Chapter Text
“Why am I here?”
Juris blinked at her once, exactly once, from behind his mahogany desk. The rolled cigar in his hand burned faintly red at the end. “You can’t actually be wondering that.”
“Well, I am,” Zoya said, chin raised. Her head was throbbing, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the smell of old tobacco or being interrupted mid-repertoire run and called to the office like a misbehaving child. It was always dark and stuffy in here, which wasn’t helping; all wood and old chandeliers like they were stuck in the 18th century. A sepia photograph of Heifetz stared at her from beside the window, like he knew how badly she wanted to open it. She fought the urge to do just that and stared impatiently at her professor instead. She was busy. He knew she was busy. “I need to practice. Why am I here?”
Juris met her gaze, fastidiously calm. A faint curl of smoke drifted towards Zoya’s face, and she resisted the urge to smack it into dissipation. “I asked for you to come to my office as your orchestra director, not as your teacher, because Kirigin was the third one this week. The unity concert is tomorrow, Zoya.”
If she ever found the bastard responsible for this cross-school publicity stunt, or what she had dubbed ‘the Curtis Conducting Contamination’, Juris was going to have a lot more to complain about than just her rehearsal manner. Student conductors, she felt, were one of the plagues sent to torture concertmasters across the globe. And her. More so her, as concertmaster, now, specifically. Of all times—
Zoya slung her violin case into the plush armchair beside her, though she herself stayed standing, arms crossed. She did not like being reprimanded at less than eye level with her seated professor. “The unity concert,” she muttered. “Is an idiotic idea to begin with. Competition season is coming up. None of us have the time.”
Juilliard conducting majors with egos to the moon, and their up-and-coming postmodern composition major to boot. Curtis orchestra with a healthy dose of disdain. Match made in hell, and Juris knew it but pushed the idea anyway. “We’re running out of willing student conductors.”
“Then maybe they should stop leaving.”
“Perhaps, my dear, you should stop–”
“The first one,” Zoya cut in. “The tall one. His downbeats were never really on time.”
Juris raised a brow. “Indeed.”
“The redhead. Were you there?”
He nodded. “Good musicality. Questionable rhythm.”
Questionable? “Three bars, Juris. Three bars of syncopation and we were stuck for fifteen minutes.”
“You have to understand the limited notice he was given, after you all but dismissed the last–”
“And do not,” she interrupted. “Get me started on Kirigin.”
At that, Juris snorted. “You should know, he practically offered himself to the Dean for the chance to work with you. A bit of a fan, that one. Just because he wanted the solo in a different–”
“It’s poor taste, Juris, not artistic difference! Did you hear his tempos? You can’t call me to your office like I’ve done something wrong when I am absolutely–”
He raised his free hand, snuffing his cigar into the wooden ashtray with the other. Zoya bit her tongue.
“Do you,” said Juris. “Wish to remain concertmaster of the Curtis Institute’s orchestra?”
The room was very quiet. The sound of laughter down the hall seemed suddenly jarring in contrast to Juris’ expression; ever unwavering, mouth drawn and stoic. Zoya stared at her teacher. “Excuse me?”
“There is no one better,” he mused. “No one here with technique more flawless. You lead well. I brag about you to anyone who will listen. You are the cream of the crop within this school, Zoya, but this school is the cream of the crop within the world. There are many lesser, yet incredibly competent students here who could carry that title. And with them, I suspect, this entire collaboration would be going much smoother.”
The words had more effect on her than she liked, she felt her grip tighten, the table edge digging into her palm. She couldn’t read the old man, which was the problem. Praise and criticism looked exactly the same from his mouth. Low and monotone and terribly accurate. It was a skill she envied, praising and insulting her in the same sentence, even as the sentence made her grit her teeth through her words in the moment. “If you’re going to expel me or kick me to the back of the section, Juris, stop beating around the bush and just say it.”
There was a twinge of recognition in his eyes. He shook his head, folding his glasses into his coat pocket. His gaze softened, if Juris was capable of such a thing, and Zoya forced herself to let go of the white-knuckled grip she had on the desk. “No, Zoya. Do not take this as a threat. You deserve your position. I am asking only that you consider what that position entails, beyond being the best. Because you do that already, my dear. Excessively.”
She sighed. “Please just say what you want to say.”
He looked at her wearily. “I found another conductor. Work with him, do it kindly– civilly, at least, and do it well. The point of this entire school is camaraderie between Juilliard and Curtis. Their conductors, our orchestra. We don’t need more petty squabble adding fuel to the decade-long fire.” He paused and raised a brow. “You do see the irony of this not going well.”
“So you want me to lower my standards.”
“I want you,” he said, pedantic in a way that meant ‘very close to blowing up’, “To rethink what that standard is. Being a soloist is an entirely different thing from leading an orchestra. Adapt to your roles. From next week, that means your usual breed of solo perfection, for the competition you so wish to conquer. This week… You may find what you think is best is quite different. From what is actually required.” Juris pushed his chair back, the old leather thing letting out a weary scrape against the floor. “You have fifteen minutes to rehearsal. Please take this conversation into account.”
Zoya stayed silent, even as she moved to take her things. Juris watched, contemplative. “He is better than the other three, Zoya, I do think. But even if he isn’t–”
“I’ll shut my mouth and let it all slide,” she said drily, making her way to the door. “And when the horrific reviews come in, I’ll walk to New York with a copy to say ‘I told you so’.”t
He huffed. “Good enough. Have a good rehearsal, Zoya. Don’t burn him alive.”
She looked back over her shoulder wryly. “Oh, don’t worry. I learned from the best. You always broil them first.”
THE AMERICAN ORCHESTRAL ASSOCIATION PRESENTS
In collaboration with the Curtis Institute and Juilliard School of Music
Sponsored by the Lantsov Corporation
ENSEMBLE: A CONCERT OF UNITY
For the benefit of A.O.A Scholars
Nikolai Lantsov
Emil Kirigin, conductor
The Curtis Symphony Orchestra
Featuring the works of Mozart, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Tolya Yul-Bataar
April 5, 7:30pm, Verizon Hall