Simfonia de Valdez
It was ridiculous, he thought, that he should have to wear some sort of make-up, but the performance was being filmed, and would be broadcast on 'Fleet channels. He'd been told to sit down, by a woman who might have been his own age physically, but it was clear to him that her soul was old. So he sat, facing the mirror, managing to look both extremely uncomfortable in his tails and yet exactly like the stereotype of a conductor at the same time.
"Sit still!" the woman said. "Close your eyes, now."
"Wriggling," he answered. "My father used to tell me to stop wriggling."
"Then you should have listened," the woman said viciously. "Hold still, senyor, or I swear…." She flooded his ears with vitriolic Catalan, all of which he could understand perfectly, and she knew he could understand it.
He was still. He wouldn't talk. He would do nothing more to irritate this young woman, who was completely terrifying. He had grown up in a family which was almost entirely absent of women, except for his sister; he supposed she was female – well obviously she was, with two children now – but was she a woman? He wasn't quite sure he knew what a woman was.
"How old are you?" he asked her, opening his eyes.
"You are completely impertinent," she responded, "and a fool, and I don't care who you are."
"Am I done now?" he asked. There was a smile trying to find its way to his mouth. "I have a symphony to conduct."
"Fool!" she hissed, and he laughed. She rolled her eyes at him and left.
"Five minutes."
He took a breath, and then the music was dancing in front of him, floating around the edges of his eyes. He straightened his tie, brushed his hair out of his face, and walked out of the dressing room just as the first violin sounded in the loudspeaker. He walked down the corridor, nodding to one of the techs, and then he stood in the wings, looking out at the grandiose splendour of the Liceu. His light came on and he loped across the stage, nodding to his musicians and then shaking the hand of the concert master before taking his place at the podium and turning to face the audience, an audience in black tie and dress whites. He bowed his head, once, and then he turned to the orchestra. He took a deep breath and lifted his baton; and then the sea filled the theatre, with its restless harmonics, its cold grey notes overlaying the staccato rhythms of tribal drums. The first movement ended with the icy swirling of a terrifying creek, and he waited until the applause died before he lifted his baton again, ushering in the raucous notes of Dixieland jazz, drowning out the ever-present and ominous threat of rushing water. There was a child in that water, he knew, or perhaps there were two; the horns, cornets and flugelhorns and 'bones, were skipping across childhood Dixieland style, nursery rhymes and children's songs while the woodwinds and the violins pushed the current ever faster until the horns fell away to the keening sound of a solo tenor sax and then the sudden, shocking silence – the stilling, he knew, of a child's heart.
His baton poised, he gazed at his musicians, loving each and every one of them, encouraging them with his eyes, promising them that the silence – this profound bridge of stillness between movements – would end and their mutual suffering would end with it. Guifré, the saxophonist, had tears on his cheeks; one of the violinists dabbed her eyes. The silence stretched to the breaking point – someone in the audience was weeping – and then the soft thrumming of tribal drums took form, an ever-present background to the growing sounds of Starfleet, the Federation anthem, the electronic sounds of starships, the coloured notes of stars and space warping by. Traditional, classical symphonies had three movements, but this one did not; it had too much to say. He'd argued with the management over the intrusion of an intermission; the symphony was too long, they'd said, but he'd felt his jaw tighten and his spine straighten and he who'd followed neither of his fathers' footsteps still was able to employ both of their techniques, one with a mild, neutral tone of voice, the other will an icy stare and a towering height. The Liceu relented – with dire warnings that the audience would become so emotionally exhausted that they would simply drift away.
He heard nothing from behind him; no whispers, no soft movement of fabric as patrons slipped to the facilities, no flipping of pages, not even a cough. Bien, he thought, and grinned at his musicians; a tilt of his head and the battle ensued, timpani and brass, winds and strings; the ever-present tribal drumming giving way to a relentless sound of rushing air and then the solo 'bone emerged, joined by Guifré's sax and then cornets, the drum set, the guitar and then the piano merging into a contrapuntal medley of half-remembered standard tunes and American jazz riffs until finally two unconnected and unrelated melodies remained, one by clarinet, the other by piano until once again they resolved themselves into the endless motion of an indigo sea. He paused and then the children stood, having been silent all this time; the tribal drumming began anew and the unfamiliar language in joyous voices filled the theatre. As the children's voices died away the rushing water returned and with it the solo tenor sax, in an ascending melody that always reminded him of Vaughan Williams. He lifted his arms and the sea joined the rushing water, pain giving way, finally, to the quiet motion of waves and the lingering notes of the tenor sax.
He stood, waiting. This was the moment he'd tried to explain to his musicians, that they would be met with profound silence. That the men and women in this gold and gilt building, the ones dressed in formal white, would be too overwhelmed to respond. They would hear themselves, he'd told his musicians, in this music; they would hear the men they'd known and lost, including the Ambassador. Out of respect, then, the civilians waited for the 'Fleet to respond.
It was barely a minute of silence, but he saw the apprehension on the faces of his players and he smiled at them – the Admiral's grin. Shoulders relaxed slightly, instruments rested – and the applause began. It was thunderous; it was overwhelming; it was as it should be. He raised his arms and the orchestra stood, and then he turned to face the audience and bowed. The spotlight shone on a figure in the balcony, white-bearded with a chest full of medals, and Jean-Guy nodded. The orchestra began to applaud behind him and the audience rose as the man in white stood to acknowledge the applause.
The moment was broken, and he acknowledged the bouquet of roses that were brought out by a young girl, and then flowers were thrown on the stage, and the orchestra took another bow as the audience continued to applaud. He stepped off the podium and loped backstage.
The stage manager brought the Admiral to him.
"They're waiting for you, Dad," Jean-Guy said, and he took his father's arm and led him into the spotlight.
The Admiral took a bow, holding onto Jean-Guy's arm. They were no longer the same height, he thought, and he didn't know whether it was age or music or loss which had rounded his father's shoulders. This moment was the beginning of his transcendent career; he could see everything unfolding in front of him: the opera, the symphonies, a directorship in La Scala, in Rixx, in London, in New York. He should thank the Admiral, for the music, but instead his eye was caught by the young woman standing in the wings, overcome with emotion; he took his father's hand and whispered, "Breathe, Dad." The Admiral grinned and they bowed together.
Her name, he learned, was Cèlia.