The Conductor – Part 2: Fermata

The rehearsal was an exercise in attention. She made him stand with his instrument at rest while she conducted, silently, the entire first movement of a symphony, her baton marking out the bars, her face grave and absorbed, until he found himself breathing in time. She made him recite the markings of a score from memory and corrected each slip with a single tap of the baton on the music stand. She walked behind him and set his shoulders square with two fingers, his chin level with a touch. She spoke to him in a low even murmur, telling him what she expected, and he took each word in like water. Everything was exact, formal and utterly tender.

Every half hour: "Does Mr Cole wish to continue?" "Yes, Maestra." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

"The Maestra does not require thanks." But her hand softened on the baton.

At one, she raised her arms, held them for a long moment and let them fall. The silence in the great hall rang like a struck bell.

"Fermata," said Svetlana, softly.

It was her word, and she meant it for them both. She laid the baton on the podium and shrugged off the tailcoat. She came down the steps in her stockinged feet, sat on the edge of the stage beside him and took his hands.

"How are you?"

"Resolved," said Matthew, with a damp, happy laugh. "Perfectly."

"You were superb." She kissed his forehead. "The finest first violin in Europe."

"Will there be another rehearsal?"

"Every Thursday." She smiled at the empty hall. "I am preparing a new programme. It is considerably more demanding."

"I'll practise," said Matthew.

"You will rest," said Svetlana. "That is the hardest part. I shall make you."

They sat on the lip of the stage, shoulders touching, sharing a flask of tea in the dark, while the great hall ticked and settled around them.

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