The Conductor – Part 1: Downbeat

The concert hall was empty and enormous, rows of red velvet seats climbing into the dark, the stage lit by a single worklight above the podium. Music stands stood in neat curves, still angled for the second violins. Chairs sat empty. The great organ pipes gleamed faintly in the gloom.

Svetlana stood on the podium with a baton in her hand. She was fifty-four, a conductor of international reputation, silver-haired and slender, with a stare that could silence an orchestra. Matthew was forty-three, the principal violinist, her partner of six years, a gentle perfectionist who had told her after a very long tour that the only time he truly rested was when she was telling him what to do.

"Come up," said Svetlana.

He climbed the three steps to the stage. She handed him a sheet of score paper, the stave lines blank, the words ruled in pencil. Rehearsal Rules. His limits and hers: no marks, nothing painful, no real humiliation, nothing beyond the hall, no one else. The word was Fermata.

"Say it."

"Fermata."

"If you say it, the Maestra lays down her baton. I am Svetlana. We drink tea in the green room."

"I understand."

"And every half hour I ask if you wish to continue. You answer truly."

"Yes, Maestra."

"Not yet." She put on a long black tailcoat over her rehearsal clothes and straightened her back. The hall seemed to contract around her. Her voice was low, slow and absolutely level. "Mr Cole. Your intonation this evening was unacceptable."

"I am sorry, Maestra."

"You will be." She pointed the baton at the stage floor beside the podium. "There. Instrument down. Hands behind your back. Face the empty hall."

He stood facing the dark rows of seats. She turned the pages of a score on the stand, one by one, with a soft rustle, and did not look at him for a very long time. A radiator ticked. His heartbeat slowed.

"Are you content, Mr Cole?"

"Content, Maestra."

"Good. The rehearsal will be long."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Fermata.