5. Niles

Chapter five

Niles

T he warning bell rang, and students filtered through the door to Koa’s classroom. I’d overstayed my welcome, but Koa’s indifferent attitude was the only thing keeping me grounded. Without it, I’d have gone off the rails, worrying about my job and the man who’d come to replace me.

It was hard to rile Koa. Until recently, my ex-lover’s views on life veered toward morbid and bleak. It was partly why we’d broken up. No matter the exuded effort, I hadn’t been able to make Koa care about anything, including me. Jersey, one of Koa’s childhood friends from camp, had broken through those barriers. It initially stung, but time had healed the wound. I was happy for Koa but couldn’t help feeling like I’d missed my chance at love.

At forty-four, all the good men were taken.

“Have lunch with me?” I vacated the desk where I’d spent the last fifteen minutes bemoaning my situation.

Koa moved to the doorway to greet students and collect assignments from tired-looking teens before they collapsed into their seats. “I can’t today. Jersey’s meeting me at Pestle & Mortar. He has a game in Niagara tonight, so I won’t see him otherwise. Besides, you should spend your lunch hour making your guest feel welcome. Take him out to eat.”

“Except I don’t want to.”

“Then eat lunch alone and mope. It won’t change your circumstance.”

A group of boys entered, roughhousing and laughing, bringing with them a cloud of Axe body spray. The stockier of the bunch, a trumpet player named Dean, bumped into me before I could step out of the way.

“Oh, hey. Sorry, Mr. Edwidge.”

“No harm, no foul.”

“Homework.” Koa extended a hand as each boy deposited their reports in turn.

“I’ll see you later.”

The influx of students dwindled, and Koa stepped into the hall to see me off. Without a teacher surveying the class, the teens took Koa’s absence as permission to chatter and grow rambunctious.

Koa poked his head back into the room to hush them before closing the door partly to block the noise. “Did you talk to Dr. McCaine?”

“No. What am I going to say? Do I accuse her of lying? Ask if she’s planning to offer Mr. Maestro my job?”

“I believe it’s Dr. Maestro if we’re giving him two titles.”

“You’re an ass.”

A rare smile appeared on my friend’s face. “She could assuage your fears.”

“True, or she could validate them.”

“Honestly, Niles. You’re overreacting.”

“Time will tell. I’ll be jobless by summer. Prepare your spare room. I’ll need to give up the house and move in.”

“He doesn’t want your job. Who would? Listen to these animals.” He motioned to the classroom and the steadily growing madness within.

The final bell rang, and Constance appeared at the end of the hall, moving in our direction. Koa noticed her as well.

I lowered my voice. “Is she in your class?”

“She is.”

“Has she spoken?”

“Not a word, but she’s an avid reader. I can tell.”

Constance closed the distance and held out her printed assignment.

“Good morning, Miss Castellanos.” Koa accepted the report and scanned the cover page. “You didn’t need the extra time?”

Constance shook her head. Before slipping into the classroom, she offered me a soft smile and a shy wave.

“Good morning. Should I assume your dad is waiting for me?”

She stopped short of rolling her eyes and nodded.

Chuckling, I squeezed Koa’s arm. “I better not keep him waiting. I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Come over tonight for wine. Jersey won’t be home, and you can tell me about your day.”

I would have said something unsavory had August’s daughter not been standing there with watchful eyes and perked ears. Instead, I agreed and retreated as Koa and Constance entered the classroom.

“All right. Settle down,” Koa shouted above the din.

The wide, vacant halls with their tall ceilings echoed with the clip of my shoes as I wandered to the stairwell and descended to the first floor. I considered spending my free period in the staffroom to avoid seeing August but figured my petulance about the situation had reached its limits.

Koa was right. Whining and bitching—avoiding—wouldn’t change the situation. It was what it was, and I could get over myself and stop acting like the teenagers I taught.

The screech of running shoes on the gymnasium floor accompanied me down the lengthy hallway leading to the music room. A sharp whistle sounded before Coach Blaine shouted muffled instructions I couldn’t make out from beyond the concrete wall.

I stopped outside the music room door and noticed that someone had fixed the staff and notes I’d plastered to its surface. Constance? August? It had to be one of the two since, prior to their arrival, I alone spent endless hours correcting the mess. The students made a game of rehanging my decorations. Lately, I’d lost the energy to care and refused to amend the disorder.

From within, the piano sounded out a jaunty tune with a clash of chords and intricate fingering. The mood shifted, and the tone changed. It became melancholy. I didn’t recognize the piece, but it sounded… sloppy and disconnected, which made me think a student with a spare period had come to practice.

I half expected to find August hovered over them, offering suggestions for improvement, so I was taken aback when I discovered the maestro himself was the one faltering the melody and tangling chords. It wasn’t hard to see why. The man was zoned out, gaze locked on an unseen distant landscape, no longer present with the music. His fingers played by rote, attention seemingly divided.

I still didn’t recognize the piece. The style was unique enough that I should have picked up on the composer’s signature, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Before I could announce my presence and ask, August returned to himself, stopped playing with a heavy sigh, and muttered something under his breath that wasn’t in English.

“It’s reassuring to discover you’re as flawed as the rest of us. What were you playing? I don’t know it.” Was the remark pettish and immature? Yes, but the man had upset me during our previous encounter, and despite Koa’s lectures, I wasn’t over it.

August spun to face me, showing no signs of having been startled. “Ah, Mr. Edwidge. Hello. I, um… I call it Silent Dove. One of many pieces I’m working on. It’s meant to illustrate the trials of my daughter’s life, only I can’t quite capture the right tone. She’s an enigma… with me, anyhow.” He shook his head. “It’s a work in progress. I don’t have the sheet music I’ve written with me, so I’m playing from memory and trying to reconstruct it as I go.”

My stomach fell. It wasn’t a lesser-known composer’s piece. The obscurity lay in its origins. Unpublished. Unknown. A creation still in the making. Not sloppy, fumbled, or filled with errors. The flawed playing I’d overheard was the first brushstroke of a work of art—and I’d criticized it.

August stood. “I’ve been waiting for you. I was hoping we could talk before the students arrive.” He buttoned his jacket and touched his necktie, moving it slightly off-center in his attempt to straighten it. Its incongruence didn’t fit.

Everything else about the man was perfect. His mahogany hair, scarcely touched by age, the clean-shaven, razor-sharp edge of his jaw, his costly suit, and polished shoes. Even the comforting aroma of musk and sophistication spoke of elegance and superiority.

“Talk?” I asked, trying to find my footing, my inadequacies roaring to life.

“Yes. We got off to a bad start the other day. I have a tendency to… I shouldn’t have offered suggestions when you didn’t ask to be appraised. It won’t happen again. My daughter… Constance informed me I was showing off by… Well, she didn’t specify. I assume I shouldn’t have demonstrated those strategies for Gaspard de la Nuit . I thought I was being helpful, but… Regardless, I apologize if I overstepped or offended. It was not my intent.”

Again, he touched the tie, and his fingers moved subconsciously to the buttons on his jacket before he caught himself and lowered his arm.

I never bothered with a jacket. Most days, I could barely keep my sleeves rolled down. The confinement of a suit was never to my liking, so again, I walked the line of Timber Creek’s faculty regulations.

Despite the desire to clash swords, arguing with the man wouldn’t prove productive. If we were to work together, I needed to put my bruised ego in a box and trust Koa when he promised the school wasn’t seeking a replacement.

“I’m sure we can put our differences aside. Your… remarks were much appreciated,” I lied. “I’ve been struggling with that piece for a while.”

“It’s quite challenging.”

And yet you played it by heart , I wanted to say but smartly kept the observation to myself.

I glanced about the classroom before returning my attention to August. “I was considering how best to incorporate your… talent into the curriculum.”

“If it helps, I have no desire to teach history or theory. Although it was the primary focus of my education, I have no love for it. I want to conduct.” He moved to the podium and removed the baton. “I want to select a piece from your back room”—he pointed with the stick—“and nurture it to life here.” He turned to the vacant risers and seats, opening his arms wide.

Something about his impassioned tone hit me in the chest. I knew that deep lust, the craving to create, to bring a piece of music to life. But this was my classroom. They were my students. In here, it was my life’s work. Giving it up to someone more skilled hurt.

August turned to me, the look in his eyes begging me not to deny him. The boyish spark of excitement on such a mature man caught me off guard. I could hardly tell him no. I’d seen that same look many times over the years on students, driven by cravings so powerful they believed they might die if their wishes were not fulfilled. It was only for a few months.

“Okay. We can sort that out. Although I’ll not step down as conductor for the upcoming Christmas show. We are too far along. The spring concert, however, is at the beginning of June. If you’re staying that long. I don’t usually focus on fresh material until after the new year. By then, you should have a feel for the students and their skills. Typically, each class performs three pieces. Students are chosen to perform solos or duets based on their midterm performances, which are happening in two weeks. You can sit in and help grade if you’d like. We can select those we want to showcase together.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Since I didn’t want to give up my entire livelihood, I suggested August take responsibility for the senior class and concert band, leaving me the junior levels. “The concert band meets after school a few days a week. You could offer tutelage to those selected for solos. Often, they need an accompanying pianist. We could divide that duty.”

August eagerly agreed, and the rigidity in his shoulders lessened. He seemed more relaxed. With business discussed and pushed aside, the conversation ended, leaving enough white space between us, August shifted his weight, touched his tie, and unbuttoned the top part of his jacket before refastening it.

I checked the time.

What now? The students wouldn’t arrive for twenty-odd minutes. Although I wasn’t keen on comradery, the barrier I’d erected between us needed to be dismantled if we were going to make this work.

“So…” I cleared my throat. “I know nothing about you. I haven’t looked you up.” You aren’t special is what the subtext alleged, but I felt instantly guilty and juvenile, wishing I could take the words back.

“Oh.” August nodded but seemed unsure of what to say. He touched his tie, his buttons. He smoothed a hand down his jacket front—again. A nervous tick perhaps?

“Are you really a maestro?”

“That’s what they tell me. I don’t prefer the title. August or Mr. Castellanos if the informality doesn’t suit you.”

“Isn’t it Dr . Castellanos?”

August nodded. “Technically.”

Another wound.

“Your accent. Where’s it from?”

The man shrugged. “Probably Greece.”

“Probably?”

“I’ve lived everywhere. It may have gotten muddled over the years, but I was born and raised in Evia. My father’s Greek. I’m half Greek. Greek is my first language.”

“Do you speak more than one?”

“Oh, yes.” Chin raised, wearing a smirk, he added, “I speak perfect English.”

I blanched, then laughed, swiping a hand over my face. “My god. That was the stupidest question ever. What I meant was, do you speak others besides Greek and English?”

August’s bashful smile remained, and I hated him more for his natural charm. His handsomeness eclipsed his arrogance and made me forget I’d classified him as an enemy. “I speak a few. My mother’s Italian, so I’m fluent. I also spent four years in Russia with the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra, so I have a good handle on Russian. I was a guest conductor in Ibiza, so my Spanish is passable. I have decent French and Polish. Oh, and I speak German. Poorly. I conducted in Vienna for six months in 2009. It’s where I met Chloé.

“She’s not my wife,” he blurted when I thought he was done speaking. “We’re not married. We’ve never been… It was just a…” He deflated and winced. “Dear god. You didn’t ask, and I’m oversharing. How embarrassing. Forgive me.”

I smothered a smile. It was the first time I’d seen August flustered, and it looked good on him. It took the starch out of his personality and turned him into a real person—one with imperfections.

“That’s a lot of languages. Are there any you don’t know on a basic level?”

“Yes.” His brows met in the middle, and he frowned at the floor, scuffing the toe of a shoe against a stain in the industrial carpeting. “American Sign Language. Funny, I have an eidetic memory. I can figure out a piece of music on a handful of listens, no sheet music required, but ask me to talk with my hands, and I can’t do it.” He shook his head and quietly mused. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

The admission seemed to unbalance him, and I couldn’t help wondering if we’d touched on a sore subject. His daughter was nonverbal—by choice, I was led to believe—but I had a gut feeling the disturbed tone had to do with her. Instead of wading in troubled waters, I changed courses.

“Is the piano your main instrument?” I motioned to the Steinway. “You said you played with the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra?”

“I did, and no. I’m a flutist first, pianist second, composer third, and conductor fourth if we’re numbering them. Trained at Juilliard, although I did a year at the Athens Conservatory before transferring. I have a DMA with a concentration in both theory and composition. I hold—held—first chair with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra before… coming here.”

Juilliard trained. Chicago Symphony Orchestra. I let the acidity of his statement burn my insides. The man had lived my life, or rather, the life I’d wanted and dreamed about since boyhood. Jealous heat filled my belly, and I must have looked sufficiently jaded.

August winced. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

The warning bell rang, marking the end of first period. I glanced at the clock.

“How about you spend the day observing. Get a feel for classroom life. I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to. If you have any questions…” I trailed off. What could I possibly have to offer a man like August? This whole situation was a joke.

I was barely a shadow in his bright ray of sunshine.

***

August confiscated my desk and spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon observing the routine as I’d suggested. After a preliminary introduction to each class, where I called him Maestro Castellanos out of spite, he didn’t interrupt or exchange words with the students. He didn’t flaunt his credentials or correct my methods.

Yet I felt judged.

I felt inferior.

I felt like a child with a bully, except the bully was perfectly respectable and doing no harm. The problem, I recognized, was fully mine.

Regardless, I didn’t invite August for lunch or stick around to ensure he felt welcome at Timber Creek. In my indignance, I abandoned him and ate in my car with the heat running. What if a colleague asked about my day? I would be forced to lie and say all was fine.

Technically, all was fine. The only thing not fine was me.

Guilt festered over the hour break, and I begrudgingly brought an extra coffee when I returned to the classroom, unsure if my guest indulged in caffeinated beverages but needing a peace offering, nonetheless.

August was at the piano again.

He stopped when I moved into his line of sight and smiled shyly when I extended an apology in the form of a ceramic mug wafting steam and a bold coffee essence. “Coffee,” I announced. “The staffroom only has milk, no cream. If you need sugar, I keep those individual packets in the top drawer of my desk. If you don’t drink coffee…”

“I do. Thank you.” He stared at it momentarily and sat it beside him on the bench without taking a sip. “Which class is Constance in?”

“Last period.”

He absently nodded, attention drifting to the ivories. “I might take that time to rummage through the available pieces in the back room.”

“Whatever you want.”