Chick with a cello. I see her coming from across the street. She's no kid, maybe mid-twenties? The afternoon heat has got to be over a hundred degrees but she doesn't seem bothered by it as she comes up to the storefront. She's not particularly graceful as she enters, throwing the door open wide, bumping it with her case and making the tarnished brass bells ring. She's not much to look at, either. Kinda plain. She seems shy and mousy. There's two teenagers strumming on some guitars in the corner. Loud chunky noise belch from the amplifiers that they have already been asked to turn down. Twice. They pause a moment as she walks in and their playing gets noticeably louder. So this is my three-o-clock. We exchange pleasantries - her name is Hillary - and I lead her to the back of the store, to the soundproof practice room. I hear Mark scolding the guitar punks about their volume - again. The heavy wood door closes and except for the air conditioning vent, everything is quiet.
There isn't much room in here, so I back up against the corner, shielding my cello with my body to guard against any wide swings from that old battered case of hers. Jesus Christ, it looks like a survivor of the Hindenburg. The leather is brown and cracked, the seams and bald patches revealing scarred, ancient plywood underneath. She plops herself down in the chair and leans forward to unlatch the sarcophagus, throwing the lid open with a squeak of old brass hinges. Wow, I love that smell: wood and old varnish underneath the musky pine scent of bow rosin. It's a beautiful instrument, and is very old looking. The dark amber finish is checked and worn in places, revealing the muted satin patina of old maple and spruce. I can't wait to hear it. In a moment she's ready, legs straddling her cello, left hand resting across the strings, right arm resting at the upper curve of the body, bow resting at the bridge. She doesn't seem so plain anymore. She seems poised and confident, almost as if she carried her personality over in that ugly old case, like a genie pent up in some over-sized bottle. Whatever it is, the transformation is noticeable. I ask her to play me something so that I can judge her skill and decide where to begin teaching her.
A little smile comes to the corner of her lips. Her eyes close partially, reminding me of a cat enjoying an afternoon nap. Her head leans forward, spilling dark brown curls over her shoulder as her bow dips down across the strings. Deep, resonant bass rattles the music stand in the corner of the practice room as she starts low and ascends in a mournful passage, her fingers caressing their way up the neck, coaxing strong, sorrowful tears out of her cello. Such power. I have never heard a cellist push that much air. Did I say she was plain looking? She's striking. I find it almost sensual the way she holds the instrument close to her body, leaning on it like a familiar old lover. The mood changes as the music becomes playful, her bow skipping across the strings, her fingers dancing. Her lips widen, revealing a pretty smile. Her eyebrows raise at the accents, her face mirroring the joy of her melody. The piece quickens, becoming more complex. Her bow saws back and forth while her left hand hammers the smooth metal strings to the ebony fingerboard with fluid precision, keeping perfect tempo. Her intonation is exact. She furrows her brow and bites her lower lip, curly locks falling in her face as she loses herself in concentration. I realize that I'm holding my breath and my heart is beating a quick staccato in my chest.
She finishes. The last note ends as her bow comes to rest. The left hand wiggles out the last bit of vibrato as the strings fall quiet under her fingers. Her chest is heaving as she bites her lip and looks up at me, unsure, the self-confidence draining from her. I try and still my own beating heart. The air conditioning hisses above us as reality returns, like waking from a dream. She seems so vulnerable, and I feel slightly uncomfortable under her gaze. I ask her about the piece she played and she looks down at her shoes and answers that it's just something she's been tinkering with for a while. Tinkering! My best student's couldn't even hope to play it with her skill! She seems so unsure of herself now, like a completely different person than the musician who took my breath away a few minutes ago. I need to see her again. I tell her that I will teach her at a more advanced level once a week - I even quote her a reduced price. I am embarrased by the wave of relief that washes over me as she timidly accepts. She quickly puts away her cello and I stand up and hold the door for her as she bumps and scrapes her way down the hallway. I walk her to the front of the music store and bid her farewell. Until next week. She makes an awkward, hasty retreat out into the hot afternoon sun. I watch her go down the street and I'm surprised by how beautiful she is.
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