Summer in adagio

Sarah Fitchner | Summer 2023

It began with the violas. He could barely hear them at first- their soft ringing muffled by a quiet transcendence; thick in the air as if a beam of light cast through fog. Then came the flutes, airy in their nature yet somehow as substantial as the strings. It was written in measures of four, with each note eager to find its next. One, two, three four; One, two three four. One, two, three four; One, two three four. Then, knocking.

Richard awoke with a splitting headache- the kind that shot pain down the nape of his neck at the sound of each rap upon the front door of his studio. He rubbed his eyes to rid them of their hazy lens, revealing Union Square in near darkness- save for a handful of puddles of light from street lamps.

Shit, he thought, rubbing the skin on the side of his face where he had laid his head down nearly six hours ago to rest his eyes. The clock sitting on the desk to his right read quarter to eight. Richard’s stomach sank: nearly fifty blocks uptown, the entirety of the New York Philharmonic was waiting for a conductor who should have begun rehearsal forty-five minutes ago. Again, a knock. “Hey, Rich? Are you there? It’s past a quarter to eight, and when you didn’t show up to rehearsal, Benson sent me downtown in a cab to get you”, the voice of a young man, younger than Richard at 21, came from the hallway. It was the voice of Jack Radley, a classmate of Richard’s at Julliard. The two had met that past spring in Professor Benson’s Lector on the use of Counterpoint in the Early Baroque Period, yet only really exchanged friendly smiles and erasers back then. Yet, by the time midterm exams approached, both had risen into the Professor’s inner circle of ‘prodigious and promising young musicians’.

Lunches were taken in the Professor’s shoebox office, where he and Jack would bump elbows and shift their heavy armchairs to maneuver around the stacks of books, records, and loose-leaf staff sheets that littered the floor. Heavy maroon curtains framed the room’s only window, casting the room in a solemn shadow that necessitated the use of a victorian-era standing lamp even on the brightest of days. The three debated the differences between Brahms and Wagner; the influence of Italian Romanticism on the French Impressionist movement; Verdi’s best opera.

He could understand Jack’s place in such an intimate academic circle. By May, Richard had learned that the 20-year-old grew up in a suburb of Chicago, and had given his first professional piano recital at the age of ten. By 16, he had graduated high school at the top of his class, and moved to New York City to study classical composition at Juilliard. Yet, somehow it was Richard who was to make his conducting debut with the New York Philharmonic in just under 24 hours. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, pressed down the cowlick that had formed in his hair, and opened the door. “How mad is he?”

“Well, how could he be mad with someone who got mugged on the subway and had to report the crime to the police?”

“What are you talking about, I didn’t even take the subw–”

“Richard, that’s the point,” Jack smiled slightly, “ grab your coat, and let’s hail a cab.”

Richard had all but forgotten about his pounding head in the rushed frenzy of Jack’s sudden arrival, but quickly grabbed an aspirin and tossed it to the back of his throat. He had long accepted the headaches as a constant in his life- it seemed that he could always feel a rhythmic beating of blood beneath his temple. “63rd and Columbus, please,” he said, crouching into the taxi. A sudden rush of pain- he closed his eyes.

“Are you ok?” Jack asked. The question hung in the air for a beat too long, before Richard replied,

“Yeah. Just nervous, I suppose.”

In actuality, it wasn’t a lie. Richard had been up for days, haunted by a ghost of his own creation. He’d studied the piece ad nauseum; he could picture the baton in his hand and feel the extension of his chest at the swell of sound. There was just something missing, holding back the level of passion he first felt at the age of six- listening to his mother play Vivaldi on their living room piano. Hours spent drifting his fingers across ivory keys, studying harmonic dictation, erasing and rewriting melodies; but all Richard could feel now was the pit in his stomach.

It was dark in the back of the cab where the two men sat, but as they crossed through Times Square, Richard could see Jack’s face: cheekbones illuminated by the soft blue glow of a Pepsi Ad. He was staring at Richard, and for a moment, both of their glances met. Richard sat up, shifting his shoulders towards the front of the cab with all of the dignity one could have after sleeping through the beginning of one of the most important rehearsals of his life. “Thank you, by the way,” he cleared his throat, “for lying to Benson and covering my ass.”

Jack chuckled, yet Richard could see there was something else there. Something Richard had seen etched across his own face before, but he couldn’t quite place it. The way his eyebrows refused to relax fully, the hesitation in his smile.

“Well,” Jack started, “honestly I was worried you had skipped town.” There was humor in his voice, but something made Richard wonder if he was genuine. The conversation lulled, as Jack handed a twenty to the driver and opened the door. The humidity of early June seeped into the car, and Richard stepped out onto the freshly paved sidewalk next to his friend. He took a moment to think, and as the pair walked up the stairs to the plaza, he responded:

“I don’t really know why Benson gave this opportunity to me. It should be yours.”

Shit, his cheeks flushed as soon as the words came out of his mouth. Great way to sound like you’re begging for sympathy, he thought. They were in front of the fountain now, and Jack had stopped walking.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he started. Richard turned around to face the young man, looking smaller now than he had ever seen him. “It was our first day of the Spring semester and we sat next to each other in Benson’s Counterpoint lecture- I didn’t give a shit about that class,” Richard raised an eyebrow and let out a small laugh. “No, really Richard. I took the class because I just so happened to have room in my schedule, and I had taken a class with Benson before- so I knew it couldn’t be all that unbearable. I don’t even particularly like the Baroque period.” At this point, Richard was utterly confused. He was about to respond when Jack asked him a question.

“Do you remember what you said about Vivaldi’s Summer in Adagio?” Richard shook his head. “I thought about the way you described the piece for weeks. I have yet to understand how your mind works, Richard Maxwell, but something tells me that you see the world with a sense of beauty that I wish I could even begin to comprehend. But in that one moment, you made me see it.” He looked as if he was about to jump out of his own skin. Suddenly, he raised his hands above his head, laughing, “You made me like the Baroque period, for God’s sake! I–”

At this, Richard felt his body moving before he even had time to comprehend that his palms were wrapping around Jack’s face, and his lips pressed against his friends. Richard felt violins, flutes, and a harp crescendo, a full orchestra resided in the freckles of Jack’s face. Jack’s face, he sighed. No no no, it’s Jack’s face. He pulled back, realizing what he had just done. They stared at each other for what Richard felt was an eternity, Jack’s unreadable expression lingering like a fermata over the pair. A rest, then Jack pulled the boy in.

Measures and measures passed before the pair separated again, their flushed cheeks lit ever so slightly by the light of the Metropolitan Opera’s chandelier, which cast a dim glow over the empty plaza through the building’s sweeping glass windows. Both smiled, and Richard reached out to grab Jack’s hand.

Inside the orchestral hall, the faint noise of violins strumming out the beginnings of Le Quattro Stagioni could be heard echoing against the surrounding buildings. In the dark, the two figures in front of the fountain began to walk toward the music.