Page 20 of Symphony of Salvation

Chuckling, I squeezed Koa’s arm. “I better not keep him waiting. I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Come over tonight for wine. Jersey won’t be home, and you can tell me about your day.”

I would have said something unsavory had August’s daughter not been standing there with watchful eyes and perked ears. Instead, I agreed and retreated as Koa and Constance entered the classroom.

“All right. Settle down,” Koa shouted above the din.

The wide, vacant halls with their tall ceilings echoed with the clip of my shoes as I wandered to the stairwell and descended to the first floor. I considered spending my free period in the staffroom to avoid seeing August but figured my petulance about the situation had reached its limits.

Koa was right. Whining and bitching—avoiding—wouldn’t change the situation. It was what it was, and I could get over myself and stop acting like the teenagers I taught.

The screech of running shoes on the gymnasium floor accompanied me down the lengthy hallway leading to the music room. A sharp whistle sounded before Coach Blaine shouted muffled instructions I couldn’t make out from beyond the concrete wall.

I stopped outside the music room door and noticed that someone had fixed the staff and notes I’d plastered to its surface. Constance? August? It had to be one of the two since, prior to their arrival, I alone spent endless hours correcting the mess. The students made a game of rehanging my decorations. Lately, I’d lost the energy to care and refused to amend the disorder.

From within, the piano sounded out a jaunty tune with a clash of chords and intricate fingering. The mood shifted, and the tone changed. It became melancholy. I didn’t recognize the piece, but it sounded… sloppy and disconnected, which made me think a student with a spare period had come to practice.

I half expected to find August hovered over them, offering suggestions for improvement, so I was taken aback when I discovered the maestro himself was the one faltering the melody and tangling chords. It wasn’t hard to see why. The man was zoned out, gaze locked on an unseen distant landscape, no longer present with the music. His fingers played by rote, attention seemingly divided.

I still didn’t recognize the piece. The style was unique enough that I should have picked up on the composer’s signature, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Before I could announce my presence and ask, August returned to himself, stopped playing with a heavy sigh, and muttered something under his breath that wasn’t in English.

“It’s reassuring to discover you’re as flawed as the rest of us. What were you playing? I don’t know it.” Was the remark pettish and immature? Yes, but the man had upset me during our previous encounter, and despite Koa’s lectures, I wasn’t over it.

August spun to face me, showing no signs of having been startled. “Ah, Mr. Edwidge. Hello. I, um… I call it Silent Dove. One of many pieces I’m working on. It’s meant to illustrate the trials of my daughter’s life, only I can’t quite capture the right tone. She’s an enigma… with me, anyhow.” He shook his head. “It’s a work in progress. I don’t have the sheet music I’ve written with me, so I’m playing from memory and trying to reconstruct it as I go.”

My stomach fell. It wasn’t a lesser-known composer’s piece. The obscurity lay in its origins. Unpublished. Unknown. A creation still in the making. Not sloppy, fumbled, or filled with errors. The flawed playing I’d overheard was the first brushstroke of a work of art—and I’d criticized it.

August stood. “I’ve been waiting for you. I was hoping we could talk before the students arrive.” He buttoned his jacket and touched his necktie, moving it slightly off-center in his attempt to straighten it. Its incongruence didn’t fit.

Everything else about the man was perfect. His mahogany hair, scarcely touched by age, the clean-shaven, razor-sharp edge of his jaw, his costly suit, and polished shoes. Even the comforting aroma of musk and sophistication spoke of elegance and superiority.

“Talk?” I asked, trying to find my footing, my inadequacies roaring to life.

“Yes. We got off to a bad start the other day. I have a tendency to… I shouldn’t have offered suggestions when you didn’t ask to be appraised. It won’t happen again. My daughter… Constance informed me I was showing off by… Well, she didn’t specify. I assume I shouldn’t have demonstrated those strategiesforGaspard de la Nuit. I thought I was being helpful, but… Regardless, I apologize if I overstepped or offended. It was not my intent.”

Again, he touched the tie, and his fingers moved subconsciously to the buttons on his jacket before he caught himself and lowered his arm.

I never bothered with a jacket. Most days, I could barely keep my sleeves rolled down. The confinement of a suit was never to my liking, so again, I walked the line of Timber Creek’s faculty regulations.

Despite the desire to clash swords, arguing with the man wouldn’t prove productive. If we were to work together, I needed to put my bruised ego in a box and trust Koa when he promised the school wasn’t seeking a replacement.

“I’m sure we can put our differences aside. Your… remarks were much appreciated,” I lied. “I’ve been struggling with that piece for a while.”

“It’s quite challenging.”

And yet you played it by heart, I wanted to say but smartly kept the observation to myself.

I glanced about the classroom before returning my attention to August. “I was considering how best to incorporate your… talent into the curriculum.”

“If it helps, I have no desire to teach history or theory. Although it was the primary focus of my education, I have no love for it. I want to conduct.” He moved to the podium and removed the baton. “I want to select a piece from your back room”—he pointed with the stick—“and nurture it to life here.” He turned to the vacant risers and seats, opening his arms wide.

Something about his impassioned tone hit me in the chest. I knew that deep lust, the craving to create, to bring a piece of music to life. But this was my classroom. They were my students.In here, it was my life’s work. Giving it up to someone more skilled hurt.

August turned to me, the look in his eyes begging me not to deny him. The boyish spark of excitement on such a mature man caught me off guard. I could hardly tell him no. I’d seen that same look many times over the years on students, driven by cravings so powerful they believed they might die if their wishes were not fulfilled. It was only for a few months.

“Okay. We can sort that out. Although I’ll not step down as conductor for the upcoming Christmas show. We are too far along. The spring concert, however, is at the beginning of June. If you’re staying that long. I don’t usually focus on fresh material until after the new year. By then, you should have a feel for the students and their skills. Typically, each class performs three pieces. Students are chosen to perform solos or duets based on their midterm performances, which are happening in two weeks. You can sit in and help grade if you’d like. We can select those we want to showcase together.”

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