Under the Curtain

The adagio creeps its way through into the outro until the music finishes, and I release my fingers from their grip around the long ebonite body balancing from my mouth; its shiny nickel exoskeleton winding around the length of it like an armoured vine. I look towards the three seemingly unreadable faces in front of me, and smile, and they share knowing glances and are exchanging secret thoughts. I let my Buffet Crampton R13 drop from my lips and rest comfortably in my lap as I wait for permission to stand.

“Thank you Nicolette, that was just beautiful,” Patricia is the first to speak, and she uses my full name (I usually prefer Nicki) and she and the two men beside her rise in unison.

“An absolute delight,” she enthuses, the sapphire squares set in diamonds which adorn her ears glint perpetually under the lighting fixtures; a glamorous choice for a woman who almost exclusively wears black. Patricia Van Der Hock. I have auditioned for her before, and I teach music lessons to her granddaughters at Trinity, where I work as the private school's Principle music teacher. Patricia is to be in charge of Musical Supervision, Orchestrations and Arrangements for Baz Luhrmann’s ‘Moulin Rouge, The Musical’, which is now in its second year running. I’ve just finished performing two pieces for her, Roberto Gonzalez and Gary Cole; who complete the panel as Director and Choreographer.

“Well practised,” Gary agrees.

“Indeed,” Roberto commends me, like he knows more about the music than I do, eyeing off my Clarinet which anyone can see is the best that money can buy. “That was a good choice with Stravinsky.” I nod and thank him.

I know Stravinsky- Three Pieces is impressive because I’ve been perfecting it for years and it is incredibly difficult. It is the piece that has seen me place into several orchestras for Broadway productions over the years. The second piece I played for the panel today though, Donatoni; Clair- that was the real dazzler, which is what Patricia was referring to. Roberto knows this of course, but doesn’t want to draw attention to it for whatever petty reason he has. Who knows, perhaps he is a failed musician. I technically am also, which is why I teach music now; but I still have skills, and I intend to use them. I choose repertoire that showcases what I can do, not the gaps in my technique. And although selecting pieces that I can nail no matter how easy is always vastly more impressive than pieces I can’t play under pressure; I can play both selections well and I feel zero constraint. The audition process is also nothing new to me. I stand, relinquishing my instrument to the chair now and walk over to them, smiling politely and shaking their hands. I play it down, modesty and control; even though I know I’ve got this in the bag. Three decades of clarinet was disappointingly never sufficient enough to acquire a seat in The London Symphony, The Vienna or the New York Philharmonic, but it will get me into this. I love my students too much to reignite that dream now; teaching has grown on me over the years, and I’m comfortable where I am. One of my future goals is to teach at Julliard, where I was talented enough and lucky enough to train. In terms of my confidence in my audition, it can’t help that I know the lighting technician who will be working on this show too…my husband, Andrew. He works for Paramount, who run the theatre- It’s all about connections, but I know my talent shines through first.

I return to my Clarinet and begin to disassemble it; unfastening the ligature, and returning my reed to its case. I then twist off the mouthpiece, followed by the barrel, the upper and lower joints and finally I return the bell, making sure each individual piece is fitted securely into its green velvet cradle. I’ll clean it later, I decide, hearing the panel practically thinking me out of the room so they can rush the next audition in. These have been the second round of auditions, the first of which was two evenings ago. That night I played ‘Come what may,’ for them; the image of the statuesque Nicole and exquisite Ewan serenading each other in my mind the entire time. I enjoyed that movie a lot. It isn’t a difficult piece, but they like; nay they expect you to deliver music from the production in your first audition- it’s just good form, and I tell my students this all the time.

I grab my sheet music from the stand and fold it into my bag, take my case in my left hand and nod, smile and graciously thank them again for their time before the tall and graceful Gary steps in like the gentlemen he is and opens the door for me and closes it behind me just as swiftly, where I am met with a hallway of other musicians. Most of them I had been waiting with before I was called in, and some new arrivals have now joined them. There are mixed ages, and I instinctively take stock of the Clarinet cases, of which there are only a few now. The ones who made it through from two nights ago, my competition. There are only three seats available, but it could be worse. I could play the French Horn, of which I see quite a number of; unbelievably. Its popularity has grown since I was young. I see some familiar faces, others from the music and theatre scene, a generous amount of other musically gifted teachers of whose names I can remember but whose divorces, children and specialities seem to blur in as one. There are many younger players auditioning this year also. I smile and wave goodbye to people, showcasing I am not concerned about how my audition went in the slightest. Both the actors and dancers for the ensemble have already been cast, and that’s who I can hear now, out in the green room where I must pass through to leave the building. A muffled entourage of unknown voices, resembling the sound of being underwater; pulsing from behind the noise-proof door of which I open, and where they break into a cacophonic jungle that assaults my ears; submerged no longer.

The voices of the young and restless laughing and gossiping with unbridled animation, comparing and commenting on dance attire and shoes, some showing off new piercings, tattoos and hair colour, giggling into smartphones; only breaking away to admire each other’s bodies, and envy of course, as they do- particularly the young girls, who don’t realise that at this stage in their lives they are all absolutely stunning. They crowd the entire room all the way out into the back of the stage, leaning on the walls to stretch, some lying on the floor in an open splits position, unbothered by the people stepping around them, including the lady with the clarinet case and large tote bag politely repeating "excuse me" despite the chatter and clatter of noisy performers drowning her out. They completely ignore me. I’m not offended though, in fact I’m glad I’m not one of them. Too much drama; more than the musical itself if I’m being honest. In high school I always felt jealous of the thin and limber girls; that I wasn’t one of them and that I could never do what they could do athletically. Dancing, although a large, integral piece of the realm of theatre, seems like a faraway world that exists beyond the orchestra. We never mix, each staying within their own lane. I was never sporty either- to add insult to injury; although I wasn’t half bad at shot-put. What I was though, was a drama nerd; and this is before television shows like Glee were introduced. I was never given any major roles, and was consistently pushed to the back for any dance numbers involved due to my highly uncoordinated body (despite my musical ear being on point) but I was good at the theory, and naturally I excelled in my music classes, taking home the Dux award for it in my senior year. I’m also not terrible at mathematics, which comes hand in hand with music.

I’m almost out of the corridor and nearly at the exit through the main doors of the theatre when a tiny little body passes right by me in a flurry of excitement, knocking me ever so slightly and I have to steady my clarinet and tote bag, which are supported by the same arm; a misjudgement on my part. I audibly grunt and the body turns, two bodies in fact.

“Sorry,” the one whom hit me, a little blonde thing of about only twenty apologises, fixing the long pink arm of her sports sweater which was pulled from her shoulder in her haste, then quickly turns her attentions back to her friend, whom I take notice of also. The friend, who is quite tall (although I think everyone is tall because I’m only five foot three) isn’t looking at me but as she turns and disappears quickly with the blonde I feel a strange feeling shoot through me from top to toe. What is that? Déjà vu. I look back after them but can only see the back of their heads. I feel as though I know her. Where have I seen that girl? I think on this for a hard moment as I exit the Gershwin Theatre and step out from under the walkway and out onto Fifty-First Street, met with a glacial touch of night air; the end of Fall cautioning me of the Winter to come. I reach into my tote bag and retrieve a mustard yellow scarf which has a light floral print through it. The sort of scarf you’d expect a music teacher who's almost forty to wear, unfashionable and quirky yet oddly suited. I walk a small distance to the bus stop, the same bus stop that my husband arrives and departs from each day. Drew finishes precisely at five-thirty, so as soon as that long hand hits the six, or rather as soon as the apple watch I bought him last Christmas lights up the luminescent blue digits of five, three and zero, he’s out of that theatre and on the bus homeward bound. I stayed back after work today before catching another bus here for my audition and I didn’t expect him to wait around for me- we’re passed that stage anyhow; four and a half years together, and two months married. Newly-weds.

It’s eight-thirty now, and I’m starving. There’s pot-roast leftovers in the fridge from last night which I cooked for us and it’s on my mind. So is the girl from back at the theatre. This is really bugging me. How do I know her? I might not be the best with names, considering each year I’m forever having to learn a plethora of new students on the roll call, but I recognise a face when I see it. Just in time the bus whines into the stop and I shuffle in after a handful of tired looking commuters. The bus isn’t crowded for once which is nice. I tap the back of my cell phone case against the pay-wave machine, and proceed to take one of the very first seats which are usually reserved for prams and wheelchairs and place my bag and case next to me. Plenty of room. It’s going to take a while to get home so at least I’ll be comfortable. I still can’t shake this feeling of Déjà vu off. My sister once told me in high school that it means you’ve got epilepsy, or about to pass out. She loved to fool with me like that. I know a lot of young women, but mainly teenagers whom I’ve taught from Trinity. I thought she might be a student from another class but she looked a bit older than that; but quite young nonetheless. And besides, you have to be of a certain age to audition for Moulin Rouge anyhow. She must be a former student, or maybe she’s a working actress and I’ve seen her in other productions, none that I can place my finger on at present though. Perhaps I’m fixating too much because she was eye-catching, from the glimpse I saw of her. Beautiful in fact. Thin too. Long brown hair. Pretty people always turn heads. It is New York City, and there are so many, many faces. I’m looking at one right at this moment opposite me, the face of a child, hungrily noshing down on a hotdog, mustard and ketchup smearing across his red, wind-burnt cheeks. I smile at who I assume is his mother next to him. That hotdog looks good, and I am starving.

*

When I return home, Drew is lazing around on the couch watching something on one of the many television subscriptions we have. Endless entertainment. His body takes up the entire length of our black leather three seater- and some. He’s six foot six. The height difference makes us look ridiculous together. He used to complain about his back hurting all the time when we first started dating, from having to reach down all the time to kiss me, and I know he had this issue with his ex-partner as well. So we don’t really kiss standing up anymore, mainly in bed when he’s lying down and he doesn’t have to lean down so far. He’s never been one for public displays of affection anyhow. And he doesn’t complain about his back too much anymore, although he’s always had a bit of a stoop; but this might just be from trying to make his height less obvious. He doesn’t have a large frame, that is to say his shoulders are quite narrow and he’s on the slimmer side save for the little pooch belly which has been steadily growing over the years. He’s self-conscious about that, and I keep telling him if he wants to change it then he’s just going to have to get out there and exercise- which of course, he hates. He won’t even consider sit-ups or crunches. Not even a simple walk in Forest Park, the beautiful public forest area not far from our home where I often go for walks or runs. I can never get him to go there. He cranes his neck to me as I dump my baggage on the recliner opposite him.

“How did you go Nic?” he asks me.

“Nailed it.” I say enthusiastically, rubbing his bald head, and scratching what hair is left on his head around the back and the sides. The perfect ginger colour. He swats me away playfully; again another point of insecurity for him. He’s always looked fine to me, but he tells me he lost most of his hair quite early on. Damn that male patterned baldness, but I always tell him I think it makes him look cute. I’ve seen old photos of him from his early twenties, and yes; there was lots of hair then. I still think he looks great. I’ve got my own hair issues anyway- it’s too thin and never seems to grow past my shoulders; which I complain about to my hair stylist all the time. Mermaid I am not. Not in this life time at least. I move to the kitchen and open the fridge, casting my eyes on the pot roast I’d been dreaming of the entire way home. There’s only a bit left, courtesy of Drew who eats a lot for his size but it’s enough for me. It’s late anyhow, past ten and I read somewhere that it isn’t healthy to be eating late, particularly before going to sleep. I take the food apart and move it around in a bowl, popping it into the microwave then flopping down onto the last free lounge- an empty recliner on the other side of the living room. I curl my legs up and sigh, thankful that Drew has had the heater running, making the house nice and toasty so I don’t need to put a sweater on. He’s still wearing his work socks, and uniform for that matter. He’s always showered late and he usually comes to bed around midnight, or just after. A habitual routine formulated from over a decade of staying back to work concerts, school plays, eisteddfods, dance performances and other Broadway shows right through until the AM. The life of show business.

In the first year we dated, his loyalty and dedication to Paramount paid off and he was promoted to supervisor which means he is now in charge of a team of nineteen other stage crew, who can now do the staying back instead. I finish work earlier than him, three-thirty in the afternoon where I come home and mark assessments and write reports, sometimes I go for a run through Forest Park until I make our dinner at seven. Several times a week I stay back after work an hour or two to teach Clarinet lessons to students wanting extra tutoring. Drew occasionally helps with the cooking, but he isn’t good at it. He’s much more of a take-out man, always eating out or bringing it in, indicative of someone who’s adopted the New York City lifestyle after a long tenure here. He’s originally from Elmira but moved to the Big Apple when he was young. We live in Queens now. He usually grabs a pizza or tacos or Chinese and the leftovers pile up in our fridge. I know I’ve eaten too many takeout meals when my skirts and pants start to feel a little bit too tight. I may be small in stature but I’m by no means thin. I maintain a good healthy weight, I like to lift weights occasionally and go for my runs when I’m feeling unhappy with my body but for the most part I’m pretty accepting of it. I am but on the brink of my fourth decade and things have started to drop and sag in comparison to my twenties. Unfortunately, being not at all athletic I started on the ‘#fitspo’ trend a little later in life. Fortunately I have small breasts. Those Lulu Lemon sports bras have been a good friend to me over the years so they are still in good nick. Drew scrolls through the ‘most watched’ selection on the screen in the centre of our lounge room.

“So what did Roberto think?” he asks me after a while.

I look at him and role my eyes, “He thinks himself somewhat of a musical connoisseur, but he’s never touched an instrument in his life. I can tell.”

Drew chuckles. That’s what Drew does- he doesn’t laugh, he chuckles.

“He likes to use fancy words and name-drops a little too much, but I think he’s just got good research skills and spends his time memorising everything to present well.” Drew chuckles on and I laugh with him. “I suppose that’s why he’s the Director and not in charge of the music,” I continue.

“He’s so young!” I then exclaim. “But he gives me the creeps.” Drew sits up, his ladder-like legs retracting back off the side of the lounge.

“I told you. When they first brought him into the theatre to meet with us and discuss the production months back I felt like an old man. He’s cocky too, having the balls to order me around my own stomping ground like nobody’s business. I feel like knocking the guy out every time I see him.”

I smile, remembering the day when Drew came home in a seriously bad mood after meeting Roberto. He’d never ever knock anyone out though. In fact he’s never once been in a fight his entire life, which I’m proud to say. And that’s what I like about him. He’s passive. But he can be resentful and secretive about it at times. I know this is related to him being bullied in high school and there’s an underlying bitterness there. A desire to stick his middle finger up at his enemies. What my husband lacks in physical prowess though, he makes up for with his intellect and sarcastic attitude that conveys an unmatched confidence. This throws people off, and when it comes to his work, believe me; Drew can convince even the most unrelenting stakeholder that he knows more than them. And he’s that good at his job that he usually does know more than them. His extreme height makes him intimidating also, contrary to its effect of provoking the bullies in high school. But in the case of Roberto Gonzalez, it possibly encouraged him to want to challenge Drew by telling him he wanted every single thing about the stage and lighting to change, and that he wanted the theatre to order in new parts and pieces. Drew hated that. In fact Drew hates most people, especially those who tell him what to do. He’s highly introverted and likes his corner of the world at the Theatre to himself, where he has all the power. All the control. He’s been there since he was seventeen. He’s now thirty five; younger than me.

“Short man syndrome,” I say with a grin.

“What?” he scoffs.

“Short man syndrome,” I say again. Roberto is only just taller than I am. “It’s when little men feel insecure about their height and so they find other ways to compensate. Usually with a bad attitude, like how Roberto throws his weight around. You should see him with Patricia- I think he hates tall women more.” Drew chuckles hard.

“You might be on to something there. Pretty much all Directors have a certain…” he thinks for a moment, ‘way’ about them,” he says shaking his hands in the air.

“That’s show business right.”

“That’s show business,” he agrees. The musical chime of the microwave answers the prayers of my stomach and I practically throw myself into the kitchen, retrieving my steaming glory of nutrition and returning to the recliner where I run my eyes to the screen which displays the face of an actress I’m familiar with. I’ve seen this movie before. It’s good. I shovel a gravy coated yam into my mouth. Bliss.

“The dancers were all there rehearsing tonight,” I say in general conversation as the movie plays through.

“Yeah I know, I wanted to disappear before they came in and I had to deal with them.” Drew says.

“Oh!” It suddenly reminds me. “I had the biggest wave of Déjà vu tonight.” I drop a piece of pork from my mouth back into the bowel as it’s a bit too hot.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it was just before I got on the bus; one of the dancers from the show- I swear to God, you know when you get that feeling that you know someone, like you’ve seen them before but you don’t know where?”

“One of your students?” he offers helpfully.

“I thought about it, but no names come to mind. She’s got dark brown hair, tanned skin. Nice jawline.” My memory of what she looked like is actually a little blurry as I’d only caught her for a second so my description is vague. I don’t even really know who I’m describing to be honest. It was dark inside.

“Nice jawline hey?” he chuckles. “You know how bad you are with names Nic,” he teases. I free the hand on my fork and throw a cushion at him from beneath me. He dodges it easily. Long arms and legs.

“Maybe she’s been in one of the other shows we’ve done together.” I continue to eat and gain a spark of an idea. “Actually she might be famous. Like maybe I’ve seen her on television or something. It’s like when you see a celebrity out at a restaurant- like that time we saw Jimmy Fallon at Rao’s and we did a double take.”

“Could be. I suppose when dancers aren’t getting spots on Broadway they are out auditioning for other gigs, like how you audition for the orchestra.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Anyway, it was just that feeling, I haven’t had that in a while. I’m sure I’ll figure it out when rehearsals start after I get my seat.” I flash a confident smirk towards him and he throws the cushion back at me, which I block (for once), shooting him a look that tells him my dinner almost ended up on me. Third degree burns and stains on designer jeans does not make for a happy wife. Instead it almost knocks the brass Pelican statue we have sitting next to the lamp on the end table off and I catch it. Drew is nearly beside himself with relief. He loves his bird statue. Once I finish my dinner, I feel bloated and tired and retire to the bathroom where I shower and leave my hair dry. I think I’ll wash it tomorrow. I call out to Drew before heading into the bedroom and he informs me he’s going to stay up a while longer. I catch him in his usual routine of scrolling through his phone before I tuck myself in under the covers and crash heavy, the rich mellow sound of my Buffet Crampton playing through my head, lulling me to sleep.