Ian played a rendition of Franz Schubert’s “Erlkönig,” a song he had loved from the very first hearing. Schubert was best known for combining classical structures with the romantic. He died at age thirty-three, most likely from syphilis, leaving behind more than six hundred compositions. “Erlkönig” was a chamber piece designed around Goethe’s poem by the same name, and was one of the instrumental pieces that established Schubert as a genius ahead of his time. Ian had heard some of this in Lachard’s lectures. He was most likely the only student that had paid careful attention, hidden there in the rear row. He had loved Schubert’s striking use of ostinatos, especially the one depicting the furious gallop of horses that formed the poem’s rhythm.
When he finished, Ian discovered Lachard had seated himself behind the front table. There was a moment’s silence, and then the teacher demanded, “You accelerated after the coda. That was a mistake.”
Now that he had finished playing, Ian could not stop trembling. “I don’t understand.”
Lachard squinted angrily. “Who teaches you?”
“No one.”
“Don’t you dare lie to me, boy.”
“I come in before breakfast. I sit here. I play.”
Lachard studied him a long moment. Somewhere beyond the closed door, a pair of students shouted their laughter. A bell rang, signaling the start of the next class. Neither of them moved.
Finally, Lachard demanded, “When is your free hour?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Can you read music?”
“No, sir.”
Another long silence, and then Lachard rose and opened the rear cabinet and sorted through stacks of well-worn texts. He drew out one the size and shape of a child’s coloring book. “You will memorize every page.”
The cover was creased; the pages were sticky from a multitude of hands. “Yes, sir.”
“Give me the instrument.” He propped himself on the table, then raised his left leg to support the guitar’s body. He played an exercise with drumlike precision. “Did you see what I did?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show me.”
Ian took the instrument and copied Lachard. Or tried to.
“No, no, no. That is rubbish.” Lachard seemed genuinely angry. “You do notinterpret.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You play the exercise exactly as I did. You do not weigh the notes. No emotion, no interpretation, no lazy actions. That way leads to wrong habits. You do itexactlyas I do. Each note precisely the same as all the others. Give me the instrument.” Ian did. “Now listen carefully.” Lachard played the exercise through twice more. “Now you.”
Ian tried again.
“No, that is awful. It is lazy. It is a child’s method. You will come in every morning, and you will play this. For one hour. Nothing more. No exceptions. You will learn discipline and good habits. Your time of lazy playing is over.”
And so it began.
* * *
Ian remained captivated by Pink’s plaintive melody for what felt like hours but probably was only a few minutes. Then Ian gradually shifted to Elise Trouw’s softly lyrical version of “Lean On.” Ian gently pushed the tempo and elevated the harmonics, and they flowed upward, carried by the melody only he could hear, until it was time for the second song to take center stage.
Finish.
When he went silent, Arthur sat behind the mixing board, watching him through the glass partition. Immobile.
Ian leaned forward and asked through the guitar’s upper microphone, “How was that?”
Arthur jerked slightly, then glanced at the digital timer on the wall. He touched a lever on the mixing board, and his voice came through speakers embedded on either side of the connecting window. “You played for nineteen minutes, seven seconds.”
