Doublestop Magazine

Dirty Little Secrets – A Novel Excerpt

The first time Montserrat saw David St. Pierre was in September of 1987, in London, where they’d both recently commenced their studies at the Royal Academy of Music. He’d just stepped out of the Academy’s front double doors onto the sidewalk of Marylebone Road. She saw him standing there in the golden afternoon light—a slim, handsome American who’d already drawn international attention on the violin, following his third-place win in the Paganini Competition the previous year. For a moment it seemed as if the world around them paused before adjusting its course to orbit around him instead of the sun.
When Montserrat saw him in Matthew Nakamura’s San Francisco apartment, twelve years later, so unchanged, it took her back so viscerally, she stumbled. Which was fitting, given that it had been her reaction on Marylebone Road, as well. She’d had to swing her arms wildly to correct her balance, eliciting snickers from the students around her. “That stupid rug,” Matthew said now, reaching out a steadying hand, “it curls up at the edge and keeps catching on people’s shoes. I’m so sorry.”

It proved to be a good ice breaker, at least. “Glad to see someone beside me trips on it,” a tall woman with wavy chestnut hair and a welcoming smile said as she rose. Montserrat took the proffered hand, aware that her own felt clammy with anxiety. “Vanessa Levy,” the woman said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I heard your Sibelius with the Philharmonic three years ago. Brilliant.”

Vanessa: the quartet’s violist, Juilliard faculty member and part of a highly acclaimed quartet of her own. She and Matthew had collaborated annually for five years now. “Thank you,” Montserrat said. “I enjoyed hearing your performance, as well, with Matthew last summer.”

“Oh, Borodin and the two Beethovens—that was a lot of fun.”

“Andrew Yee was your second violinist then, as well, wasn’t he?”

“He was. Poor Andrew, he’s just sick about breaking his arm.”

“And your first violinist, up to this year, has been Alex Margossian, right?” Montserrat was aware that she was babbling, dragging out the conversation with Vanessa in order to prolong the inevitable.

“Yes, indeed. And no offense to Alex, but I have to say, within an hour of hearing he was backing out, I was on the phone to David, asking him to meet up with us the next time Matthew and Andrew were in New York. I knew he’d be a perfect fit. And he is.” She beamed at him as he joined them.

It was time, then.

“Hello, David.” Montserrat shook his hand, pleased by the calmness of her voice. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” He smiled and she saw instantly that he still had it—that ineffable star quality, making him seem both alluring and inaccessible, which had never failed to send a stab of pain—was it envy or dislike?—through her whenever she saw him.

“London, eight years ago,” he said. “How’ve you been?”

“Great, thanks. And you?”

“Good.” Her gaze fell, against her will, to his damaged left hand. He noticed. “Finally back to normal,” he said, wiggling his fingers, and she could feel her face grow warm. Matthew saved her from replying by pointing out the side table where she could place her violin case. She set it down, unzipped it and pulled out her Vuillaume from its padded nest. The sight of the antique violin, the cool smoothness of its neck against her palm, calmed her. Even though she didn’t need it yet, she pulled out her battered shoulder rest and clamped it onto the violin. Then she set it down with a loving pat and drew a deep breath.

This was no big deal, she told herself, simply a casual audition for a summertime gig. But the bitter truth: she had a tenuous hold on her career’s success at the moment; she could almost feel it teetering, swaying with the breeze of public opinion. The allure that had catapulted her to fame eight years earlier, following her first place win in the prestigious Royal International Violin Competition, was fading beneath the relentless competitive pressure of younger, flashier violinists, pumped out annually by conservatories and international competitions. She still had one of the top managers in the industry: Judith handled the best, but you had to stay the best. And her interest in Montserrat, in the wake of a year riddled with problems, had begun to wane, with communication and the handling of increasingly humble bookings relegated to Judith’s assistant.

Baltimore, however, had revived Montserrat. Her March performances there of the Brahms Violin Concerto had been spot-on, full of the fire and precision that had defined her early days. No debilitating jet lag or delayed flights and consequently rushed orchestral rehearsals; no personality conflicts; no flu clogging her head and tainting her ability to produce a good sound. Just her, her treasured 1861 JB Vuillaume and the Brahms, drawing the audience in. They’d been wildly enthusiastic, leaping to their feet for a standing ovation, producing three curtain calls and an encore. The rest of her East Coast tour had gone equally well and she’d been generously reviewed, both in newspaper and industry periodical. The memory of the praise still made Montserrat smile. “Luminous….a masterful performance.” “Still very much a soloist worth seeking out.”

The big phone call from Judith had come just as Montserrat was finishing up with the Kaw Valley Music Festival, a faculty position procured when the infinitely more prestigious Mayfair Summer Festival declined to invite her back for a fifth year. Judith’s call was brief. Matthew Nakamura, the Matthew Nakamura, was interested in her. His quartet collaboration’s second violinist had broken his arm and they needed a quick study to step in as a replacement for three performances, as part of the Berkeley music festival that Matthew had founded and helped run.

The catch. The horrifying catch. David St. Pierre was the first violinist.

They needed to make a decision ASAP, Judith told her. Was she free, the morning following her return, to meet up with them? Montserrat hesitated, but only for an instant. Yes. Most decidedly.

“Good,” was Judith’s only comment. But her tone told Montserrat everything. She was still in the game, then.

The quartet would be playing Mozart’s no. 14 in G major, Bartók’s second quartet, and Dvorák’s no. 12, “The American.” Rehearsals, Matthew told her, had been arranged around everyone’s schedules. David and Vanessa, both East Coasters, would remain in San Francisco for the duration of the six-week period. “I’m going to be in and out much of the time,” Matthew told her, “busy both with concerts and the music festival. Vanessa will also be putting time into the festival. She’s viola faculty. David’s not faculty this year and he’s got a light schedule, so he has the most flexibility. I have a master copy of the schedules somewhere around here, let me find you a copy.”

Vanessa had begun arranging her music on the stand in front of her chair. After Matthew disappeared she smiled at Montserrat. “So, David and you. This must seem like old times, huh, guys? You both studied with Vladimir Kasparov?” Montserrat and David nodded. “One of the greats. Smoothest bowing arm in the business. Did you enjoy him as a teacher?”

The question had been addressed to the both of them, but David remained silent, as if to assess Montserrat’s carefully rehearsed reply. “Yes, I did,” she told Vanessa. “He had a lively, engaged style and a clever way of coaxing more out of his students than they thought they were capable of giving. He was a wonderful teacher.”

Kasparov—speaking of him after so many years produced an unexpected pang. But Vanessa only nodded. “David, I know you went back to him, a year after your accident. How about you, Montserrat? Still in touch?”

“Sadly, no. I’m terrible at corresponding.” She kept her voice light. “Besides, he’s seen so many talented players pass through his doors, I’m sure he all but forgot me by now.”

“On the contrary.” David’s eyes met hers. “He was always talking about you, once I returned. Your dedication, your fire—he was constantly on me to seek out that kind of fire in my playing. He had all your favorable reviews posted on his bulletin board.”

“He didn’t.”

His expression was unreadable. “He did.”

Vanessa found David’s comment entertaining. “Oh, you found that fire, David, honey. You come in here on fire every day, always ten minutes late.”

David settled back into his chair. “You don’t know what it’s like to be terrorized by a four year old. You want to know what I found in my violin case as I was packing up to come here today?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“Corn Chex. Dozens of them. Some with peanut butter. Some soggy from milk.”

“Oh, God. What was Kip thinking?”

“He heard me telling Cindy I didn’t have time for breakfast.”

Vanessa laughed as Matthew breezed back into the room and handed Montserrat a sheet of paper. “We can play around with this schedule a bit if it looks like you’re going to be a good fit here. First things first, though. Why don’t we just leap in and play a piece? Montserrat, are you up to speed on any of the quartets in particular?”

“I’m very familiar with the Dvorák. And the Mozart, as well—that was the one I played around with last night.”

“Well, let’s start there and see how we sound together.”

Montserrat retrieved the Vuillaume, tightened her bow and tuned up. The strings purred and hummed against her bow, producing a reassuring vibration in her chest. Socializing was always her greatest challenge. Now came the easy part. When everyone was ready, seats and music in place, David cued the group with a small inhale and lift of the chin, and then they were off.

The first movement went well. Afterwards, she watched the others exchange quick, pleased glances. “Well,” Matthew said. “Not bad. Shall we muscle on through it, then?”

They continued. Montserrat sensed they hadn’t expected her to blend in so well, so quickly. Hours of practice the night before, in spite of her jet lag and travel fatigue, had done that. She’d studied the four-part score closely while listening to a recording of the quartet over and over in order to better understand the interplay between the voices. Now she listened carefully to the others as they made their way through the Mozart. Her success, she knew, lay in adjusting her own interpretation and phrasing in accordance with what they’d already established.

Her investment paid off. By the end of the final movement, Vanessa and David were grinning. Matthew paused, then nodded. “This is going to work,” he said, almost to himself, and Montserrat’s spirits soared. “What do the rest of you think?” He turned to David and Vanessa.

“I think so too,” Vanessa said.

“Definitely,” David chimed in.

“Well, then,” Matthew said, “Montserrat, if you’re interested, I think we’ve got a fit here.”

“Oh, I’m interested.”

“Then, welcome aboard.”

The relief in the room was palpable. The quartet had solved its dilemma and Montserrat had just won a spot in a plum quartet performance.

She played cautiously during the rest of the meeting and over the next few rehearsal sessions, determined to blend in and not call attention to herself or her playing. Following the successful first meeting, she’d gone home and worked on the Bartók until it was up to speed with the Mozart and the Dvorák. During rehearsals, she took mental notes on the other musicians. Matthew was a joy to work with—thoughtful, observant, both inspiring and encouraging toward the others, even when criticizing them. His cello playing, with its impeccable intonation and reassuring sonority, perfectly mirrored his personality. Vanessa was always professional and steadfast, her viola part the reassuring core of whatever they were playing. As for David, he played the same way he had in London—flamboyantly, assured, confident that the others would follow along. This irritated Montserrat, the way it had in London. She swallowed her complaints and petty comments, though, reminding herself how fortunate she was to be in this group. She commanded herself never to rise to the bait he seemed to enjoy dangling.

She lasted two days.

Friday was the day the polite facades dropped. Vanessa was running late and when Matthew went to take a phone call, Montserrat and David were left alone in the living room. She set down the Vuillaume and wandered over to the bay windows from which afternoon light streamed in. Outside, across the street, two pig-tailed blonde girls were arguing, both tugging at the same doll. David whipped up his violin, an eighteenth-century Gaspare Lorenzini, and effortlessly flew through the first half of a Paganini caprice, the no. 5 in A minor, with its see-saw of arpeggios and scales and its racing moto perpetuo. Then he set the Lorenzini down and gave a great yawn. “So,” he said, “we haven’t had the chance to catch up on London days.”

She was still reeling from hearing how flawlessly he’d played the caprice, with so little warming up. Her reply came out sharper than anticipated. “I’m not the reminiscing type.”

“Do you keep in touch with any of our former classmates?”

“Like I said the other day, I’m lousy at stuff like that. You?”

“A few people. There’s Wei Chen and Graham, who got married.”

“Yes, I heard about that. They’re still with the London Philharmonic?”

David nodded. “I saw them in New York last winter, when the Philharmonic was on tour. We got the chance to catch up at a reception afterwards. I saw some other familiar faces from London in the crowd that night, as well.”

She glanced at his expectant face. “And who would that have been?”

“Len Stevenson and his wife.” He paused. “You’re still in touch with them, right?”

It was like running into an unseen glass wall. She couldn’t tell whether he was genuinely curious or if he’d been trying to get a reaction out of her. “Of course,” she replied, keeping her expression neutral, “they own the Vuillaume, after all. I usually meet up with them once a year in New York, where I do a private recital for them and their friends. They like to hear the Vuillaume in action.”

“I suppose that comes with the loan.”

“Yes, I couldn’t very well begrudge them that.”

Vanessa arrived then, full of apologies, just as Matthew stepped back into the room. Within five minutes, they’d started up on the first movement of the Dvorák, the lively allegro ma non troppo, but Montserrat wasn’t feeling particularly allegro about anything. David’s comments about seeing the Stevensons had unsettled her horribly, causing her to make stupid mistakes. An hour later, her agitation had only increased. The lento, the lush, emotional second movement, was being played too fast for her tastes. “I get the feeling some of us are playing a little too… cheerfully here,” she said. David’s glance flickered over her, dismissed her and returned to his music.

“I think taking it slower isn’t a bad idea,” Vanessa said.

David frowned. “That was the tempo we agreed on.”

Montserrat gave up on her attempt to sound diplomatic. “No, actually it wasn’t. You’re leaping out of the gate right after you pick the melody back up from Matthew and pushing the tempo. It’s making the rest of us play faster to keep up.”

He shook his head and tapped at his sheet music. “It’s the second violin part. You’re getting caught up in your busy notes, placing too much importance on each one—that’s what’s dragging down the pace. Besides, this was the tempo we’d decided on with Andrew.”

“Well, David,” Vanessa said, “Andrew isn’t part of the equation anymore now, is he?” Montserrat hid her smile as David’s frown grew petulant.

After five more minutes of debate, the group agreed to slow it down. “Fine,” David snapped, “Let’s take it from the top, then… again.” They did, and David urged it along it at precisely the same tempo as before. Montserrat fumed silently but waited until the end of the movement to propose it slower. This time she was vetoed, three to one.

In the third movement, the first violin rose above the other stringed voices and sang a bird-like melody. David was playing it all wrong. After a few minutes, Montserrat couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “I’m sorry to keep nit-picking like this, but David, you sound like a crazed robin.”

“I do not. I sound like a yellow-throated warbler, just like Dvorák intended.”

“It was the scarlet tanager he was trying to imitate.”

“I think you got it wrong.”

“I don’t think so.” They glared at each other and what Montserrat saw communicated far more than the exchanged pleasantries of the past week had. This wasn’t a disagreement over a few bars of music. His eyes were simmering with rage and resentment. He looked like he wanted to take her bow and snap it in half, before starting in on her. “Look,” Montserrat tried to adopt a reasonable tone, “This isn’t an opinion; I have musicological and ornithological research notes on my side. It’s the scarlet tanager.”

“She’s right, you know.” Matthew’s voice broke through their impasse. Montserrat felt triumphant until she glanced over at Matthew. He looked uneasy. Which Montserrat knew immediately was a bad thing. Matthew confirmed this when he spoke again. “Gang, I hate to say it, but we’re going to have to choose our battles here. We’ve only got five more weeks and nine rehearsals, with three quartet pieces to polish. And over the past three hours, we’ve spent most of it arguing about ten bars of music.”

Montserrat drew a deep breath, then smiled at Matthew. “Don’t worry, this is nothing David and I can’t work out. We’ll meet outside rehearsals if that’s what it takes to get it right.”

“Great idea, Montserrat.” To her surprise, David replied first, employing the same phony bright tone she’d used. “Why don’t we meet next Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, when Matthew and Vanessa are gone? You’re not too busy, are you?” His words mocked her, as if he knew how shamefully open her summer schedule was.

It was like being Royal Academy students again. She could feel her cheeks burning as she bent to pull out her daily, making a great display of riffling through the pages. “I think I can work you into my schedule, David. I’m giving the preparation of this performance high priority this month. And since you’re around, free the entire period, we should definitely do it.”

“That would be great, you two,” Vanessa said. “Then we could tackle the bigger issues when we meet late next week. As it is, we’re just about out of time for the day.”

“How about my place then?” David asked Montserrat as they all rose ten minutes later and began to pack up. “It’s on the bus line and the living room has good acoustics. Cindy takes our son Kip out most mornings, so we’d have plenty of quiet.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

He jotted down his address and phone number and handed the paper to her. She snatched it, jammed it in her bag with a terse “thank you” and without another word, stalked off to the bathroom. She locked the door, then stared in the mirror at her scarlet cheeks. Her breath was coming out in tortured gasps as if she’d been running. This wouldn’t do. This simply wouldn’t do. She ran the cold water and splashed it on her cheeks over and over until she began to cool down. Then she took her time patting her face dry until she felt composed enough to rejoin the others.

The living room was quiet. She saw, to her relief, that David and Vanessa had already left and it was just Matthew, placing the chairs back around his dining room table. “Hey there,” he said, “I was about to grab a snack—are you hungry?”

“Hmm, what have you got?”

In response, he led her into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She peered inside and gasped. No less than four one-pound boxes of chocolates, several bakery boxes with elaborate bows, vacuum-sealed packages of Polish sausages and ribs. Cheeses, salamis, tins of food with labels stamped in Chinese characters, in Russian, in French. Fruit baskets, bottles of champagne, Lambic beers, Japanese sake. “Matthew, where did all this come from?” she asked.

“Gifts. From people or organizations I’ve worked with in the past. Elementary schools. When I’m on tour, I’ll participate in local community outreach programs when I can fit them in, and then I’ll get something like this as a thank-you.”

“What do you do with it all?”

“Usually my assistant handles the flow. She’ll share the sealed stuff with food kitchens and senior centers. Most afternoons she’ll stop by and take care of it, along with the fan mail. But she’s been on vacation for a week. I have to tell you, I had no idea I got so much mail each day, both at my P.O. box and at the house. Some of the letters—boy, the writers are really out there. You’d think, by reading them, that we’d had a relationship for years. Then again, maybe in their minds we have.”

“It’s funny that you should be mentioning this right now,” she said. “Just the other day my landlady, Ruby, was asking me whether I’d ever had admirers or fan mail that got a little overzealous. I told her no, that she was overestimating the allure of classical musicians. Guess I’ll have to tell her I was wrong. Or maybe not. Because you’re not just a classical musician, are you? You’re an actor.”

He dismissed her words with a wave. “Only one movie, and it was just a cameo appearance. The documentaries don’t count.”

“It’s the Wendy’s commercial. That’s how Ruby knew you. I heard her tell her mom on the phone that one of her tenants was going to be performing with ‘that Wendy’s musician.’”

They settled for smoked gouda and salami on crackers and munched in a companionable silence for the next few minutes. “Am I holding you up in any way here?” Montserrat finally asked.

“No, just have to run an errand before six o’clock. But you want a ride, I’d be happy to give you one. You live in lower Pacific Heights, right? Near Fillmore?”

“How did you know?”

“David mentioned it. I’m going right up Fillmore—I can easily drop you off.”

“That would be great. Thanks.” Then she frowned. “David knew where I lived?”

He nodded, then hesitated. “I have a question here, and forgive me if it’s too personal.”

“Go ahead.”

“You and David. From the way he’d talked earlier, and then your interaction on the first day, I would have assumed you were close friends. But, now…” His voice trailed off.

She exhaled heavily. “No, we don’t appear to be the best of friends, do we? I’m sorry you had to notice it. Nor were we in London, either.” She studied her salami and cheese. “You might say we were violinists from the opposite sides of the track. He had well-connected rising star written all over him from the day he stepped through the Academy doors. Whereas myself, well…”

She made a decision. Bashing David wouldn’t help her here. Her best odds at aligning Matthew on her side lay in speaking candidly, sharing what she avoided telling others. So she told him about her ragtag childhood, how her actor parents had dragged her through New York, London, Paris, Amsterdam, ever in pursuit of The Big Break. “They were versatile, multilingual, so they usually found work,” Montserrat said. “Every time we got evicted, friends within their circle would take us in. Their friends were all actors and performers as well—very flamboyant, throwing parties after the night’s performance, lots of jug wine and spaghetti dinners at midnight. I can’t say my childhood was ever dull.”

“Any classical musicians in the group?”

“None at all.”

“So, I’m curious. Why the violin for you?”

“Oh, boy. One night—that was all it took.”

She’d only been seven, but it was a night permanently etched in her memory. Her father had been subbing backstage at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, a glorious, palatial venue in Paris, and he’d scored two tickets for Montserrat and her mother. The theatre, so unlike the musty, ramshackle venues her parents performed in, opened the doors to a world Montserrat had never dreamed existed. Her eyes were everywhere at once, taking in the musicians; the glittering, bejeweled audience; the exquisite detail of the architecture and décor. Even the air smelled refined.

Isaac Stern was scheduled to perform the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto. She watched him come onstage and immediately dismissed him as too humble and plain-looking to put on a good show. Then he began to play and all thoughts fled. The music that soared from his violin made her throat tighten, while at the same time, filling her with wild euphoria. She clenched the arms of her seat, almost forgetting to breathe. She knew, at that moment, what she wanted in her life: to become an orchestral soloist; to stand under the spotlight and play that astonishing music. She could never pursue anything else. The discovery was like a fever. She sat there in a daze long after the concert had ended, as the other audience members rose around her and headed out of the hall. Her mother took one look at her and laughed.

Whatever it takes. From that night on, it became her mantra. She practiced for hours on end on the battered half-sized German fiddle her parents found for her. When they balked at paying for lessons, she found teachers on her own, bartering lessons for house-cleaning or laundry service. Years passed like this and she came to understand how dramatically the odds were stacked against her. She had no connections, no financial support. Even if she had, she knew only a small percentage of violinists made a living off their playing. Of those, maybe one percent were soloists. Fewer yet made it to the top. She refused to let those odds deter her from her mission.

Whatever it takes.

“David and I were in the same group at the Royal Academy,” Montserrat told Matthew, “both studying under Vladimir Kasparov, although we didn’t interact much at first. He was already technically proficient in all the performance repertoire, and I was pretty much out of my league. It’s a miracle, really, that Kasparov accepted me into his studio. I failed to get into the RAM the first year I applied. Once I was in, I felt like I had to work twice as hard as anyone else simply to not make a fool of myself.”

“I’m inclined to think you succeeded.”

She smiled. “I suppose did. My third year, it started coming together. By my final year, I was able to lighten up, be more social. I made some great contacts with people outside the Academy, including an American couple, wealthy arts patrons, who befriended me and loaned me the Vuillaume. That made a big difference in my playing. Even so, it blew me away when I won first place in the Royal International.” She shook her head. “Boy. Was I lucky.”

“Well, we both know it was more than luck that got you that award.”

She cast him a grateful glance. “Thanks, that’s nice of you to say. I’ll tell you what got me there. Hard work. I’m not afraid to work hard, and that goes for here, as well.” She hesitated. “I’m really sorry about what happened with David today.”

“Don’t think twice about it. That’s how quartet rehearsals go.”

“It’s just that… I have a feeling he resents my presence here in the quartet.”

He looked puzzled. “Not in the least. David’s the one who pushed to get you in.”

“What do you mean?”

“We had another candidate, too, a friend of Andrew’s who plays second violin for another quartet. Frankly, we were leaning that way—it takes a certain kind of player, after all, to shine in the second violin role. But David told us he’d seen you perform in Baltimore and he just raved about you. He was insistent. And we all know how David gets when he’s insistent.” She forced a laugh. “Anyway, keep up the good work. I have no doubt you two will resolve your differences.” He glanced down at his watch. “Shall we get going?”

“I’m ready when you are.”

“Okay. Just let me go grab a few things.”

He left the room, leaving Montserrat to ponder this latest development. David, not Matthew, had been the one to champion her and her place in the quartet. How humbling.

How frightening.