Symphony of Psalms

Symphony of Psalms

 

My fictional story about a conducting student’s worst nightmare. Or is it a dream come true?

 

 

 

 

            This class was supposed to be my easy A. Now I was the human sacrifice, and had no idea how to protect myself. I am not the fighting type.  I was probably the only boy in the neighborhood who made it to eighteen without so much as a towel snap in the boy’s locker room. Aside from an unhappy encounter with a feral dog, I had always managed to stay away from trouble. So when Dr. Spinacker (a.k.a. Spinach) asked me to pick up a dagger and bring it home, I knew I was a dead man.

            I blame Stravinsky for the whole thing. It all started when Spinach assigned me to conduct the final movement of Igor Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms—eleven minutes and twenty-one seconds of torture. Who but Stravinsky would think of setting Psalm 150 as a funeral dirge? And all those syncopated beats; they made me nearly loose my lunch.

            I stood in front of a class of twenty-two students and began to conduct. Spinach hovered over the piano keyboard, while the students moaned, “lau-da-te, lau-da(boom)te.” After a few bars, Spinach stopped playing.

            “You should be feeling a sense of heaviness. Think of Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.”

            I must have looked perplexed, because he asked me if I knew who Atlas was.

            “No sir.”

            “Well, then think of Marley’s ghost. Surely, you know Dickens. No? Then the ghost of Hamlet’s father. Any ghost will do. He is scary. He has unfinished business. Someone is going to die.”

            I raised my hands and tried again. I could not imagine what being a ghost would feel like, so I pretended I was wearing wrist weights and carrying a heavy backpack.

            “More!” Spinach called from the piano bench. “Feel those chains pulling you down!”

            I glanced at the cute girl in the front row with the bright eyes. She tugged at her braid and mouthed, “Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol.” By the time I made the connection, it was too late. We were already in the fast part, and I was tripping all over myself trying to get the beat right. I accidentally smacked myself in the shoulder. 

          "You are supposed to be beating the music, not let it beat you,” Spinach said. “Stab! Stab! Bring that dagger home!”     

            Dagger, what dagger? I thought we were talking about ghosts. I lost the beat again.

            That is when Spinach decided to teach us how to kill. Because I had been conducting at the time, he chose me to slay the human sacrifice.

            “Pick up an imaginary dagger. That’s right. Now raise it in the air, and stab.”

            I made several weak jabs at the air.

            “Mr. Pritchard, this is not nursery school. Bring the dagger home.”

            I tried again, but I kept stopping just before the full thrust. My heart was not in it.

            “Miss Liverwort, would you please come over and show Mr. Prichard how it’s done?”

            The bright-eyed girl who knew Dickens stood up, and without hesitation made several meaty thrusts.

            “Let’s all stand up and follow Miss Liverwort. One, two three, stab!”

            The class thrust their daggers. They were all better than me. My stabs were so puny, that I felt like tiny monkey in a group of lowland gorillas.

            “Mr. Prichard, perhaps it would help if you screamed while you thrust your dagger.”

            My scream came out as a grunt. Miss Liverwort was the only one who did not laugh. 

            Finally, Spinach left me alone, and went on to torture his text victim. For the rest of the class, I slipped lower and lower in my seat. It was clear that being able to mimic a homicide was a requirement for passing this class, for being a good conductor, and for being a person that deserved to breathe. My music career was at stake, not to mention my manhood. I realized that, if I were unable to bring the dagger home, I would be incapable of conducting any serious music, especially Stravinsky, whose first performance of The Rite of Spring Ballet nearly caused a riot in a Paris theatre.

            By the end of the next class, Spinach had discovered each student’s vulnerability, and so had assigned everyone music to conduct that would make them look like fools. He also made us commit imaginary homicide again, and this time he used me for target practice. At six feet six, I towered over Spinach, who was just over five feet, old, emaciated, and looked like he was being held together by flour paste and willpower alone. He seemed no more likely to have mastered the primal scream than a rabbit. Yet there he was, screaming louder than anyone, and thrusting his dagger towards the center of my heart. He was so convincing that I held my breath, imagining that if I moved even a centimeter I would feel the cold, hard steel on my chest.

            -----

I almost did not go to the third class, but Miss. Liverwort saw me skulking around the student center, and invited me to walk with her to the music building.

“I noticed your Southern accent. Where are you from? She asked.

“Gaffney, South Carolina. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”

“I’m from a town in Idaho so small I don’t think it’s even on the map.”

I grinned. She grinned back, and told me that her name was Jill. She had that wholesome, high pro glow that I associate with small town girls, at least the ones my mother would approve of.

I was still staring at her when she grabbed my arm, and steered me around a tree root.

“Thanks. You have fast reflexes.”

“I have to. I grew up with five brothers who were always fighting. I didn’t want to get caught in the cross fire.”

“So I bet you’re not afraid of our maniac teacher.”

“Spinacker?” She looked thoughtful. “I guess he knows what he’s doing, although the music he assigned us is more grad level stuff.”

“So it’s not supposed to be this hard?”

“Of course not. It’s supposed to be fun.”  

            Obviously, Jill liked the class, because she was the first to volunteer to conduct. She marched to the front, pinned her braid on top of her head, and stared us down until every eye was upon her, vocal chords ready to vibrate.

            Tell us the name of the piece you are conducting, Miss Liverworts.

            It’s a  Debussy Chanson called “Dieu, qu’il la fait bon regarder.” 

            Spinach corrected her mangled French. When he rolled the r in regarder in the back of his throat, it sounded like he was trying to cough up phlegm. Then he drilled us on the pronunciation of the entire text. "Mon Dieu, lips out more,” he said. “It’s pourrait. Puuuray. Pretend you are kissing a watermelon.” The women giggled. Several men made smooching sounds. Spinach seemed so enamored of the French language, that I expected him to lead us in the Marseillaise, his own slender baritone singing happily through the bloody flag and slit throats.

            Finally, the French lesson was over, and Jill lifted her arms to give the upbeat. I was too busy trying to remember the pronunciation and sight-read the notes in the tenor part to pay much attention to her. I had the vague impression of two strong arms beating up and down, as if doing calisthenics. It must have been bad, because when it was over Spinach held his head in his hands, and shook it back and forth.

            “Miss Liverworts, this is a love song. It is more than that; it is about the dream of being in love. And do you know what the poet is in love with?”

            "No."

            “He is in love with beauty.”

            She blushed.

            “Would you like to try it again?”

            She glanced at me, and blushed even brighter.

            “I’ll try.” After the words escaped my mouth, I looked around to see if I had an evil twin I had forgotten about.    

            “Mr. Prichard, you may come up and conduct this chanson. We could use Miss Liverwort’s voice in the soprano section. They are still struggling to find their notes between all the text messaging.”

            A girl with braces and dark, red hair quickly put her cell phone back in her pocket.  

            “This song requires a light touch,” Spinach warned.

            I stared at my hands, which had suddenly grown as big as bear paws. I managed to heave them up while Spinach gave the student choir their pitches. As I muddled my way through the song, my hands seemed to get smaller and lighter, until they felt like pet finches that had suddenly escaped their cages. It was fun. The students found more of the notes this time, and managed to glance my way now and then.

            “Do you think you could conduct it like that?” Spinach asked Jill.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Think of all that Romantic love poetry, Keats, Shelley, Byron: ‘She walks in Beauty like the night, Of cloudless climes and stormy skies.’ This chanson is a beautiful song about a beautiful woman.”

            Jill came back up and raised her arms.

            “One arm will do.”

            “Pritchard used both arms.”

            “Try it with one, and see what happens. With some music, less is more.”  

            She studied her left arm, and then hid it behind her back. Unfortunately, she did just as good a job of beating the music to death with one arm than she had with two. Her ham-handed, muscle-bound conducting was as useful for conducting Debussy as was borscht and vodka for a French pastry chef.

            After class, Jill asked me if I would trade conducting assignments with her.  

 “I’d like to, but Spinach would never allow it. He wants us to fail.” 

“You’re too hard on him; he’s just trying to teach us. Maybe we could work together, you know, I could help you with Stravinsky and you could help me with my Debussy.”

“Do you think you could teach me the primal scream?”

“Yes, and bring the dagger home.”

We both laughed. “Where did you learn to stab like that?” I asked.

“I grew up on a pig farm.”

 “So you’ve actually, ah, slaughtered a pig?”

“Yes.” She looked at me quizzically as if slaughtering pigs was something that everybody learns to do as a kid, along with remembering to zip up their pants before coming out of the bathroom.

“So, later then?” She grinned.

“It’s worth a try. I can’t get any worse.” I grinned back, wondering if we were always smiling because we came from people who smiled all the time, or because we liked each other.

-----

In the practice room, Jill played the piano with the strength of a lumberjack. It was so loud, I expected to see Spinach peering in, his forehead plastered against the window. Fear rose in my throat and nearly choked me.  

She stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s a little loud.”

“Why don’t you play and I conduct?”

I took her place at the piano. The score looked impossible. “It sounds so easy when Spinach plays it.”

“Just play the choral parts,” Jill said, before I could make a fool of myself.

Halfway through I stopped her. “There is not enough primal in your scream.”

“I’m the one who’s supposed to know how to conduct Stravinsky.” She looked hurt.

“How about I help you with your Debussy first?” I regretted it as soon as I said it,  sure that by the end of the practice session she would have either beaten me over the head or, even worse, refused to ever speak to me again.

I played the Debussy, and she beat the music instead of me. “What’s wrong, am I that bad? You’re scowling,” Jill said.

Her smile was contagious, and my scowl immediately turned back into to a happy face. When I met her bright blue eyes, I suddenly had an idea.

“Watch my hands.” I hummed the melody and conducted myself singing.

She joined in. She had a sweet, bell-like voice. Apparently, my evil twin was back, because I invited her to put her hands on top of mine. We had just started conducting together in perfect harmony, when she took her hands away.

 “Wait a minute.” Jill took out an MP3 player, where she had saved a sound file of the chanson. “Now show me again.” Our hands danced to the music, while our mouths accidentally touched now and then. By the end of the fourth run through, we were in full smooch.            “I think I have the hang of it now,” Jill said, her eyelashes fluttering. She was right. I had no doubt that she could conduct the Debussy as well as anyone. But my Stravinsky was still not fit for the hogs.

 

-----

Spinach’s skeletal fingers tapped on his desk, as he peered at me with eyes the color of dried seaweed. “Mr. Pritchard.”

            “Yes Mr. Spinach. I mean Spinacker.” I stared down at my lap.

            “That’s quite all right Mr. Pritchard. Students have been calling me “Spinach” since before you were born.

            “I’m sorry sir.”

            “You do not need to call me sir. You are not in South Carolina anymore.”

            “Okay Sir. I mean Professor Spinacker.”

            He waved the words away. “How did you and Miss Liverwort do with your practice session?”

            I looked at the wall, the ceiling, wiped my sweaty hands on my pants, and sank lower in my chair. “I don’t know. I guess okay.”

            “Do not be so wishy washy. Did you accomplish your goal?”

            “No.”

            “Why?”

            “Because we stink. I mean I stink. Miss Liverwort got a lot better.”

            I looked up from the choking silence to see Spinach smiling, although by the standards of my hometown it was more of a grimace.

“You smile like I conduct Stravinsky.” It was out before I could help myself, and I slapped my hand over my mouth. That was when Spinach began to laugh. It began as a giggle, and proceeded to a series of honking noises, accompanied by table slapping, and general stomping that shook his whole body, from fallen arches to loose dentures.

            Spinach gained control of himself with difficulty, and then smacked his lips. By the look he gave me, I realized that he had just caught me in his butterfly net and was about to pin me to a piece of cardboard. “I’ll teach you how to conduct the Stravinsky, and you are not required to stab anyone or scream.”

            “I’m not?”

            “No. All you have to do is think of the worst thing is that has ever happened to you.” He handed me a piano reduction of The Rite of Spring and turned to the Sacrificial Dance.

            “What about the Symphony of Psalms?”

            “You need stronger medicine. This is an orchestra piece, so you should use a baton.” Spinach rummaged around in his desk drawer and handed me a baton, then put an ancient record on an even more ancient turntable. Several times, he put the needle down and picked it back up, searching for the right place.

            Spinach had mentioned The Rite of Spring the first day of class, but I had never heard the music. I asked him what it was about.

            “Primitive mating rituals. Feel free to jump in at any time.” He found the spot and dropped the needle 

            The jagged rhythms made me dizzy. I stumbled to the music stand.

            “Oh, this part is about human sacrifice,” he added.

            I tripped and grabbed the music stand, which came crashing down on top of me.

            With surprising dexterity, Spinach pulled the stand off me, and helped me up. I fumbled with the score, and by the time I found the right page the music was over.

            “Are you finally ready?”

             I nodded. Spinach dropped the needle again, and I raised the baton. Almost immediately, Spinach began to yell. “Where’s your pain? What is the worst thing that ever happened to you?”

            What was the worst thing that ever happened? There was something about a dog, but that was a long time ago. I gritted my teeth and kept on conducting.  

             “You’re conducting like a wind-up toy. I’ll bet you’re still a virgin.”

            My face grew hot, and I began to sweat.

            “Stop conducting the beat. Conduct the music.”

            Nothing he said helped.  I began to curse under my breath. I bit my lip and accidentally hit my elbow on the music stand.

            Like a snarling Doberman tearing my clothes to pieces, Spinach kept yelling insults. Then I smelled dog breath, and I was five years old again. When I tried to kick the dog away, he dug his teeth into my leg. I charged into the music, using the baton as a weapon.  I kept beating him in time to the music. I hit him over and over again, on the back, shoulders, head. The dog ran away, but he was still in the music, churning, kicking up dust.

            The music was so much a part of me, that I could feel it all the way from toes to teeth. I was disappointed when it was over. 

            “Ah, we have an audience,” Spinach said. “Miss Liverwort, please join us.”

            I wondered how long Jill had been standing in the doorway watching me.

            “Our young man is improving, is he not?”

            “Oh yes.” She grinned at me. I grinned back. We could not help ourselves.