“Guest soloist.”
“Whoa, Hans. I’m not stone-deaf like Beethoven, but I’m probably tone-deaf. In kindergarten the teacher always gave me the rhythm sticks or whatever they’re called because they were the one instrument I couldn’t play off-key and even then she said I was bad-tempoed.”
“Your part is simple: the piece builds for twenty minutes to a grand climax, one loud, clear note on the triangle. You can’t go wrong.”
I was sure that somehow I could, but reluctantly I agreed and that evening I found myself at a rehearsal. Hans introduced me to the musicians: “This is Mr. Petty. he will play the triangle.” There were nods and a muted chorus of hellos, but no applause.
I took my place in the middle of the back row, overlooking the whole orchestra of perhaps thirty people — thirty potential suspects — as they tuned their instruments. Violins screeched, cellos snored, horns blared, drums rumbled. I did not need to tune my triangle which, I was told, emitted a D flat, but I tapped it gently a couple of times, trying to look like a professional musician. Gradually a blessed silence descended. Hans tapped his music stand with his baton, woodpecker-like, and the rehearsal began.
After a few bars, Hans stopped the playing. It had sounded fine to me, but not to him. “No, no, no. Play together and with more feeling. Miss Stringer, please stay with the other violinists. Once more, from the top.”
The music began again, this time going two minutes before being stopped. Again Miss Stringer was singled out for a reprimand. I was reminded of a locomotive going back and forth in a freight yard, organizing a train. I tried not to doze.
Finally we reached the end. Hans pointed his baton at me and I tapped my triangle. “No,” Hans shouted. “You must follow the last note quickly. And hit the triangle harder. You should make the people in the back row tremble.” It seemed like a big task for such a small instrument.
I was afraid we would go back to the beginning, but we played only the last few bars. this time I hit my triangle like a batter swinging for a home run. “That’s better, Mr. Petty.”
As the musicians were packing up their instruments, a young trumpeter approached me. “Remember me, Mr. Petty? Al Sharp. I was in your English class six years ago.” I recalled him vaguely, but fortunately he had done nothing to make himself memorable.
“What are you doing now?”
“I have a jazz combo. We play clubs in the area, occasionally a wedding, once the funeral of a jazz lover. But for a living I sell ties and socks and underwear in a men’s store.” Ah, another unappreciated artist.
As we left, I spoke to Miss Stringer. “Hans is pretty rough on you.”
