On the anniversary itself, the musicians arrived alone or in pairs. There was no specific program. Henri greeted them quietly, reconnecting musicians who hadn’t seen each other since before the storm. When the sound gathered and the crowd understood what it was hearing, the whole thing came to life.
“You can’t organize a moment like that into existence,” Jules said. “You can only prepare the ground and get out of the way.”
Then he added one more piece.
Henri stayed behind the musicians the entire time. When Dominic stepped to the center and raised his hand for the final chorus, Henri was in the crowd watching.
“At the time, I thought he was just giving us players the center stage.” Jules paused. “Then I thought about it more later, when the video went around.” He looked at Luca. “Henri’s a proud man. He wasn’t vain—proud. Vain men want applause. Proud men want the record accurate.”
I had one more question. “Have you seen him recently?”
“Yes, and he’s lighter now. You can see it on his face. Lighter than I’ve seen him in years. I thought at first maybe he’d finally made some peace with the square.”
He glanced between us. “You boys eaten? There’s a place on Rampart—“
“He’s working,” Luca said.
Jules glanced at me and understood. “Never mind.” He waved it off. “Tell Mr. St. Clair I said hello.”
He picked up his case and stepped into the aisle.
After he left, Luca turned toward me. “He would have told you things over food that he won’t say in a theater. For Jules, it’s a sacred space. There are things you don’t talk about in church.”
“I know. We’ll catch up with him if we figure out what to ask.”
“He’ll feed you whether or not you’re buying.”
“I’ll bring wine.”
“He’ll tell you it’s the wrong kind.”
Tuning began as an oboe sounded the A. The brass joined in, and the full sound of the orchestra rose until the process was complete.
Dominic entered from stage left, and the musicians were silent. He stepped up to the podium. That was when I saw the mark.
The spike tape was as visible as always—pale gold against the dark pine—but the position was wrong. Someone had moved it forward, maybe six inches.
Dominic stopped and looked down. Then he stood with the baton loose in his hand. He turned toward stage right and nodded briefly.
Micah Landry stepped onto the stage. He spoke briefly with Dominic, who gestured with the tip of the baton. Micah crouched, produced a small blade, and lifted one edge of the tape. He repositioned it roughly two inches back, not at the original mark. Dominic stepped onto the podium in the new position, looked at the assembled orchestra, and nodded.
Micah smoothed the tape flat and returned to stage right.
Dominic stopped the orchestra at the approach to the final chorus of “Saints.”
He tapped the podium with the baton. “We are not celebrating. We are returning. There is a difference. Play it as if you’ve been somewhere difficult and you’ve come back. The arrival is what matters.”
He counted them in, and they played the passage again. The sound was slightly more aggressive, fuller.
During the lunch break, I walked the stage alone.
I crouched beside the tape and measured the distance to the lip with my palm and fingers. Thirty-two inches to the drop, give or take. The original documented position had been closer to thirty-six. I turned around to look toward the house. I was now far enough forward to be beyond any shadows cast by the proscenium arch. A better sightline.
I found Micah in the stage-right wing, breaking down a cart. He walked me through the changes. When he arrived, someone had already shifted the mark.
“He’s the one who has to stand on it,” Micah said.
I asked for the stage door sign-in sheet covering the previous evening. He said I’d have it within the hour, then turned back to his crates without elaboration.
