October 1998 ...

On the video monitor in his dressing room at Philharmonia Hall, Maestro Auguste Leloir watched as the musicians made their final preparations for the concert. The second clarinetist swabbed out his instrument while the contrabassoonist adjusted the reed on her bocal. A hornist emptied his spit valves again, much to the dismay of the cellists seated nearby. The timpanist leaned forward, his ear nearly touching the drumhead as he checked its pitch. A senior member of the violin section straightened his seat cushion before settling in for the ninety minutes of continuous playing that was in store for them tonight.

From another camera angle, Auguste could see the front of the auditorium was already full. All four of his performances with the Chicago Philharmonia of Mahler's Ninth Symphony had been sold out weeks in advance. This series was one of the most anticipated in the orchestra's season, not in small part due to Maestro Leloir's reputation as a master interpreter of Mahler's late works.

Then why was his hand trembling as it rested on the dressing room table?

It's just another concert, Auguste reminded himself. You know this piece like the back of your hand.

Like the back of your twitching hand, his alter ego chimed in.

Surely he couldn't be that nervous. The concert schedule was manageable enough, even with a little free time built in. Tonight's Wednesday evening concert would be followed by a day off on Thursday and then the three remaining performances Friday through Sunday.

And the rehearsals with the orchestra had gone very well. He'd been warmly welcomed by the musicians without a mention of his first visit to Chicago or his hasty departure after his wife's death. Or why he'd stayed away for three decades before agreeing to conduct the Philharmonia again.

But that was all behind him now. Tonight was a new beginning with the orchestra, and his focus was on the concert performance. As to be expected, there were still a few musical nuances to be smoothed out, but his main concern was for the stamina of his friend and principal of the oboe section, Nicholas Koshevsky. They'd last seen each other at the Spoleto Festival a few years ago. Since then, advancing age—Nicholas was almost seventy—along with a lifestyle rich in diet and other temptations (if his flirtations during rehearsal breaks with the attractive blonde in the oboe section were any indication) had taken their toll on the principal player.

Glancing in the mirror, Auguste had to admit he was also showing the effects of midlife maturity. He still had a full head of hair, although it was graying at the temples. The lines in his forehead were becoming more noticeable, and his naturally slender frame was gaining as lightly expanding waistline. Yet he wasn't too much the worse for wear given that he'd passed his fifty-sixth birthday a week ago. Only his eyes reflected the true burden of his years. But they had looked that way ever since Eugenie died. Now his body was just catching up.

He glanced at his watch again. Nearly eight o'clock. Why wasn't the concertmaster on stage yet, requesting the concert A from the first oboe so the orchestra could tune?

* * *

Lyssa Sorenson brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes.

Nicky's the one who told me to be early, she thought. Now it's nearly time for the concert to start and he's not even here yet.

She scanned the warm-up room at Philharmonia Hall to make sure she hadn't missed seeing the orchestra's principal oboist come in, but there was no sign of Nicholas Koshevsky.

"Very few of my students from the Conservatory get this opportunity," Nicky had solemnly informed her during her private lesson. "You'll be playing in the oboe section of the Chicago Philharmonia, performing Mahler's Ninth Symphony, one of the greatest works in the orchestral literature. And my dear friend Auguste Leloir will be conducting the Philharmonia again after all these years."

"But you're very special to me, Lyssa," he added with a wink. "You know I expect a lot from you, don't you, dear?"

Professor Koshevsky made his expectations plain enough later in her lesson, and Lyssa wasn't opposed to using her physical assets to get what she wanted. She was only an undergraduate at the Conservatory and already playing extra with the symphony, proof enough that her plan to land a permanent position in the orchestra was starting to work.

Sitting alone in the back corner gave Lyssa plenty of time to observe the preconcert rituals acted out before her. The musicians milling around had arrived looking like ordinary Chicago pedestrians on a Wednesday evening. In fact, if she had seen them on the street outside, their curiously shaped briefcases would have been the only indication of their shared purpose beyond the entrance of Philharmonia Hall.

Yet once their instruments were unpacked, Lyssa detected a subtle change in their personas. To be sure, the musicians exchanged greetings and joked with one another. But each, at their own unannounced time, drew inside him- or herself. With the feel of the bow in the hand, or the mouthpiece on the lips, senses reawakened. Their eyes reflected an appreciation for the uncommonly beautiful sounds seemingly common people could create from pieces of wood and metal.

Snatches of music surrounded her—a trombonist finishing his long-tone exercises, a virtuosic display of technique splashing from a flute. On the other side of the room, a violinist cleaned up a treacherous lick from the symphony's third movement. Ree Koshevsky, no doubt.

Lyssa stole a look in her direction. Nicky called her the "ice woman." She had mousy-brown hair pulled back tight in a bun, and her face that might have once been considered pretty was now distant and tense. Lyssa wondered if Ree knew where her husband was, or where he had been last night.

Then she heard it again, the oboe solo from the last movement of the symphony. Tom Baer, the Philharmonia's assistant principal oboist and English horn player, had been playing it from the minute he sat down.

Why is Tom practicing the first oboe part instead of his own? she thought. He was lucky Nicky wasn't around to hear him, though Tom would probably enjoy irritating his section leader right before a big concert.

Lyssa's own oboe was lying on the chair next to her. She should be running through a few passages in her part, but she wasn't one to put too much time into practicing. She wasn't even worried about her reed for her big debut, which was soaking in the small vial of water set out on the music stand in front of her. Tom had been her teacher last year and he'd always been impressed by how she could create a good-sounding reed without much effort, especially when it took him so long to make one from a stubborn piece of cane.

Not that Tom was in the habit of giving her compliments these days. Since she left his teaching studio to become Nicholas's protégé and lover, he'd barely said two words to her. Even as they sat next to each other during the orchestra rehearsals this week, Tom acted like she wasn't even there.

She watched as he set aside his oboe and grudgingly took up his English horn. After playing through a couple of tutti passages from the symphony, he gathered up his instruments and joined his colleagues heading out of the warm-up room.

"Hey, Tommy Boy," called out Sterling Fry, the Philharmonia's portly principal French horn player. "Have you heard the one about how to get a good tremolo out of a viola player?"

The orchestra's first chair violist, Allan Wu, gave a low groan.

"No, Ster. How do you get a violist to play a good tremolo?" Tom tossed back.

"Write a whole note and mark it solo!" bellowed Sterling, followed by boos from the surrounding musicians. "Or tell me this, Al. What's the definition of an optimist?"

"Come on, Sterling," Allan protested, moving toward the exit. "That's an old one."

"A viola player with an answering machine," roared Sterling.

Watching Tom leave with the others, Lyssa felt an unfamiliar pang of remorse. Tom's affection for her had been sincere, along with his pledge to leave his wife, Monika. But he was trapped in an orchestra position with no future as long as Nicky was principal oboe in the Phil.

To Lyssa, Nicky represented influence and prestige. As for Mrs. Koshevsky, she was only a temporary stumbling block who would be dealt with soon enough. Still, she missed Tommy's devotion and his sexy beard. Not to mention how it tickled when he—

"Lyssa." A woman's soft voice startled her. Turning to her left, she nearly collided with the skinny nose and thick black bangs of Monika Baer.

Good grief. How long had she been standing there?

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," said Monika, cradling a tiny E-flat clarinet in her arms. "It's just that I left my pad papers at home and Tom's already gone on stage. Would you have any extra?"

"Let me see." Lyssa leaned over to look in her instrument case sitting on the floor. "I think I might have some in here." She rummaged through the side pockets, moving aside her cloth oboe swab and a flat wooden case holding a few extra reeds. "At least I thought I did."

"I hate to have water gurgling around in my instrument, don't you?" Monika stepped in closer, peering over her shoulder. "Always seems to happen on opening night."

Lyssa sped up her search. The woman gave her the creeps. Why Tom ever married her, she'd never know.

"You must be excited about tonight's concert," said Monika. "This is your first time playing with the Phil, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," said Lyssa, turning back to Monika. "I guess I didn't bring them with me after all. Maybe they're on my desk at home."

"Oh, isn't that funny," said Monika, holding up a small packet of the thin white paper strips. "I had some in my pocket all the time. Never mind."

As Monika walked away, Lyssa wondered if she had wanted to ask her something else. She thought back to one of Tom's visits to her apartment, when she got a call at just the wrong time from a woman who had a soft voice like Monika's. The woman apologized for dialing the wrong number, and Tom laughed off the idea of his wife knowing anything about their secret trysts. Yet Lyssa never got over the feeling that Monika knew more than she was letting on.

But she couldn't sit here forever speculating about the odd Mrs. Baer. The lights were flashing overhead, signaling that the musicians should be on stage in five minutes. She placed her reed on her oboe and gathered up the rest of her belongings.

Rising to leave, she brushed her blonde hair away from her face one more time. Nicky or not, this was the beginning of her professional career. She wasn't about to be late.

* * *

Checking the video monitor again, Auguste looked on as the heavyset stagehand dressed in a too-snug tuxedo prepared the conductor's podium. His music score was in place, and his baton was tucked inside the front cover. The orchestra players on stage were aware that the time was near, so why the delay?

The screen view abruptly switched to a shot of the backstage area. In the dim lighting, Auguste made out an overweight figure hurrying toward the stage entrance. Could Nicholas only now be getting to the concert? Obviously his habit of being late hadn't changed over the years, even if his "dear friend" Maestro Leloir was on the podium.

As Auguste watched, the blonde oboist Nicholas was so fond of stepped in front of the camera. Without the audio, Auguste couldn't tell what Nicholas was saying to her, or why she was shaking her head in disagreement. Then Nicholas reached over to grab something from her, but the lighting was too dark for Auguste to see what it was. Nicholas rushed through the curtains onto the stage, and the woman disappeared from view as well.

Auguste shook his head. When would Nicholas learn to leave the ladies alone? He reached to switch off the video, but before he did, another person dashed across the screen. A slight, younger man with a short ponytail.

Why was Grant Alexander, the Philharmonia's music director, backstage just minutes before the concert? Auguste had been told he wouldn't be in town until later in the week. Maybe there was something to the rumors about Grant's insecurity over his contract not being renewed at the end of the season. With all the publicity being generated around the Mahler concerts, perhaps Grant thought Auguste was vying for his job.

A soft knock sounded on his door.

"Maestro." A woman's voice called to him.

Auguste turned away from the monitor. The time for offstage antics was over.

"I'll be right there," he answered.

He checked his bow tie in the mirror. His moment had finally come.

Leloir leads the musicians through the opening measures of Mahler's Ninth Symphony. In hushed tones, each entrance whispers of the work's twilight reverie ... the heartbeat pulse in the celli, a quivering answer from the violas, the muted call of a horn. Then the violins enter with the plaintive first theme. The sighs of longing persist until the woodwinds break free from the melancholy. But their release is temporary, soon to be reined back into submission.

Auguste used the beginning minutes of the symphony to calm the orchestra's collective nerves. A slight bobble by the trumpet, an extra beat of tremolo from somewhere in the basses, all to be expected given the heightened excitement of their first performance together. Auguste was there not only to serve the composer and engage the audience, but also to act as an advocate for the musicians seated before him. From the first-stand violins just an arm's length away to the lower brass seated far back on the stage, the musicians looked to him with trust in their eyes—to guide them through the tumult of Mahler's "dark night of the soul."

Excellent, he silently congratulated the bass clarinetist after his rumbling solo. And a few bars later, he offered the same muted compliments to Nicholas on his molto espressivo effect. So far, Auguste's worries about the oboist's playing were proving to be unwarranted.

The performers slowly build to a brilliant climax, and then retreat from the dizzying height. The specter of death appears once more, emerging in the E-flat clarinet, carried on by the first flute, haltingly beckoning in the oboe. Morendo, dying away ...

* * *

As customary, Auguste took an extra moment's pause between the first and second movements to allow for the seating of latecomers. He stood in position on the podium, waiting for a cue from the stage manager to continue the performance.

He waited and then waited longer. The manager shook his head to indicate the hall was still not ready. Auguste heard shuffling feet and muffled voices behind him. After the principal cellist motioned toward the audience, Auguste turned around to see for himself what was causing the holdup.

A woman at least eighty years old, elegantly dressed in a blue wool suit with velvet trim and a matching pillbox hat, was slowly being guided to her seat in the middle of the second row. Her companion, perhaps her granddaughter, was holding her hand as she carefully stepped past the uprooted patrons. The young woman looked up to Auguste in a moment of desperation, mouthing a silent apology for the concert's disruption. But the elderly lady continued on her way, oblivious to the delay she was causing. Even after they reached the last two open seats in the concert hall, she took extra time to remove her hat, in deference to those sitting behind her.

Auguste smiled at the gentle lady. How could he fault someone who had made such an effort to attend the performance? In a spur of the moment gesture, he clasped his hands and extended them toward her in admiration.

"Good for you," he said, though he doubted she could hear him.

The audience, as witness to the little drama, joined him in quiet applause.

"Good for you," they all seemed to be saying. Everyone except for a woman with dyed red hair seated in the same row who was noticeably irritated by the display.

The elderly lady nodded toward Auguste as if to let him know, "Enough of all this nonsense. Let's get on with the music."

* * *

The Ländler movement, clumsy and heavy-footed, lurches from its peasant origins into a frenetic waltz. After coarse interruptions from the trombones and tuba, the simple country dance returns. But with each restatement the melody becomes more distorted, eventually wearing itself out until an eerie duet between the piccolo and contrabassoon utters the last gasp.

The occupants of the right center box exchanged glances as the second movement came to a close.

"Looks like they've gotten over their jitters," said Ferguson Winthrop, the orchestra's business manager. Ferguson's glistening bald head and thick horn-rimmed glasses were a regular sight in the society section of Philharmonia Hall. Usually he was accompanied by one of the blue-haired donors to the orchestra's Music Director Circle. But tonight, seated next to him was the Philharmonia's music director himself, Grant Alexander.

"Even Nicholas Koshevsky is doing well," Ferguson added under his breath. "It's nice for him to get one good concert in before ..." He stopped himself from saying anything more.

Grant Alexander didn't respond. Instead, he pointed to the stage. The percussion section had finished setting up for the third movement. Maestro Leloir was about to begin the Rondo-Burleske.