t ask why, but the question sat on his tongue. Perhaps he was considering his daughter, who was leaps and bounds beyond anyone in the senior class. He returned to the spread of files. I set Holst on the corner of the desk and pulled up the chair typically used by students. “It’s Friday.”

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