One Last Bow
Lena was raised on violin lessons and minimal parental supervision. That’s the best one-line summary I could write from the time I spent with her. I haven’t been able to gather much about her parents’ background during my time around them. Besides, these days, I don’t have access to many tools to research anything. I probably wouldn’t know how to use them anyway. What I know is that, after more than a decade spent working for a big bad wolf architect firm, where they met, selling designs without any care of what their impact were on the planet, they suddenly remembered they had principles. Thus, they left with them, as well as with the money they made from overlooking them, to found their own company two years before Lena was born. They specialized in eco-friendly designs, something the architect of my current building has never heard about. If one added the time they spent in their green office in Downtown Boston to the costs of ten hours of violin a week, a full-time nanny, a private school and any other activity she had tried, from horseback riding to martial arts to chess, they had to be phenomenal at their job. They tried to materially compensate their absence in every way possible. It is true that Lena had never lacked anything, and if she expressed the slightest desire for something to Gillian, the nanny, or even to me, she’d be sure to have it within a week top. We just had to reach out to their assistant, whose name I have either forgotten or never gotten to know; he would then take care of ordering it. She could have drowned under presents and become a stereotype of some sorts, had she been that kind of child. She wasn’t, and she rarely asked for anything.
As I have found myself with a lot of time on my plate and not a ton of possible activities, I have wondered countlessly about why Matt and Julia Carlson had a child in the first place. I knew why I couldn’t bear one, but why on earth did they make one? Was Lena some kind of accident? If my math is right, they had just started their company when they got pregnant, which doesn’t feel like the best timing to bring a child into the world. Plus, they were both almost forty when she gave birth to Lena. So, what was it? Was it that damn biological clock ticking louder and louder? Was it some kind of peer pressure that they couldn’t resist, despite the fact that having a child is one of the least eco-friendly things one could do? I should have asked them that. I just can’t get my mind around it. Anyway, whatever which reason pressed these two to procreate, they did, which I couldn’t be more thankful for. Then, they couldn’t get out of the door and back to their office chairs faster, or so I was told by Gillian, in one of her rare moments she confided in me. She was hired to take care of Lena two weeks after she was born. 15 days. 21,600 minutes. 360 violin lessons.
After all, the company was their “first child”, as they managed to tell me several times when they hired me to teach Lena the violin. “First” was a choice of words as accurate as it was unfortunate. This interview is one of the two real talks I have ever had with them. We met in one of the meeting rooms of their office, which looked more like a greenhouse than a meeting room. They began by telling me that, should this round go well, I would have a second interview to “test my compatibility with Lena”, who was a little over five at the time, at their house on Beacon Hill. If they hadn’t been paying double the rate that I had set, I am not sure that I would have endured such an in-depth investigation for what started as one lesson a week: they wanted to know everything, from my childhood imaginary friends, to why I chose to teach after my car accident, and finally walk them through a typical lesson... I have to grant them that they were pretty thorough about the people surrounding their child, despite not surrounding her much themselves. To be honest, I didn’t have that much teaching experience; I had injured my hand a year before, which had compelled me, among other things, to leave the Boston symphony orchestra. I didn’t have many clients at the time of our first interview, but I was recommended to them through one of the advisors of the orchestra, who happened to be one of their clients, and who took me in pity after the accident. The Carlsons had never seen me play: they’re the kind of people who like the idea of art, who like discussing it at length, but who experience it the less. No wonder they never understood a thing. Anyway, they trusted the recommendation and the credentials I had. I made a much better impression on them than they did on me. That first impression never got deceived: they were two self-centered, career-driven, show-offs who thought that “looked after” meant the same as “cared for”. My therapist wouldn’t be too happy with the wording I’m using; luckily, she will never read this. At the end of the questioning, they told me I was greenlit for round two. Two days later, I was meeting Lena. To this day, I remember almost every minute of that first encounter.
When I arrived at the Carlsons’ home that Wednesday afternoon, I must admit I was slightly disappointed. After seeing their modern tree-filled office, I had expected something disconcerting, grandiloquent, a house you could picture in the Architectural Digest. In lieu and place of my splendid projection stood a traditional, nonetheless massive and luxurious, red-brick mansion, typical of the South Slope of Beacon Hill. Don’t be fooled by my supposed bragging about knowing the South Slope better than my back pocket, I don’t. It wasn’t a familiar territory then, and it sure isn’t now. Yet, with all the walks we took in the neighborhood after practice, I have learned that the Carlsons’ mansion wasn’t architecturally out of tune with the rest of one of the fanciest areas in Boston. Even their choice of house lacked personality. I don’t remember being particularly nervous about this second interview. I have never been the nervous type. Violin requires calm. Even when I felt the car crash on the wall, and my left hand being crushed, I was still as calm as the sea. It’s a shame I have come to be perceived differently.
It was Gillian who welcomed me inside the house for this second round. After she understood that small talk was not my cup of tea, she called Lena downstairs; I quickly saw a little red-headed ball of energy run down the wooden stairs. Lena introduced herself with a confidence I instantly envied: she already had, at five and a half – she mentioned the half quite a few times during that afternoon - something I had looked for my entire life. She invited me to sit down in the gigantic living-room. We instantly clicked; she was a quite astonishing little human, already so cultivated, curious about everything, and going straight to the point. Gillian left us to go about her business and, to my surprise, an hour soon had gone by; I explained her why I loved the violin, and why I thought it was so important to learn it from a very young age. To make my demonstration more living, I had brought one of mine and I let her touch it, showing her where the head and hand would connect to the instrument, how to make a sound with it. I was struck by the relevance of the questions she asked. When she asked me if it was going to be hard, I didn’t lie: the violin is one of the hardest instruments to learn, but it is also one of the most gratifying when you play it well. Being as observing as she was, she noticed my left hand was a little stiff. I told her about the accident, with carefully chosen words. I had told that story a lot over the past year, so I was pretty well used to it by then. As I noticed Gillian was listening, I added that it didn’t prevent me to play, and that I could teach without any problem. To this day, I still feel how hard it had been to conceal my emotions when she asked me if it made me sad. She was one of the first people to have asked me that in such a genuine way. After a while, Gillian told Lena it was time for me to go, but that we would see each other again next week, should I accept the position: the smile on Lena’s face when she learned I’d be her teacher is something I’ll never forget.
I would be lying if I told you that Lena and her violin fell in love instantly. Her parents had bought her a brand-new Primavera violin just before our first lesson. I always discouraged my students’ parents to do so: not every child will develop the passion required to pursue the learning of the violin. Actually, in my few months as a violin teacher, I had already witnessed students dropping out after just a few lessons. The Carlsons didn’t care: “money is not an issue”. The beginnings were trying to say the least, no more than any young student picking the bow, no less. Yet, my instinct was telling me she had to keep at it. Plus, Lena had one advantage – among many I would discover later on – over my other students: she was gifted with exceptional patience. We could spend the whole lesson on the same exercise until she felt she got it right. It reminded of me at her age, practicing in front of my mirror, again and again. Repetition is something she never got tired of; she was always eager to get better. And boy did she. After just a semester, she asked her parents if we could double down on the lessons, which they agreed on. Compared to my other students, Lena’s progress became exponential. Her demanding nature, the attention she paid to every little detail, whether it was the angle of the bow on the string, the way her head tilted at the end of a measure, or the way she knew how to listen to what her left elbow was telling her, truly made a difference. Her motivation was unshakable, and mine was over the roof. It was the first time I had felt that way since my last – amputated – season with the orchestra.
One of the best examples of her determination was demonstrated on her 7th birthday. After performing Albinoni’s adagio and bringing her small audience to tears, myself included, she stated that she didn’t want any of the presents that laid unopened on the table. Instead, she asked her parents for an extra lesson of violin a week. It commanded respect. Of course, her parents, in their great goodness, maybe sprinkled with a little guilt, let her keep her presents as well. An hour dedicated to music theory was quickly added to this 3rd hour of violin, as Lena wanted to understand every little thing about her instrument; she would take care of her violin like any other child would take care of their favorite doll: always wiping off the rosin on the strings after every lesson or loosening her bow, as if these were laser surgeries. She would hate being separated from her instrument when I took it to the luthier once or twice a year. During our lessons, she left no room for approximation. As her teacher, it was a true delight to watch her blossom into a true violinist, week after week. We mostly talked about the craft: our passion and our dedication to the instrument were all-consuming. As the Carlsons were never there, at Lena’s request and with Gillian’s agreement, I would often stay an extra hour on Wednesdays to perfect her practice or learn a new movement. From time to time, when Lena got too tired, we would take a walk in the neighborhood, with Gillian’s authorization, or go down to the living room and listen to a record. She had a hunger for new music, composers and stories that I had rarely seen, even among adults.
Soon enough, I was teaching her for eight hours, four days a week, with three hours on Wednesdays. From Friday to Sunday, except for the few other students I had, I would think about exercises that would be useful for her, listen to the recordings we would make during lessons to see what could be perfected: here a wrong attack with her bow, there a finger placement issue… I knew her so well that I could tell whether or not her body posture was right just by listening to her play. I would come back on Monday with my notes, and Lena would work relentlessly until all of these mistakes looked like vague memories. Violin became everything to Lena, as it had been for me. I could see a great future for her; she had everything in her possession to largely outshine the violinist I once was. I am left today with the satisfaction of knowing I was right.
When Lena turned twelve, she hit a plateau. She had reached her peak with the training she was given and, even though she spent countless hours practicing on her own, it wasn’t enough anymore. She needed more lessons, she needed her school schedule to be adjusted to leave room for her practice, or else, she would stop improving. Plus, she wasn’t dealing well with that phase; she would get impatient and even annoyed with herself. Her teenage years were knocking at the door, and she didn’t know what to do with them. I knew something had to be done when I saw her smash her violin against the wall and burst into tears. And who else could have done it?
At the exception of one or two galas where Lena got to play, and on Lena’s birthdays, which I wouldn’t have missed for the world, I had not seen, and even less talked much with the Carlsons over the years. Yet, I still blame myself for thinking they shared the plan I had for Lena, for believing they finally had something right when they summoned me. Of course, they didn’t: they wanted to tell me that Lena was putting too much pressure on herself with the violin, making my despise for them go through the roof. They had discussed the matter with some of their friends and thought she was too young to have such an intense practice of an instrument. Lena was more interested in the violin than in having friends, or worse to them, than in her homework; her grades had started to reflect her disinterest and it made them worried: they knew her potential and had big plans for her. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. In addition to shining by their absence, they didn’t make any effort to understand this child at all, to see the greatness she was destined to. They told me it would be better for Lena to cut back on the lessons, at least until her grades go up again. I did try to tell them, despite that feeling of calm gradually leaving me for the first time in forever, what a terrible idea it was. I made my case, stating that the timing was essential for Lena to climb the next step in her learning, that now was the time to make a difference between an okay violinist and a professional one. They had no plan for her to become a professional violinist, which already sounded then as total nonsense. I told them that they couldn’t crush Lena’s dream. I still get so worked on just thinking about their reply that I don’t even remember if it was his or her stupid mouth who said: Lena’s or yours? They proceeded to explain how much space I had taken in Lena’s life, that a twelve-year-old shouldn’t consider her violin teacher her best friend and vice-versa, that they knew from Gillian that I often stayed at the mansion longer than what was expected of me. Another proof nobody could be trusted in this life: people snitch on you, people drive car into walls, parents don’t believe in you, that’s how it is. How could I believe it would be different for Lena? They concluded their little exposé by offering me a deal: either I complied with the new rules, that is to say no more than four lessons a week, no more walks around the park, or they would be compelled to find another violin teacher for Lena, their daughter. The emphasis they put on those words still echoes in my head. Their. Daughter. How convenient for people who didn’t even know that their daughter loved Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 35 more than life itself, that, at night, she dreamt of playing at Carnegie Hall, that her birthday wish was always to be the best violinist there ever was. I could not let them get in our way.
Going into the sordid details of what happened next would be useless. I know you have them all written down in your little file anyway. Luckily, being one of the “soft ones” locked in here, I have created some kind of bond with the nurses over the years. They bent the rules to provide me with some info about Lena from time to time: the prizes, the concerts, graduating from Juilliard... Yet, when they told me her name had come up on the New York Philharmonic’s roster for next season, moreover as a first violin, I knew it was time, and I couldn’t leave without telling you all of this. After all, I have a right to tell the story, even if it’s the last thing I do. At the trial, the twelve of you only witnessed a very shortened, biased version. Yet, it was apparently enough to declare me irresponsible for my actions, when I was in fact the most responsible in the room. I know I will never hear her play Tchaikovsky. You prevented me from doing so. When this gets to all of you, if it does, I will have swallowed the tranquilizers collected over the last weeks. I just wanted to make sure you knew that my only regret is that Julia and Matt Carlson survived their wounds; my only consolation being that they survived to see I was right.
