The Facts and Fictions of Minna Pratt by Patricia MacLachlan

mother types they are quiet, as if they wait for words to be strung together into a story. Once, when Minna looks in, her mother is reading out loud. Dozens of eyes watch her.
    Minna practices. Though she knows the music well there are times when Mozart surprises her, moments when he creeps up with a phrase like a whispered secret that she has never before heard. Aha, Wolfgang, you rascal .
    â€œHow are you?” asks Lucas on the phone.
    â€œNo vibrato,” says Minna.
    â€œWhat about the frogs?”
    â€œThey don’t have vibratos either,” says Minna.
    Two days .
    Silently they file into the concert hall for rehearsal, following Porch and Mrs. Willoughby-Fiske down the main aisle, through the stage door, and into the cavern behind.
    â€œHere is the waiting room,” announces Mrs. Willoughby-Fiske in a ponderous tone. Serious business, this. “One hour,” she tells them, raising one finger in the air as if the word “one” is not sufficient.
    They open their cases. Lucas takes out his rosin and tightens his bow. Imelda tunes nervously. Minna wipes her cello with a cloth. Orson fingers his strings.
    â€œYou’re a bit flat,” says Porch to Imelda. “Up a little.”
    Then they walk onstage.
    The stage is lighted, but there is a vast blackness where there will be faces in two days. The chairs and music stands are arranged in a semicircle.
    â€œI think it is time to meet each other again,” says Porch with a smile. “Though I’ll admit,” he adds, “that you played great Mozart in your corners.”
    They sit, looking at each other nervously, as if together for the first time. Minna places her music on the stand. She searches for a crack in the floor for her end pin.
    â€œNow.” Porch stands in front of them. “I will not be here yelling at you, or stepping on your foot.” He looks sideways at Orson. “Imelda, you will begin them.”
    Imelda looks up with a start.
    â€œAnd remember,” warns Porch, “play no matter what. Someone may cough, or a child may cry. A string may break. Your music may fall off the stand. Play on!”
    Silence.
    Porch grins suddenly. Then he jumps off the stage, disappearing into the seats.
    Minna looks out into the darkness. She sees only tiny lights above the exit doors. She looks up into the balcony and decides to make her peace with Mozart.
    Are you there, Wolfgang? I have come to know you very well, better than you know me. If you knew me, after all, you would have sent me a vibrato. But, no matter, as my mother Mrs. Pratt says. Your music doesn’t really need a vibrato .
    Minna
    P.S. If you do send one, make it during the andante .
    Imelda lifts her bow and looks at them.
    â€œThis is not cozy,” she says suddenly. “I now know why Paganini could only compose music with a blanket over his head.”
    There is silence, then laughter.
    â€œPlay,” says Imelda softly.
    It is startling to hear the music in this space. The sound does not bounce about as it does in the rehearsal room. It does not escape into the carpet and curtains of Minna’s room as it does when she practices at home. Here it seems to lift and then disappear, the notes gone, one after another, into the dark.
    An hour passes quickly. They play through once with Porch’s voice calling from the dark, even though he has said he won’t.
    â€œLegato, there, Minna . . . Crescendo, remember! . . . Pianissimo for the last three bars of the coda, Orson. You’re too loud.”
    Then they play it through alone. When they are finished Porch’s face appears below them over the edge of the stage.
    â€œSplendid. You could play the presto with your eyes closed, I bet.”
    They smile at each other and do it for Porch then, as a final gift, their eyes clamped shut, Minna grinning.
    Porch teaches them how to stand and bow from the waist together. He conducts them like a