the fork too hard and it breaks. A piece flies across the table and lands on my father’s laptop. He looks at me. I look at him. We’re not fighting at this particular moment, and when we’re not fighting, we don’t have much to say to each other.
“So … Paris, Belgium, and Germany, huh? G’s doing three sets of tests?” I say.
“Yes. It’s complicated,” Dad replies.
“I can handle complicated. I’m a genius, remember?”
He ignores that. “G wants to make sure no one can question the results of the tests. Either the science behind them or the agenda.”
“Agenda?” I say. “Why would there be—”
The intercom buzzer goes off, interrupting me.
“That’s my cab,” Dad says, shrugging into his coat.
“Hey, Dad, wait a second.…”
“What is it, Andi? I have to go,” he says.
“If I do my outline, can I go home?”
“You are going home. We have return flights booked for the twenty-third.”
“I mean earlier. If I get it done by the weekend, can I fly home on Sunday?”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not? You said I had to get an outline done, so I’ll get it done. And when I get home, I’ll behave myself. I swear. I’ll call you every day. You can have Rupert Goode check up on me. Well, maybe not Rupert. How about Mrs. Gupta?”
“You’ve thought this all out,” he says, picking up his briefcase.
“Yeah, I have.”
He looks at me long and hard, and I look back at him long and hard and I’m surprised to see that there’s more gray in his hair, and there are more lines around his eyes, than I remember.
“I thought …” he starts to say, then shakes his head. “I don’t know what I thought. You used to like Paris so much.”
I don’t say anything. I still like Paris. Paris is not the problem and we both know it. But I’m not going to point that out. For once I’m going to keep my mouth shut. Because I desperately want him to say yes.
“All right. But there are conditions. Number one—the outline has to be good. Actually, it has to be excellent in order to get you out of the hole you’ve dug. I want to see A material, not C. Are you still set on doing the musical DNA idea? In PowerPoint?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then I want to see a good, solid draft of the introduction as well as the outline. So I can see how it’s all going to play out. Plus, I want the outline to show a general bibliography, primary sources, and a list of the visuals you intend to use.”
Yeesh. An intro as well as an outline. By Sunday.
“Do we have a deal?” he says.
“We do,” I say. And I mean it. I mean it so much that I’ve got the Vinaccia back in its case and one of G’s books on Malherbeau open on the table before Dad has his coat buttoned.
He pauses on his way out the door. “Well, I’m glad to see that something can motivate you,” he says. “Even if it’s only the thought of getting away from me.”
I try to think of something to say. Something nice, but not so wildly untrue that I’ll embarrass the both of us by saying it.
But it’s too late. The door slams. The sound echoes through the room.
He’s gone. Once again.
17
… so we see that 1795 was indeed a turning point for Malherbeau, the year he broke from the musical conventions of his time and forged a unique harmonic style. How? Why 1795? As yet, no one has answered these questions. Our knowledge of Malherbeau’s early life, his parentage, the town of his birth, his early musical education, is nonexistent. We know only that he arrived in Paris in the autumn of 1794 and, once there, began to earn his living by composing for the theater.
In the following chapter, we shall look at an early work—the Concerto in A Minor, also known as the Fireworks Concerto. Why Malherbeau referred to the piece by this name, like much else about the composer, remains unknown. Unlike, for example, Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks , commissioned by Britain’s George II to commemorate the
“So … Paris, Belgium, and Germany, huh? G’s doing three sets of tests?” I say.
“Yes. It’s complicated,” Dad replies.
“I can handle complicated. I’m a genius, remember?”
He ignores that. “G wants to make sure no one can question the results of the tests. Either the science behind them or the agenda.”
“Agenda?” I say. “Why would there be—”
The intercom buzzer goes off, interrupting me.
“That’s my cab,” Dad says, shrugging into his coat.
“Hey, Dad, wait a second.…”
“What is it, Andi? I have to go,” he says.
“If I do my outline, can I go home?”
“You are going home. We have return flights booked for the twenty-third.”
“I mean earlier. If I get it done by the weekend, can I fly home on Sunday?”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not? You said I had to get an outline done, so I’ll get it done. And when I get home, I’ll behave myself. I swear. I’ll call you every day. You can have Rupert Goode check up on me. Well, maybe not Rupert. How about Mrs. Gupta?”
“You’ve thought this all out,” he says, picking up his briefcase.
“Yeah, I have.”
He looks at me long and hard, and I look back at him long and hard and I’m surprised to see that there’s more gray in his hair, and there are more lines around his eyes, than I remember.
“I thought …” he starts to say, then shakes his head. “I don’t know what I thought. You used to like Paris so much.”
I don’t say anything. I still like Paris. Paris is not the problem and we both know it. But I’m not going to point that out. For once I’m going to keep my mouth shut. Because I desperately want him to say yes.
“All right. But there are conditions. Number one—the outline has to be good. Actually, it has to be excellent in order to get you out of the hole you’ve dug. I want to see A material, not C. Are you still set on doing the musical DNA idea? In PowerPoint?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then I want to see a good, solid draft of the introduction as well as the outline. So I can see how it’s all going to play out. Plus, I want the outline to show a general bibliography, primary sources, and a list of the visuals you intend to use.”
Yeesh. An intro as well as an outline. By Sunday.
“Do we have a deal?” he says.
“We do,” I say. And I mean it. I mean it so much that I’ve got the Vinaccia back in its case and one of G’s books on Malherbeau open on the table before Dad has his coat buttoned.
He pauses on his way out the door. “Well, I’m glad to see that something can motivate you,” he says. “Even if it’s only the thought of getting away from me.”
I try to think of something to say. Something nice, but not so wildly untrue that I’ll embarrass the both of us by saying it.
But it’s too late. The door slams. The sound echoes through the room.
He’s gone. Once again.
17
… so we see that 1795 was indeed a turning point for Malherbeau, the year he broke from the musical conventions of his time and forged a unique harmonic style. How? Why 1795? As yet, no one has answered these questions. Our knowledge of Malherbeau’s early life, his parentage, the town of his birth, his early musical education, is nonexistent. We know only that he arrived in Paris in the autumn of 1794 and, once there, began to earn his living by composing for the theater.
In the following chapter, we shall look at an early work—the Concerto in A Minor, also known as the Fireworks Concerto. Why Malherbeau referred to the piece by this name, like much else about the composer, remains unknown. Unlike, for example, Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks , commissioned by Britain’s George II to commemorate the
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