CHAPTER35
The next morning Ian was dressed and downstairs at half past six, when the main restaurant opened. He was tired from the flight and the too-short night and the scattered dreams that he could not remember. But he was well accustomed to going without sleep before major performances. Despite all the reservations and concerns that had accompanied him, now that it was time, he felt ready. More than that. He actually felt excited.
Kiki had texted that transport had been arranged for nine. At seven he texted the festival director and canceled the ride. He went back upstairs, packed his music in with his primary guitar, then fit an extra tux shirt and trousers into the second case. He returned downstairs and asked for a taxi. The lobby staff must have been alerted to who he was, however. Three minutes later Ian settled into the hotel limo.
The orchestra’s final rehearsal started at eight, but as was the norm, the star was not expected to be present for their initial run-through. Ian wanted to make an entrance, but not the one they probably anticipated.
The beachside roads and the main bridge were almost empty. Ian reveled in the breeze off the ocean, the early morning coolness. The air tasted almost sweet through his open windows. He asked the driver to drop him off a block from the concert hall, accepted his guitars, and set off on foot.
The Adrienne Arsht Center was the largest concert venue in Florida and home to MISO, the Miami Symphony Orchestra. Ian had never played with them but had heard good things. Israel Saban, the guest conductor brought in for this music festival, had a worldwide reputation. Despite the cool breeze, Ian found himself burning with shame as he recalled Saban’s cold and dismissive scorn.
Which was why he was doing this. Arriving with the rest of the orchestra. An hour and a half before he was expected.
Several members of the orchestra were standing outside the main doors, instrument cases at their feet. Then a woman cellist noticed Ian’s approach. Her eyes widened. She said something, enough to make her mates turn around. They watched in astonished silence as Ian crossed the front plaza, wished them a good morning, and entered the concert hall.
He followed the sound of instruments being tuned and playing certain passages, an all too familiar cacophony. He entered the main hall by way of the rear doors and walked along the central aisle, down the gentle slope, toward the stage. The hall was mostly dark, with just the stage in full illumination. Which meant he was not noticed until he reached the front row.
Only about a third of the orchestral chairs were taken. The actual rehearsal was still fifteen minutes from its start. As soon as Ian was noticed, those players who were already in place went silent.
Ian sketched a casual wave, slipped over a couple of seats, propped his guitars on the next chairs, and pulled out the two scores.
After a few long, silent minutes, the orchestra resumed its routine. Scaled down a notch. He did not look up again, not even when arriving musicians passed his row, saw who was seated there, did a double take, then chattered their way onstage.
Ian’s appearance broke all the rules regarding the behavior of soloists. They were expected to give the conductor a full hour to bring the orchestra together. Sometimes much longer. They would then make a grand entrance. For a star to arrive early and work through the scores was unheard of.
His sheet music contained all the handwritten notes he had made while Saban had poured out his scornful instructions. They were clear enough. Ian did a mental run through places where his playing would need to be altered to suit the conductor’s vision. He liked Saban’s concepts and thought they added to the music’s scope and flavor.
From time to time, he made a conscious effort to check his internal state. Ian was worried the acidic ashes might bite, fill him with the taste of defeat. But all he felt was calm. As if the absence of his customary fire was becoming the new norm. He knew it was probably strange, feeling a dual sense of relief and satisfaction over the lack. But given how it had been up to his departure from Annapolis, feeling nothing at all was a distinct improvement.
Ten minutes later, the conductor arrived.
Israel Saban was a squat rotund man in his midsixties. His remaining hair formed a silver-white wreath above his ears. He had been born in Romania, but his family had emigrated to Switzerland when he was still very young. He was a virtuoso pianist and had played with the Frankfurt and Zurich symphonies before dedicating himself fully to conducting. He currently served as senior conductor and concert master at La Scala in Milan.
He wore the pants to a nice suit, a crisp white shirt open at the neck, and carried a battered briefcase. He appeared from behind the right curtain and offered the orchestra a perfunctory greeting as he strode swiftly across the stage. He was in the process of opening his music when the lead flutist leaned forward and spoke softly. Saban froze in place, staring at the musician. The woman used her instrument to point in Ian’s direction. Saban turned \slowly and spent a long moment staring.
Ian rose to his feet. “Good morning, Maestro.”
“Mr. Hart.”
“I wish to apologize for the uncertainty and distress caused by my behavior.”
Saban took his time. He stepped away from his dais and moved closer to the stage’s edge. He lifted his voice so the entire orchestra could hear. In his heavily accented English, he said, “I have been informed that you were actually not the culprit in this little drama.”
Ian did not know what to say.
“In fact, what I’ve heard is your former manager signed contracts in your name, failed to inform you of these new commitments, stole your advances, and then fled the country. Is that not so?”
Ian remained silent.
“When you learned that we expected you to perform at the festival, you immediately contacted Ms. Kerkorian. Is that what actually happened, Mr. Hart?”
“Sir, Maestro, regardless of the specifics, I wish to apologize for the distress all this has caused.”
The conductor regarded him a long moment, then said, “You will give us fifteen minutes and then join us, yes? Splendid.” He turned to the orchestra. “Places, everyone. Let us do our best to shine for the artist, who has proven himself to be a true gentleman.”
Two and a half hours later, Saban declared himself satisfied. He walked over and shook Ian’s hand. As he escorted Ian from the stage, some of the other musicians began applauding.
The sound was so unexpected, they both turned around. The strings sections clapped their bows upon the strings. The drummers and timpanists boomed a happy farewell. Someone shouted bravo.
Saban smiled at Ian and said, “We shall give the audience their money’s worth, is what I am thinking.” He shook Ian’s hand a second time. “Until tonight.”
