Falling Stars (19 page)

If we appeared silent and secretive to Howard before. I thought he surely would believe we had committed some heinous crime when he confronted the four of us at breakfast the next day. We were that glum and quiet.

Actually, we didn't have to talk. He did most of it, raving about his day, the people from the theater he had met, going backstage at a hit play, meeting the crew, talking to actors and actresses, and then going to dinner with an agent's assistant who had already shown some interest in him.

After having overheard him and Steven the night before, we felt certain he was lying about it all.
"Why would you meet with another agent? What about Edmond Senetsky?" Cinnamon quickly asked.
"Just because we attend the Senetsky School, we don't have to sign with Edmond Senetsky," he practically whispered. "Sometimes it's better to let a few fight over you. The word gets out and producers take note. That comes in handy at casting time."
"At the moment. Howard," Cinnamon said, "I'm just concerned about getting through our first Performance Night, much less casting for Broadway shows."
"Ridiculous. It's not going to be much of an audience. All of us are having either friends or family. My parents are coming, of course,
"Mine aren't," Steven piped up. He looked at us and added. "They are very busy little beavers, and have to dam up some money in Bermuda,"
"Regardless," Howard said, rolling his eyes to indicate his impatience with Steven. "it won't be like playing before thousands. which I did at my school and twice for the community theater."
"All week long. Laura Fairchild has been announcing the names of people attending. They are not just family and friends," I said.
"Besides, Madame Senetsky says an audience of two can make you just as nervous as thousands," Rose added. "She told me that just last week, matter of fact. She also said if you're not nervous, you won't do well, remember?"
"That's just an excuse people who get nervous use. Believe me, it's an old wives' tale," Howard claimed, waving it off.
"What have you decided is an old wives' tale?" Madame Senetsky asked.
She had entered just as Rose had finished. so I was sure she had heard. Howard must have thought so. too. He turned a shade of crimson and then a little blue.
"Nothing very important." he quickly answered.
She stared at him a moment, looked at us, and then took her usual seat at the head of the table. She was not often there at breakfast with us, taking it in her own private quarters instead. The maid came in immediately to pour her a cup of coffee, but she shook her head.
"Nothing for me, thank you." she said and turned back to us. She had a way of capturing us with what people in the theater call the Caesural pause, a dramatic pause that holds your attention. I knew her well enough by now to realize that she was truly doing what she wanted us to do: always perform, take on the demeanor of someone on stage. The effect for ine, however, was to feel as if everything she said and did was calculated. contrived.
I wondered if there was ever a time when she was just herself, someone who wasn't conscious of the lighting so she would know how to present her best profile; someone who wasn't waiting for reactions from her listeners and observers; someone who wasn't posturing and looking for constant applause.
What was her real voice like, her real smile, her real laughter, and even her real tears? Had she been an actress so long that it
was impossible for her to find herself anymore, to take off the makeup, to remove the costume? Was she like Cinnamon had suggested we were, someone looking always to escape herself, her past, some terrible real pain?
She held her gaze a moment longer on me than she did on the others. It made me wonder if she could see what I was thinking. I looked down quickly and waited, my nerves twanging like the strings of my violin.
"Since we are closing in on our first important date," she began, "I want to be sure we are all going to start this week on the right foot. I would expect that everything you do, everything you say and even think will be of importance," she added, glaring at
Howard. He seemed to shrink in his seat.
Steven stirred his coffee and sat with a fat Cheshire cat smile on his face. enjoying Howard's discomfort at being chastised, even slightly.
"I am designing a lighter diet for you all. I want you all to be quick on your feet, energetic, and dedicated. The halls of this house should be filled with music, music, music, and the echo of voices reciting, rehearsing, the consonants and vowels resonating in every corner.
"I have never had an opening Performance Night with a new group of students that did not go very well and leave most of my guests quite impressed. and I do not expect or intend for this one to be any different.
"There will be a small reception in the ballroom afterward. Later this week. I will discuss how I want you all to behave among the agents, actors, and producers who will be there. There is a fine line to walk between modesty and self- confidence. I would like all of you to be attractive and interesting to my guests. but I want you to have an air of innocence and wonder about you."
When she pursed her lips, her eyes lit with a sardonic brightness, rather than a soft smile.
"Most everyone who attends will want to feel like he or she has made a discovery, and not the Senetsky family," she said. She looked like she was holding back a laugh the way someone might swallow back a revolting taste.
"That is just fine. Let them think what they need to think. Egos must be stroked and fulfilled. I don't mind taking a backseat to all of it
if
you succeed as I know and expect you will," she added.
She sat back. No one uttered a sound. We didn't even breathe "I assume you have all heard the name Jack Ferante?"
"Of course," Howard said quickly. "He's the president of the Screen Actors Guild."
"Yes. He is a close friend of mine and he happens to be in New York this weekend. He will attend." She looked from one of our faces to another to see the effect of her announcement. Her blue eyes darkened with her scrutinizing gaze
.
Except for Howard, none of us looked terribly impressed.
"He has friends in very high places, in the theater, in the opera, in some of the country's finest symphonies," she emphasized, somewhat annoyed at our stoical response.
"Actually," she continued. "he has never been able to attend one of my Performance Nights. He has been on location in a film himself or occupied with SAG business. You should all feel quite honored and quite fortunate.
"
I would look with very bitter and disappointed eyes on any action that would detract from our focus this week. I hope that is perfectly clear." she concluded and then rose, paused, and turned to us, her eyes panning each of our faces. "Is it?"
I looked at Cinnamon. It really was almost as if Madame Senetsky could read our minds. I thought. Cinnamon looked like she agreed with me and nodded slightly, knowing what my look questioned.
"Yes. ma'am," Howard boasted.
"It sure is," Steven said, his smile still sitting on his lips.
"We understand. Madame Senetsky," Cinnamon said, speaking for the four of us.
"Good. To work then," she said, tapped her cane, and left the room.
Howard practically leaped at the rest of us.
"Someone could have warned me she was standing right there," he complained.
"Who could possibly interrupt you when you are giving us one of your lectures. Howard?" Cinnamon asked with feigned innocence.
"You should have expected it anyway," Steven told him. "Living in this place is like living in someone's ear," he said, grimancing.
"What's that mean?" Rose asked. Little alarms went off in all our hearts. Steven shrugged.
"You know, with Ms. Fairchild popping out behind us. I check under my bed every night," he said facetiously, but I wondered to myself why it was that the boys never felt as spied upon as we did. Why wasn't this mysterious person at their bedroom windows, too?
I looked at my watch,
"I have to get to my lesson," I said. standing. "I'll talk to you later." I whispered to Cinnamon.
"Knock him dead," Steven called after me.
Knock him dead? Right now, I thought, I was afraid I might not have the strength to hold my violin, much less play it. I was terrified of being too nervous and having Mr. Bergman march me down to the street to play for pedestrians again, so
I
sucked in my breath, counted to ten, and when I began to perform for him. I concentrated as hard as I could on my work. He listened with those critical eves so fixed on me. I was sure he was going to rant and raze the moment I lifted the bow. Instead, he nodded softly.
"You're getting there," he said. "You're riding the music well. Now, I want you to think of it as a wild horse you have just trained.
It
needs direction: it needs authority. Impose yourself upon those notes. Don't play exactly what you see, but how you see it. In short., this is what we mean when we speak of interpretation. I want your personal stamp on this now. I want you to be more than simply a musician playing someone else's creative work. I want you to become part of the process.
"This is a freedom and a task I don't assign to my students until I feel they have the talent and the skill to handle it," he added.
He stopped short of hammering home a compliment and left it hanging in the air for me to pluck and complete instead. I nodded, studied the music for a few moments, and then began again, closing my eves and thinking of my Uncle Peter, his smile, his words of encouragement. I thought of the farm. Mommy and Daddy and Uncle Simon, and imagined them sitting there listening to me play. I did bring myself and who I was to the melody. I couldn't describe exactly what I had done and I wasn't sure I could ever do it again the same way, but when I was finished. Mr. Bergman was smiling and nodding.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, you will do fine."
With a heart full of hope and excitement. I left my lesson and prepared for the remainder of our day. Unfortunately, Rose wasn't as happy with her work. She said she missed steps, lost rhythm, and just looked clumsy, but Mr. Demetrius assured her she wasn't. Ice said Mr. Littleton gave her unusually enthusiastic compliments, and Cinnamon reported that Howard, squashed a bit by Madame Senetsky at breakfast, was less pretentious on the stage. She admitted she even liked his performance herself and thought it helped her do better. Steven was very happy, too. claiming I had left Mr. Bergman in so good a mood he tolerated his small improvisations.
"No," I told him. "Improvisation, interpretation, that's what he's after now. He wants you to impose yourself on the music, be a part of the creation."
"Listen to her." Steven cried with some surprise. "Our little Honey Child is becoming a sophisticated New York musician."
I blushed with embarrassment,
"That's generally the idea, isn't it?" Cinnamon snapped, stepping up to defend me immediately.
"If you got serious for a minute, you might have the same sort of success," Rose added.
"If you shut off your wise talk, you might," Ice asserted. "but I doubt you can do that,"
He looked at the four of us and shook his head, raising his hands as if to surrender.
"Please don't castrate me," he begged. "I'm sorry. girls. I'm sorry" he mocked and walked away.
The four of us looked at each other and laughed. We were truly becoming sisters, looking after each other. We were really becoming a team. Each of us lent something to the others. I thought. Cinnamon was our wit. Ice our muscle. Rose our beautiful face. And me? I was our conscience.

On Thursday Uncle Simon had a bouquet of fresh flowers delivered for each of us with a card wishing us all good luck on our first Performance Night. I had told him how much the girls loved the arrangement he had sent to me. We called him immediately and everyone took a turn thanking him. He was too shy to say much more than. "Don't think anything of it. Living in a city, you need as many flowers as you can get."

Daddy got on and apologized again and again for their not being here my first Performance Night. I tried to make him feel better by telling him it was really just little more than a dress rehearsal.

Mommy was frill of questions about our daily life and how I was adjusting to New York City. I could never lie to Mommy, at least not well enough for her to not see it was a lie. She heard some of my unhappiness in my voice, unhappiness
I
couldn't yet verbalize or explain.