Window to the Soul

There,
in the breadth of an instant,
lay the world between us.

Would
that the world between us,
in the breadth of an instant
disintregrate,

and in the breadth of that instant
be...
without boundaries...

for there are no words
for what passes between our eyes.

by KT

************

Nikita Wirth sat nervously in the waiting room at Orchestra Hall, tapping her fingers on her music books, her long legs crossed in a casual pose to cover her apprehension. Everything she'd learned in her entire life would be called upon today at the audition. "Will I be The One?" she wondered anxiously.

She had decided to audition for the position of Principal pianist of the Chicago Symphony, but had heard that the conductor Paul Wolfe was a most difficult man to work with. He had a reputation for being unflinchingly demanding, and was known for his unpredictable temperament. His rehearsals were purported to be the most brutal on the planet, and performances even more so. Yet under his uncompromising direction the orchestra played with exceptional expression, nuance, and a precision second to none.

This was the orchestra of her dreams.

For her audition piece Nikita had settled on the "Piano Concerto in a minor" by Edvard Grieg, known for it's difficult scale passages and arpeggios. She loved the lyrical romantic quality of it, and felt confident in her knowledge of the work. Even so, her nerves were completely jangled. "This is what I've been working toward all these years" she thought, "so why am I feeling so damned jittery?"

Growing up in the seedy part of Sydney, Australia had been no picnic, and Nikita had learned street skills at a tender age. They had never had any money. Her father had abandoned his family before Nikita could remember. She had never even seen a picture of him. Her mother drank constantly after he left and their lives went quickly downhill. Roberta did whatever she had to do to keep them housed and fed.

Nikita's eyes lost their focus as she was momentarily overwhelmed by the memory of strange men appearing from her mother's room. Her body shuddered unconsciously. One in particular had pressed his questionable favors on her at knifepoint. Roberta had been passed out drunk and Nikita's muffled screams fell on deaf ears.

She was only nine. She hadn't told her Mom - the man had threatened to kill Roberta if she did. It was never reported to the police. Such crimes were all too common in their part of the city.

Her childhood died that day. The scars ran deep.

Nikita defended herself at school when the kids teased her unmercifully about being a "bastard". She would come home beat up and crying, and her mother guessed immediately what the problem was. Nikita began to avoid school, getting into even more trouble. Roberta's heart had broken at the abuse her daughter had to take on account of her renegade sire. She vowed to make it up to her.

They emigrated to the United States when Nikita was ten and began a new life for themselves in Chicago. School was at least easier for Nikita since no one knew of their previous life. She simply said that her father had died, if the subject came up.

Roberta enrolled in a 12-step Program to conquer her drinking problem. She took a job as a waitress in a little Italian restaurant, and managed to support them without the help of her previous line of work. It was rough going, but they managed.

That was when Nikita's incredible musical talent came to light. It happened quite by accident when she was called upon to participate in a school play. The young girl was a quick study and ended up memorizing not only her part, but everyone else's part as well. She could pick out the melodies of all the songs on the piano by ear, even the most complicated.

So Roberta found Alice Mason, a piano teacher in their neighborhood. She picked up a used upright from the want ads. Nikita was able to come and go from her lessons on her own, and did some odd jobs to earn enough to help pay for the lessons. It was a financial struggle, but Roberta was rewarded by the joy she saw in her daughter's eyes every time she returned home from her teacher's studio.

Nikita's soul was subtley being reborn through music. She was given light in what had been up until now, a dark world.

Miss Mason had recognized Nikita's monster abilities immediately and had laid the foundation of a solid musical background, steeped in the classics and with unrelenting emphasis on technique. "That Alice," she thought fondly, recalling all the times her teacher had tried to be angry with her for not practicing enough. If only she had lived to see this day... her former pupil auditioning for THE symphony!

Her high school music teacher Franz Pfau had been a big step up. Franz was born and bred in Vienna, and a formidable player in his own right. He'd taught her how to use all the wonderful tools Alice had given her, how to put it all together to create a musical illusion by using her skills to full capacity.

Or so she had thought until she got to conservatory. She had entered Oberlin College of Music and received some scholarship assistance for her incredible musical talents. There she was assaulted by a variety of music instructors with as many different ways to play as there were instructors!

She found herself becoming more and more confused and daunted by their conflicting methods and advice, and was just about to throw in the towel when she met her dearest friend Seymour Birkoff. Seymour, or "Birkoff" as he preferred to be called, was an exchange student who had had a most stringent musical education at Moscow University.

He was considered by many in the international music community to be true genius in his ability to analyze complicated musical works, break them down into their true essence, and then reconstruct them in such a way as to show off their most compelling qualities. It was Birkoff who had given her courage in the face of adversity.

"Trust yourself, Nikita," he would say. "You have what it takes. Just believe that your instincts will carry you through when too many people are trying to tell you what THEY think you should do." It was his confidence in her that made Nikita fierce in her resolve to make her music reflect her own personal ideas.

Nikita's professors had stressed the importance of focusing on her studies, and told her that if she wanted a career as a virtuoso soloist, she would have to forego all the usual activities that a woman could look forward to - romance, marriage, a home, children - there would be no time or place for these things in her life. There would be only the music, and practice, and complete devotion to the art of performance. It would take unfaltering dedication if she was to succeed, to accomplish her dreams of becoming a great concert artist.

So Nikita had settled into a life of discipline. No problem there. She dated a little in college, but had no desire to form any permanent relationships. Her exquisite looks attracted men to her, but they were always rejected when it came down to sexual encounters. Once was usually enough for Nikita. The ghost of her rape would invariably shut her down. She soon gained a reputation among the school's male population as untouchable. No one could get past "once".

Birkoff had graduated a year later than she, and had promised to look her up when he finished school. In fact, Nikita wondered why she hadn't heard from him yet. He wanted to move to Chicago and teach Composition Analysis at the Chicago Conservatory. Nikita did not doubt that someday he would be a great conductor in his own right. She smiled to herself at the thought of Birkoff commanding an entire orchestra and bending them to his will. He could do it too. He had a deep quiet strength lying just below the surface of his shy exterior.

Her musings were interrupted as the door to the inner office opened and she found herself being boldly sized up by a slender woman with dark hair and gypsy eyes, dressed in a most conservative brown suede suit that perfectly matched her coloring. The woman's eyes bored deeply into hers. It was all Nikita could do to keep from squirming beneath her unrelenting gaze.

"Hello... I'm Madeleine Duprés, the Orchestra Manager," she spoke in buttery tones, "and you must be Nikita Wirth. Please come in, we've been expecting you." Her face was pleasant enough, but Nikita sensed a tough interior behind the neutral expression. Madeleine's small smile did not extend to her eyes... they were cold and calculating. Nikita felt a slight shiver go down her back as she rose and followed Madeleine into the audition room.

************

The audition room was not what Nikita had expected. The unadorned walls were covered with white velour and the floor was carpeted with an off-white indoor-outdoor type carpeting. The result was complete quiet, an almost eerie silence, with no reflective surfaces for sound to bounce off of. The soft indirect lighting came from some invisible fixtures around the ceiling's perimeter, creating a subdued atmosphere in the round-shaped room.

In the center stood a nine-foot German Steinway concert grand with it's lid open, a silent sentinel awaiting the touch of human hands to inspire it to life. A few plush white chairs and a small mahogany table completed the furnishings. There was another door on the opposite side of the room.

"Please sit down Nikita." Madeleine directed her to one of the white chairs while she sat next to the little table. She picked up a black folder resting on the table and proceeded to leaf through it's contents, leaving Nikita to her own counsel for a few moments. "I see you graduated first in your class at Oberlin. That's quite an accomplishment for a girl from your background." Madeleine's voice carried a condescending tone, and Nikita felt the sting of her words.

"Yes, well, it's true, I do come from a very poor family... but I was lucky to have a Mom who believed in me. She gave up everything to give me lessons and put me through school," Nikita countered defensively. "And the scholarship was no small assist either."

"We know about your mother's sacrifices. We will discuss that at a later time," Madeleine continued. Nikita's back stiffened. Just how much did they know about her mother? Or her, for that matter? "Right now we'll proceed with the audition."

Madeleine walked over to the opposite door and pressed a button on a small intercom on the wall next to the door. "Karen, will you please let Mr. Wolfe know that we're ready for him?" Karen's voice came back, "Yes, Madame Duprés."

Nikita's heart stopped in her chest as her brain registered what would happen next.

"I'm auditioning for the CONDUCTOR?" she heard herself stupidly stating the obvious.

"Who else?" Madeleine looked at her as if she were from another planet. "All Principal chair auditions are directed by Mr. Wolfe personally."

Nikita could feel her face flushing. She winced at her ignorance of professional procedures, but she held her head high, fighting to keep her self-confidence intact. "Where's Birkoff when I really need him?" her brain was protesting silently. She clamped down on her over-reaction. "After all" she reasoned, "this is my first major audition." She set her face into a rather grim half-smile and steeled herself to meet Mr. Paul Wolfe.

*************

The other door opened slowly and Paul Wolfe stepped through. Nikita didn't know what to expect, but was wholly unprepared for the man. His presence filled the room and commanded her complete attention. His shock of prematurely white hair belied his middle age, and his pale blue eyes met hers in a penetrating stare. He was impeccably dressed in a dark gray silk suit, matching silk shirt , and a black silk tie. His complexion reflected the fact that he rarely had opportunity to spend a day outdoors, and his expression was carefully composed.

He fairly exuded power.

She held his gaze with her own azure eyes, her demeanor defiant. She stood up to her full height and proffered her hand in greeting. "Nikita Wirth, sir." She boldly introduced herself, as Madeleine made no move to do so. Paul was somewhat amused at her forwardness, and extended his hand to her. "Paul Wolfe. Nice to meet you, Miss Wirth." He maintained a professional air of formality.

His voice was softly controlled and it was clear that he was accustomed to directing the conversation. He was surprised to find himself almost eye to eye with her. He took in her stunning blonde looks and lithe body, noting the strength hidden in her slight form. "She certainly has the physical stamina and attractiveness necessary for the position," he noted to himself. With that, he settled into one of the plush chairs next to Madeleine.

"Well, Miss Wirth, I understand you've chosen the Grieg Piano Concerto for your audition piece. That particular work has been played almost to exhaustion, but still it offers a more than fair appraisal of the player's technical and interpretational skills. Please take your seat at the piano and proceed at your leisure... whenever you feel ready."

It was clear that he wanted her to begin, but was politely giving her a bit of breathing room. That was a most generous offer on his part and Nikita knew it. She exhaled quietly in relief as she adjusted the bench to her preferred height.

She sat down, settled her hands on the keys, took a deep breath, then closed her eyes in a moment of meditation. Her nervousness evaporated the moment she played the first note, and Nikita proceeded to stun the conductor with her enraptured rendering of the concerto.

********

If there was anything Paul Wolfe knew how to do, it was to keep his reactions completely unreadable. He glanced at Madeleine and gave her an imperceptible nod, as he listened with total concentration to Nikita's performance. This girl was the real deal, and he knew that he couldn't let her play with any other orchestra. He had to have her exclusively, and had to make her believe that SHE was the lucky one. No problem. He had been manipulating musicians all his life. This naïve child would be easy to snare. Oh he would give her a fair offer, for one who was just starting out. Surely she realized the prestige she would command as Principal pianist of a major world-class orchestra. Gradually, if she worked out, he would reward her accordingly.

As her performance drew to it's conclusion, Nikita's hands paused over the keyboard, letting the final notes of the concerto ring until they slowly died away. She released the pedal gently and placed her hands in her lap, letting her breathing return to normal and her muscles relax. She felt physically and emotionally drained, but quite satisfied. Playing like this never failed to render her completely at peace. The music thrilled her every time as if it were the first time.

There was a moment of silence.

"A most unusual interpretation of the concerto, Miss Wirth, perhaps encouraged by one of your professors?" Paul's comment was carefully subdued so as not to give away his approval of her performance. He needed to have her in his grasp before he would allow her knowledge of his decision. He used his power oh so deliberately, delicately, knowing that he would get exactly what he wanted.

"Actually it's... my own," Nikita said, a bit more reserved than before. "Please, call me Nikita." She sensed that she couldn't push this man and had decided to back down a bit from her former bravado. She sat expectant.

Paul stood up abruptly and said "Yes, well, thank you ... Nikita... that will be all for now. You understand we will need to evaluate your audition. We'll contact you within the week about the results. Madeleine...?" he looked over at her and opened the far door for them to exit together. She rose and looked coolly into Nikita's eyes, nodding her head slightly.

Then they were gone, leaving Nikita alone to ponder this strange couple and to survive the agony of not knowing the outcome of the audition. How would she be able to sleep for the next week?

"No problem..." she muttered... I'll just show myself out, thanks..." She turned and left by the other door.

*************

Nikita stepped out into the street, feeling the post-audition crash of her emotions. A cold wind blew off Lake Michigan and she gathered her coat around her. Her hotel room seemed a bleak prospect at the moment. She would have to find a place to live, now that she was done with school. Her Mom had wanted her to stay with her, but she had declined. Her life would be her own from now on.

Nikita recalled seeing a little French café just around the corner from the Hall. She headed in that direction, feeling the need to recharge herself.

Playing the piano with that much nervous energy certainly had it's downside. The audition had taken more out of her than she had anticipated, and she was fraught with misgivings. The blank faces of Paul and Madeleine had been extremely disconcerting. She began to doubt herself and agonized over the possible outcomes of the session. Maybe she had set her sights too high.

Nikita gritted her teeth. "Get a grip on yourself, girl," she chided in her head. "You need to focus and calm down. It's over now, there's no controlling what will happen next. You did your best."

Nikita turned off Michigan Avenue onto Adams and found the little bistro. "Café de Marseilles" proclaimed the little wooden hand-painted sign that shifted slightly in the breeze. She liked the cozy look of it, with it's emerald green awnings and quaint little lace curtains. She pulled on the door and stepped inside.

The warmth within drew her into its comforting ambience, and a little bell tinkled as the door gently swooshed shut behind her. Prints of classical works of art greeted her from the walls. The wonderful aromas of coffee and pastry assailed her nose, and she began to feel her spirits rise.

"I'm sorry, we're just about to close," a gently accented husky male voice informed her from behind the counter. His back was turned toward her, and she could see broad muscular shoulders hunched forward as he counted his register. His auburn hair glinted slightly as the last of the afternoon sun sneaked in the window and lit him from behind.

"Oh... umm... OK..." Nikita returned, her disappointment undisguised in her voice. "I guess I'll... come back another time." She pushed on the door to leave. At the silky sound of her voice, the waiter turned around to see who owned the smoky Australian accent that had fallen so unexpectedly on his ears. All he could see was a cloud of blonde going out the door, tall blonde, almost as tall as he.

He quickly moved to stop her, but she had disappeared into the street as rapidly as she had come. He couldn't help wondering whose face lay on the other side of that glorious mane. He could just catch the faint scent of lavender left in her wake. Ah... lavender...

His eyes lost their focus briefly as images of Provence, where he had spend his summers with his grandmère, danced in his brain... those vast fields of lavender and herbs lit by the sun... such happy times... He sighed.

Oh well. Lots of good-looking women came and went from the café. He loved the job, but sometimes he thought that Walter had hired him just to intrigue the ladies. Walter was quite the appreciator of the female of the species, and had told him that nothing helped business more than a handsome waiter with a genuine French accent.

"Michael," he would say, "you're my ace in the hole. You're like money in the bank." Walter sometimes waxed a little too poetic.

Yet in spite of his breath-stealing good looks (the female clientele often whispered about what color his eyes really were), Michael was indifferent to their attentions. Walter had hoped that someday he would understand the source of this indifference, but he had never broached that subject. Always a shadow would pass over Michael's eyes when Walter would suggest that he seek some female companionship. Lord knew, he wasn't lacking for admirers.

Michael had completed his cello studies at the Paris Conservatory and was graduated cum laude. He was proud of his musical accomplishments, and his one regret was that his parents hadn't lived to see the day. His sister Michelle had attended the graduation, however, with her husband and young son. They had applauded loudly as he received his paper, and afterward they'd exchanged warm hugs and double kisses.

Michelle was devastated when Michael told her of his decision to seek a career in the United States. She knew that the real reason he was leaving was to escape his memories... his wife Simone had been killed in a bus accident during their last year of conservatory. She was a gifted pianist, and she and Michael had had a deep connection, both spiritually and physically. When they performed together, they were magic.

His heart broke, and he never quite recovered. He became withdrawn and silent, a man of few smiles. He continued to play of course, but a spark had gone out for him. Michelle was worried for awhile that he might try to commit suicide, and watched over him carefully. At her insistence, he accepted social invitations, but seeing other people's happiness only made him miss Simone even more.

About a year after Simone's death, Michael had a brief affair with a beautiful exotic dancer, Elena Vachek. Elena had become pregnant and wanted Michael to marry her, but his heart still belonged to Simone. He declined marriage and Elena was crushed. She went through with the pregnancy anyway, and had a son, Adam.

Michael's family estate had helped pay for Elena's medical expenses, and eventually he offered to marry her so that he could be a real father to his son. Elena accepted his offer, but soon after regretted her decision.

Michael lavished devotion on his son, and though he loved Elena as Adam's mother, he knew that he could never really be 'in love' with her. He was unhappy, and Elena knew it. His music was suffering as well. They finally divorced when Adam was five. Elena rejected Michael's offer of support and disallowed visitation rights; she was hurt and angry.

Adam never really understood why his father left. It was the final heartbreak for Michael. He was glad he didn't have to deceive Elena further, but he never imagined how deeply he would miss Adam. It was agonizingly painful, even more so than Simone's tragic end.

"I need to move on, Michelle," he had confided sadly. The depth of his grief had torn into Michelle's tender heart, and she let him go. He left her his share of the estate, not knowing if he would return. "Keep it safe for Adam," he had instructed her.

Michelle therefore had been both thrilled and disappointed when she'd received Michael's letter informing her that he had been accepted into the Chicago Symphony. He was happy, he said, and would stay as long as they would have him. He was receiving a salary which would increase as he gained seniority. She knew they would all miss him deeply, especially young Michel, named for his uncle.

Michael then threw himself into his music with a single-mindedness that helped bury his pain. It also won him great admiration and respect from the other symphony players. That was nearly four years ago. Time had truly flown.

After being accepted into the symphony, Michael found that he couldn't live on his orchestra salary alone. He'd answered the ad in the Tribune for the "assistant manager" of the Café de Marseilles, only to discover that it was just a waiter's job after all. And he met Walter. Walter soon filled part of the void left in Michael's heart when he'd left his family back in France.

Michael recalled their first meeting as he busied himself with restocking the coffee mugs, the corners of his mouth turning up a bit. "Michel Samuelle?" Walter had stuttered over the pronunciation. "I think I'll call you Michael."

"But why did you name your shop 'Café de Marseilles' if you don't speak French?" Michael had teased him. "Because it's not bloody 'Starbucks'!" Walter had retorted. There was nothing wimpy about Walter.

They became friends, and Walter quickly learned that he could leave the shop to Michael's competent tending. It wasn't long before Michael truly was the assistant manager. Walter showed his appreciation by paying him a substantial salary. He knew musicians struggled to make a decent living in spite of the union pay scale. He never dreamed that Michael would stay so long. They needed each other; it was a comfortable arrangement for them both.

Michael had decided that this year he would seek appointment as the cello section's Principal chair. He felt that he was never more ready, that his musicianship had reached its most refined peak yet. He had prepared the "Bach Suites for solo cello" as his audition piece. Now if he could just impress Paul Wolfe enough to gain the position... they had fiery chemistry, but he felt that the crusty conductor had a large measure of trust and respect for him.

Only a year after Michael had joined the symphony, Wolfe had appointed him mentor to new symphony members, a very great compliment, although some of the players had viewed it as favoritism. Michael was immune to their petty politics. He took his mentoring very seriously.

Michael would move up to take his rightful place as Principal. After all, what good was all this sacrifice if he ended up stuck as just another section player? He'd given up home and family. Every note he played had been a dedication to Simone's death and to his separation from his son. He had to make it all worthwhile. Not to mention another raise in salary. He could at last begin to live very comfortably.

Besides, he could play rings around Zalman any day. He picked up the phone and made the appointment for the audition, then grabbed his black leather motorcycle jacket and helmet and locked up for the evening.

***********

Nikita decided to look for an apartment. Even if she didn't pass the audition, she still needed a place to live. Her Mom was so depressed these days. Nikita couldn't put her finger on it, but something was eating away at Roberta with a vengeance. She refused to discuss it and they were at an impasse. Nikita decided to give her some space, and maybe she would come forward on her own. Their phone conversation that morning had been strained.

"Mom, I told you before, I don't want to burden you with any extra work or expenses." Nikita had wormed her way out of Roberta's request that she come and stay with her.

"But Honey, you can have your old room back. I've kept all your things just the way you left them. You do... you do want them, don't you?"

"But Mom, that was then and this is now. It's OK for you to use the room for anything else you want to. Just put my things in some boxes and store them. I'll get over and sort them out after I get settled in my own digs." Nikita tried an offhand tone of voice. Roberta seemed on the verge of tears and Nikita didn't want to push her over the edge.

"When are you coming to see me?" she queried. "I've missed you so much."

How could Nikita explain? She needed this time alone to consider what course her life might take next. If she was accepted into the orchestra, then her path was clear. If not, then some deep thinking was in order. She knew that there were other less prestigious orchestras she could audition for and probably qualify. But she was never very good at compromise when there was something she really wanted. Could she teach? She loved kids but didn't know if she had the patience for them... one on one maybe.

"Oh Mom, I've missed you too, but I really need to spend some time alone right now. Please say you understand."

"Understand?!" Roberta lost it, and her voice cranked up a notch. "I understand that you're pushing me away... after all I've gone through for you! It's real nerve is what it is." She was practically shouting. Their connection was severed in an angry impulse.

Nikita slowly hung up. She could never see the explosion coming, could never stop it before it was out of control. A sad sigh escaped her.

* * * * * * * *

It was Saturday. Nikita had picked up a copy of The Reader and was systematically going through the 'for rent' ads. So far, she'd had no success finding an apartment in her price range, but she had to find a place soon - the hotel room was becoming too expensive. She had made all the calls she felt like making in one day. She left the pay phone at the Art Institute and headed over toward the Café de Marseilles.

Nikita entered the little coffee shop and chose a table near the window. It was late in the day, but this time she wasn't too late for service. There were no other customers.

She looked expectantly toward the counter, but instead of the sultry voice and athletic body of the previous day, she was approached by an aging gentleman clothed in denim and leather. He sported a long graying ponytail and a traditional blue bandana covered his forehead. His earrings added a bit of wildness to the image. He looked like a retired Hell's Angel. He was definitely NOT French.

"Hi there. What can I get for you?" His gravelly voice startled her, and she found a rakish pair of blue-gray eyes smiling down on her.

"Hullo." Nikita returned his infectious smile in spite of her weary attitude, and found herself warming up. "What's good?" Walter was intrigued by her down-under accent.

"Well, we do have a menu, but the kitchen is closed for the day...how about a croissant and some espresso? Our pastries are prepared fresh daily."

"I prefer tea, if you don't mind, but the croissant sounds wonderful." Nikita could sense that he was pleased with her somehow. Maybe he was a dirty old man who liked blondes. "Nah," she thought, "he's just a flirt, that's all. Harmless."

Walter saw that the woman was distracted and a little bit down in the mouth. But her response had been friendly. His sympathetic tendencies were roused by some apparent dilemma she was in the midst of, and he decided to draw her out. "We have all kinds of exotic teas... is there one that you prefer?"

"Not really... I like to blend my teas at home." Her face fell slightly as she remembered that she didn't actually have a home at the moment. "Could you please make me a nice pot of Darjeeling? With just a bit of Earl Grey in it, and perhaps a smidge of Keemun..."

"Hmmm," Walter pretended to be put out. "I think that could be arranged. You're not too fussy are you," he teased her gently. She flashed him a brief but warm smile. He stepped back behind the counter and busied himself with her order, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Nikita's expression reverted, and he noticed the furrow between her eyebrows deepening.

He popped a croissant into his convection oven and mused to himself. She sure was a looker, but didn't really seem to be aware of how beautiful she was. "Those eyes," he was thinking, "a person could drown in their oceanic depths."

"Listen to me," he scolded himself, "you'd think I was some lovesick puppy." Walter didn't have any illusions about younger women. He knew he was out of his league here.

Walter finished preparing the tea. He approached the table with quiet steps and placed the pot down in front of her. Nikita was startled out of her reverie and tried to put on her best face.

Walter considered himself something of a student of human nature and wasn't fooled by her attempted bravura. He pulled out the chair opposite her and turned it around and straddled it, resting his arms on the back.

"OK, spill it," he prodded her gently. "Something's bugging you and I'm not going away until you tell me what it is. The name's Walter by the way." He extended his hand.

"Nikita," she managed to get out, suddenly overcome, her eyes welling a bit. He picked up her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Go ahead sugar, let it out... it's OK. Now... just tell Uncle Walter all about it."

*************

Nikita sat quietly, Walter holding her hand, and let two tears course slowly down her cheeks. A considerable moment went by as she composed herself to speak. This man was a complete stranger. Why should she talk to him?

Why indeed? Her strong sense of intuition told her that she could trust him. And she needed a friend just now. There were just some people that when you met them, you felt that you'd known them all your life.

Once she started talking, Nikita let it all out... her unsuccessful day of apartment hunting... her impending dread about the outcome of the audition... her argument with her mother... the fact that she thought her Mom was holding something back, something that was bothering her deeply... and that her Mom had hung up on her with their conversation still unresolved.

"Oh Walter... the last thing I wanted to do was upset her... she's very emotionally fragile, especially since she stopped drinking. I'm always afraid that she'll start again if something terrible happens... if I should be the cause, I'd never forgive myself."

"Now sugar, maybe you should just call her back, now that you've both cooled off a bit, and see if you can't get her to confess what's eating her. It may be the only way you'll get some peace of mind. And you may need to apologize, just to get back in her good graces."

"What's to apologize for?" Nikita countered, a little sullen. "All I did was say that I needed some time to myself and my own place to live. She didn't even ask me how my audition went. Hers aren't the only feelings that got hurt, y'know." Another pair of tears stole down her face.

"Well, it seems clear to me that you're both being stubborn about getting your feelings acknowledged, and that is probably going to lead nowhere fast. My advice is to go to her and sit down and talk face to face. That way there can be no miscommunications. The eyes tell all, you know. The eyes are the windows to the soul. She won't be able to withhold the truth when she looks into your eyes and sees herself."

Nikita was slightly awed by this sage spiritual counsel. Walter had read the situation accurately and got right to the heart of the matter. It was so unexpected, this outpouring of compassion from a complete stranger. Her gratefulness took the form of new tears, as her emotions ran riot.

She realized how exhausted she was from preparing for and completing the audition, from not having a place to live - her funds would only stretch so far before she'd have to start working - and from worrying too much about her Mom's emotional status.

She began to form a plan. It was so simple: she would go to her mother's house and spend a day or two...see if she couldn't clear the air. Surely she could put her plans on hold for a short time. It might actually help to occupy the time until she learned the results of her audition. She could save a bit of expense, get out of the hotel, and put the money towards moving into her own place. She would just have to stand up for herself if Roberta tried to change her mind.

"Thanks Walter," her voice was quiet. "I think I know what to do now. How did you get to be so wise anyway?" Her spirits were lifting, and Walter was heartened.

Abruptly, Walter jumped up, letting go of her hand. "Aw hell, I forgot about your croissant! Must be crisp by now." He rescued the pastry from the oven, but it was definitely beyond recovery. "This one's history... let me fix you another," he offered quickly, and Nikita nodded.

"Great." She poured herself a cup of tea and began to relax.

"Oh hey Walter," she called out, "I think you and me are gonna be good friends," and bestowed upon him a heart-stopping smile.

"I think we definitely have a good start on that," Walter agreed with a grin.

*************

Nikita spent her last night in her hotel room. She rose on Sunday morning and checked out. From the lobby, she called her Mom to let her know of her decision to come and stay with her for a couple of days, but she got the answering machine. Hesitating, Nikita decided to leave a message saying that she was on her way there, hoping she'd be welcome when she arrived. She stopped by the café for a cuppa and informed Walter of her plans. "Good luck," he wished her as she flew out the door. He was glad she was taking his advice.

She flagged a cab. Her luggage was too awkward for the subway. "North and Wells, please."

* * * * * * * * * *

Michael's Sunday morning ritual was a walk by the lake. His apartment was only a block from the beach and he loved to see the sun rise over the water. He'd chosen the near north location for its easy proximity to the Hall. This morning the colors of the sky were subtle - pale pinks, yellow, a vague misty orange sorbet color, and a steely blue-gray that complemented the mysterious quality of the water. The wind played with the surface, making little white peaks.

He gathered his coat about him and sat on a bench that he favored. He was alone.

Michael comtemplated his audacious power play for the section's Principal chair. Currently holding that position was Jaime Zalman, and there was no love lost between them. Michael nearly always disagreed with Zalman's artistic choices for the section - the man had positively no finesse - and Michael knew that his appointment was only temporary. What he couldn't figure out was why HE had not been appointed. Wolfe must have some hidden agenda.

His audition was set for Wednesday morning, and he felt more than ready. Michael was gifted with the enviable trait of not suffering from nerves, like most of the other players. He was steel in the face of pressure. In fact, he felt that he performed his absolute best in that scenario.

The only thing he really dreaded was having to deal with Madeleine's secretary Karen. He knew she had a terrible crush on him, and would make things difficult for him, as she always did. He was hoping she might have some inside intel on Paul's plans for him. He'd have to play up to her a bit if he wanted the information. A moment of conscience struck him, but he shrugged it off. He couldn't be responsible for her warped sense of reality.

All of a sudden the wispy clouds lifted. The sun blared into his eyes, and Michael stirred himself. He set off for the market for some fresh vegetables and salmon, and threaded his way home at a leisurely pace.

A fresh pot of espresso later, he felt ready to cook.

Michael put on a CD of Debussy's "La Mer" and began to prepare dinner. Walter was coming over and he wanted to please him with some of his own French recipes. He began humming under his breath as he bent to his tasks.

* * * * * * * *

Nikita arrived at her mother's house to find that Roberta was not home yet. She looked for the key and found it in its usual place above the door. She let herself in, setting her bags down in the entry way.

Nikita walked into the living room. Everything seemed the same, yet different. The furniture, the bookcases, the curtains, the lamps, all were as she remembered, but now they looked old and tired, showed their bout with time. The windows were so dingy that they defeated the sunlight's attempt to dispell the air of gloom within. She took off her coat and threw it on the couch.

The kitchen actually offered a more enticing atmosphere. It was clean and neat, with pretty yellow curtains of a sunflower print. The old table and chairs were still in good repair, and the refrigerator was fairly new. The stove was a Majestic, vintage, with a bit of class in its deco design. It too was clean and a tea kettle sat on the back burner.

Nikita absently filled the kettle and set it to boil. She opened each cupboard door to find that things were in their usual order. Ah...a tin of Twining's English Breakfast tea. She pulled the teapot down from the shelf, measured out the tea, and set out to look about the rest of the house.

She opened the door to Roberta's bedroom; it was more of the same. The air in the room was stuffy. Everything had an aged quality and suffered from neglect. Even the lovely old chenille bedspread was worn and faded.

Nikita stepped inside and her eye was caught by the little jade music box she'd given Roberta as a birthday present so long ago. The only thing in the room that wasn't dusty was a photograph of her and her Mom taken at her first piano recital. Roberta had kept it in a pretty antique silver frame on her dresser. Nikita quietly turned and left the room, heading down to hall to another closed door. She stepped into her old bedroom and was mildly stunned.

Her Mom wasn't kidding when she said she had kept Nikita's things just as she left them. Each and every personal item, including her odd collection of sunglasses, was exactly where she had left it, with one huge difference - there was no dust. The windows, the sills, the curtains, all were freshly washed, and the bed looked like the sheets had just been changed. There was no musty smell, and the lovely little Chinese throw rug, a present from her piano teacher Alice, lay next to the vanity, looking as new as the day she'd received it.

Nikita was roused by the whistling of the tea kettle, and returned to the kitchen. She prepared the tea and sat down to comtemplate the generally depressing atmosphere of the house. Something was definitely amiss.

The phone rang. Nikita started at the sound. She decided not to answer it. The machine came on. 'Hello. This is Roberta. I'm not home to take your call, so please leave a message. Thanks and have a nice day.'

"Hi. This is a message for Nikita from her friend Birkoff. She gave me this number to call..."

Nikita quickly rose and picked up the phone. "Birkoff!" Her tone was joyous. She was so relieved to hear a friendly voice. "Nikita, you're there!" Birkoff seemed happy to hear her voice as well. "Yes, I've only just arrived... I'll be staying here for the next few days." She proceeded to tell him about the audition, Paul and Madeleine, and Walter and his café. "Oh, that reminds me... I'd better let the orchestra people know where to contact me. Birkoff, where are you?"

"I've got a two bedroom apartment over on Armitage. You'll have to come by and visit. Actually, I'm looking for a roommate..." He gave her the address and phone number.

"Birkoff, your timing is uncanny, as usual. Maybe I could move in temporarily until I find my own place. But not until I get some things straightened out with my mother. We're sort of in the middle of... ummm... a difference of opinion."

Birkoff chuckled. "If she's anything like you, I'd say that's an understatement for 'major blowup'. Yeah, sure, you can hang here if you need to." They made a plan to meet at the Café the next afternoon. "See you tomorrow." Birkoff's call was a good omen.

As she hung up the phone, Nikita heard the front door opening. She heard her Mom give a little gasp as she saw Nikita's bags and coat, then footsteps running toward the kitchen. Roberta burst into the room. "Nikita! Oh, I'm so glad..." She threw herself into her daughter's arms and they hugged each other. "I'm sorry." They both said it at the same time and Nikita started to laugh, until she realized that the woman she was hugging was a mere shadow of her former self.

"Mom, you're ill!" Nikita was shocked by her mother's emaciated appearance. Roberta stepped back and looked into her daughter's eyes with deep desperation. "I... I couldn't tell you on the phone," she confessed hesitantly. Nikita's blood began to rush and a dull roaring filled her ears.

"Mom... what is it?"

There was a long moment of tense silence. Deadly knowledge was dawning on Nikita.

"It's...... it's cancer... cancer of the liver. I've refused treatment. They've given me a year at best." She faltered. "Oh my dear, I'm so sorry..." Roberta sat down heavily and let the tears fall. "It's my punishment... for all those years of drinking, and neglecting you, and..." Her guilty sobs choked off any further conversation.

Nikita knelt at her mother's side, putting her arm around her loosely. She seemed so fragile, and Nikita's heart shattered, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Shhh..." she held her and looked deeply into her Mom's eyes. Roberta's desolate gaze filled Nikita's, and their grief flowed between their souls.

* * * * * * * *

Michael was still chopping vegetables when his doorbell rang. He quickly rinsed his hands and went to the intercom. "Walter, is that you?" Walter's voice came back. "Yeah, I'm a little early I know, but ..." Michael buzzed the door open. "That's OK, come on up." It would be nice to have some company while he prepared the meal. He left the door ajar and went back to the kitchen.

Michael poured two glasses of wine. He hadn't intended to have a drink until the main part of the prep was done, but now that Walter was here... well, he didn't want to be inhospitable.

Walter let himself in and wandered into the kitchen. He'd brought a bottle of wine 'as backup'. "What's for dinner?"

"It's just some salmon, and rice and vegetables," Michael informed him casually.

Walter laughed. "There's no such thing as 'just' with you cooking." He knew Michael wanted to surprise him, so he backed off on the questions. With that he sat down at the table and sipped his wine.

"By the way Michael, have you heard anything about a new Principal pianist being hired for the symphony? I made the acquaintance of the candidate yesterday at the café. She's quite the looker." Walter smiled to himself as he recalled Nikita's lustrous blonde mane, clear blue eyes, and tall willowy physique.

"You say that about ALL the pretty women who come in," Michael teased him gently with a quiet laugh. "What was so special about this one?" He noticed the winsome look on Walter's face and the faraway look in his eyes.

"I don't know... something about her... I felt as if I'd known her forever. She and I just... connected, that's all. What can I say? I made a new friend."

Michael nodded and responded by changing the subject. "Walter, that reminds me. I need the next couple of days off. I'm auditioning for first chair on Wednesday morning, and I'd like some time to practice and play... just need to do some final preparation."

Walter was thrilled. "Well, finally, at last! Don't know what took you so long anyway." His jovial sarcasm was not lost on Michael. "Sure, no problem, take all the time you need. Why should I mind working in my own café?" He grinned at Michael. "Wouldn't want you to think I was taking advantage of you, now would I?"

Michael smiled quietly back, and served the meal. They sat and talked and ate, sipping their wine. Michael comtemplated Walter's news about the candidate for pianist. A woman as Principal? That would be interesting. She'd have to pretty tough to deal with Paul Wolfe. He was sure he'd meet her, especially if she was accepted and he was given mentorship. He hoped she wasn't too difficult. These virtuoso types could really try one's patience. Especially the pretty ones - they usually weren't very nice. Thought they could wrap you around their finger.

Oh well, no sense speculating about a thing that might not even come to pass.

Michael thanked Walter and looked forward to his days off. They finished the meal and retired to the living room for a game of chess. "Michael, I think you missed your calling," Walter always complimented him. "Your cooking skills match your cello playing!"

"Thank you." Michael proceeded to beat Walter soundly, as he always did. Chess was for the subtle... which Walter was not.

* * * * * * * *

Monday at Orchestra Hall. The usual. Meetings and appointments from 8:00 to 10:00. Prepare rehearsal notes and deal with any special concerns. Sectionals from 11:00 to 12:00. Full orchestra rehearsal from 1:00 to 3:00. Rehearsal review with Principals from 3:00 to 4:00. Answer calls and set up appointments for the week, and hopefully leave by 5:00.

Paul Wolfe reviewed his calendar for the day. He picked up the phone and dialed Madeleine's private extension. "Yes?" She'd been expecting his call

"Madeleine, I'd like to review Nikita's audition tape with you this morning. Can you come to my office please?"

"Certainly... in about twenty minutes?"

"Fine."

Paul paged his private secretary. "Christopher, could you please have some coffee and tea brought in right away? Perhaps some pastry from the Café as well?"

"Certainly, Mr. Wolfe. Oh and Michael Samuelle called late Friday. He requested an audition for the position of Principal of his section. I scheduled him for Wednesday morning at ten. Will this be convenient, or would you like to see him earlier?"

"No, that will be fine, thank you. See that Madeleine's office gets the information so that Karen can have the audition room prepared."

"Of course."

So... Wolfe's temporary appointment of Zalman as section chair had gotten to him. Michael was finally coming out of his shell. Paul had wondered how long it would take.

He had carefully observed and monitored Michael's musical and personal progress from his first day. Paul had been aware of Michael's deep melancholy, and had appointed him mentor to new players as a way of drawing him out of himself. It had worked, and gradually Michael became less self-absorbed.

As time passed, Paul was continually impressed by Michael's excellent musical instincts and abilities. In fact, Michael just might be the best cellist ever to have played with the orchestra. Paul regarded him with deep affection, but kept it to himself. The quickest way to destroy Michael's credibility with the other players would be to show him too much favor.

Paul was secretly pleased about Michael's request. He also felt a somewhat smug twinge of amusement at the thought of Zalman's reaction when Michael took over as Principal. He knew that those two never saw eye to eye on anything. Zalman would be furious. Wolfe would enjoy the ensuing fireworks immensely.

But Michael knew something about power as well, and Paul respected that more than any of his other attributes. He admired Michael's subtlety and meticulous attention to detail, his ability to withstand intense pressure, and his outwardly neutral demeanor, all highly professional qualities. Oh yes, he would help Michael, and in doing so, serve his own plans for the future of the orchestra.

* * * * * * * *

Paul was stirred from his musings by the simultaneous arrivals of Madeleine and Christopher. They settled the refreshments, and Christopher took his leave. Paul and Madeleine moved to the corner of his office where the TV and VCR were. The tape was set to roll. They sat down.

Paul poured coffee for himself, and tea for Madeleine. He handed her the cup, his hand making light contact with hers. They both glanced up at the same time.

A long moment passed. His eyes held hers, and Madeleine's face softened just a little as she entertained a small but genuine smile. "You look quite lovely today."

Her heart fluttered briefly, while his pounded soundly. They had worked together a long time - a lot of water under the bridge. She lowered her gaze and graciously acknowledged the compliment. "Thank you." They shared a pastry in comfortable silence.

Paul pressed the remote and the tape began to play. They listened attentively once more to Nikita's incredible performance. "She's wonderful," Madeleine finally admitted, "very fresh and quite passionate. And uncontrived." Paul nodded. His instincts were never wrong.

"I want her," he informed Madeleine, a determined edge in his voice, "and I don't care what strings I have to pull to get the Committee to accept her." Even with all his power, Paul still had to present his petition before the Board of Directors. Only with their approval could he secure a contract to engage Nikita as Principal.

"You'll probably get some resistance from George," she said unnecessarily, "but I think that the others won't pose any insurmountable problems."

"Your firm grasp of the obvious underwhelms me, Madeleine," he stated dryly. He enjoyed zinging her with an occasional dig. It was his only recourse in the face of her sanctimony.

She let his jibe roll off her. "I thought you wanted my input," she coolly returned his sarcasm. Then, relenting, she added, "Of course, you may be assured that you have my approval and my support in this matter. I agree that she is the perfect material for the position."

Madeleine stood up and waited for a moment. Paul looked up at her but did not stand.

"Thank you, Madeleine."

Paul reached out and grasped her hand, and gently bent to kiss the inside of her wrist. Madeleine remained motionless. She caught her breath a little, and as she stood looking down at him, she felt a slight pang of remorse. But it passed swiftly. Her expression gave away nothing.

Madeleine withdrew her hand slowly, and turned to walk out of the office. His eyes followed. She could feel his gaze caressing her back like a kid glove, and she paused at the door, looking halfway back over her shoulder. "Shall I call her, or will you?"

Paul considered. "You can. Call her in for Wednesday morning. I'll see her directly after Michael Samuelle's audition... around eleven o'clock should be fine."

Madeleine's eyebrows went up. "Michael! So... your plan succeeded. Congratulations."

She left. Paul breathed in the faint scent of her flower essence. He rewound the tape and finished his coffee. Now, for the coup de gras: convincing the Board to hire Nikita.

* * * * * * * *

Monday morning at the Wirth residence was quite laid back, compared to the bustle of activity at the Hall. Nikita and Roberta sat together, sipping their tea quietly at the kitchen table. Neither had slept well, and both were a little on the tense side. An atmosphere of reticence pervaded. Finally, Nikita forayed into the conversational void.

"So... Mom... don't you want to know how the audition went?"

"Oh, of course darling... please... do tell me all about it."

Nikita proceeded to describe the experience. Roberta was perplexed by her portraits of Paul and Madeleine. "They... they don't sound very friendly," she ventured, in reply to Nikita's telling of their carefully blank faces.

"Well, they need to maintain a professional distance of course, that is, until they make their decision about my application. Oh Mom, I don't know if I can stand the suspense!"

"You never were very good at waiting...not when you were little, and certainly not any time since." Roberta smiled as memories surfaced. "All I can say is that it's the chance of a lifetime. What a tremendous accomplishment for you, if you succeed." Her voice became very soft. Her eyes stared across the room at nothing in particular. "Now... if only I can just stay alive long enough to..."

Nikita reached across the table and took both of her mother's hands in hers.

"Mom... look at me."

Roberta's hopeless gaze rested on their hands joined in front of her.

"Mom. Please. Look - at - me."

Roberta gathered her courage and brought her eyes up to Nikita's.

"I love you. We'll get through this."

A very deep sigh escaped Roberta's lips. "When I'm gone, you'll have no one, and I can't bear the thought of you alone in this world."

"Mom, let's just be best friends until... until the end, OK?"

Roberta rose to begin fixing breakfast.

* * * * * * * *

They passed the morning talking about little things that suddenly seemed important. Nikita was forced to give pause, thinking about that saying "live each day as if it were your last". Her mother's illness was BIG, really big. How would it feel to know with such certainty that the end of one's life was a known quantity? It was nearly impossible to put herself in her mother'shoes. There was no way to measure the depth of her fear and sadness about Roberta's deteriorating condition.

Nikita wandered into the living room and stood in front of her old piano. It was the only piece of furniture that was dusted. In fact, it was quite well kept. She lifted the lid of the bench and found her old Henle editions of 'The Well-Tempered Clavier' by J. S. Bach. She pulled out the first volume and opened to the C Major Prelude. Nikita sat down and began to play it with a lazy tempo - it had real pathos, was almost romantic, at this speed.

Nikita began to relax as music once again relieved her of the burdens of life and lifted her spirit to a loftier plane.

Roberta stood in the dining room just out of sight, listening to Nikita's dreamy rendering of the work, holding back her emotions. At least one of her dreams would be realized. Her daughter was simply an amazing musician... unconventional, true, but wasn't that what genius was about?

A seed of pride blossomed in her. She would leave a legacy after all - one of grace and beauty and fulfillment - all the things she had never possessed. Nikita would give these gifts for her.

* * * * * * * *

Birkoff sat in the Café de Marseilles studying the score to "Peter and the Wolf". It was a perennial favorite of kids around holiday time. He'd been commissioned to conduct it for the Chicago Festival Orchestra, a small musical body of local musicians who created the orchestra to cater to the middle class concert-goer, the one who couldn't afford the expensive ticket. He liked the idea of music for the masses, and didn't care that his fee was more of a token than real money.

This was a chance for exposure of the best kind - a small venue with an appreciative audience. That was the kind of satisfaction he craved... doing a thing to perfection.

"So are ya gonna order anything, or just sit there with your nose in that music?" This was the third time Walter had been back to the table, and this kid still didn't know what he wanted. Birkoff pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and gave the man a blank look, eliciting an exasperated sigh from Walter. "Oh never mind."

"Sorry," Birkoff said, "but I'm waiting for someone, and I don't know if we'll stay." Walter opened his mouth as if to say something, then changed his mind. The kid was at least polite.

The door burst open and a flash of blonde blustered through. "Sorry I'm late, Birkoff," she was grinning from ear to ear as she pulled him out of his chair and gave him a warm sisterly hug. "It couldn't be avoided." Walter looked up to see Nikita hugging the kid and relented. OK, so the kid was a geek, but if Nikita liked him, then shucks, he did too.

Nikita joined Birkoff and quickly related the events of her audition. What did he think her chances were? What did he think of her choice of music? How could she keep from going crazy waiting for the results?

"Whoa, slow down, Nikita," Birkoff was reeling from the onslaught of her questions. "Let's talk about important things first. How'd you do with your mother? Did you get your little tiff with her all worked out?"

Nikita became subdued as she sat trying to find a way to tell Birkoff about the events of the past twenty-four hours. Birkoff was suddenly on his guard. When Nikita got quiet, it meant that something was REALLY bothering her. She brought her eyes up to meet his, and he felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. He waited, giving her time to compose her words.

"Birkoff, there's no easy way to say this. My mother has... cancer... of the liver. It's always fatal. She's been given less than a year to live."

Birkoff was stunned. "Oh my God," he sat back quietly. He knew he couldn't comfort her with hollow sentiments. "What will you do?"

Walter had been approaching their table with a pot of "Nikita's special blend" and overheard her telling Birkoff about her mother. His heart lurched as he perceived the desolation in her voice. She was calm and sad and strong all at the same time. His admiration for her went up a notch.

"I haven't really thought about what will happen, but I do know that I can't abandon her now. She's fragile, not just physically but emotionally. She's just livin' on the edge from day to day."

"You said you were thinking of crashing at my place," Birkoff reminded her. "Are you serious? I mean now that this... uh, difficulty has presented itself." He was again at a loss for words.

"I'm really not sure about anything at this point, but I do want to rent a room from you. I think I'm gonna need a place to be alone and sort things out. At least, if that's OK with you. Besides, I need to keep my expenses under control. The hotel was too much."

"Cool. Let's head over to my place and you can check it out, see what you think."

"I'd just like to have my cuppa before we go, if y'don't mind please." They sat and talked about Birkoff's plans for the Festival concert. Behind the counter, Walter observed. They were definitely close, but somehow he didn't think the kid was her type. More like a little brother. When they left together, he was left wondering.

* * * * * * * *

Nikita strolled around Birkoff's apartment. It certainly reflected his austere tastes. Or more accurately, his limited budget. There was barely any furniture - a second-hand sofa and low coffee table in the living room. The walls however, were covered by bookcases filled with musical scores, and it looked like a library. In the corner of the room was a desk which served as his study area. It's surface was entirely covered with paper, and Nikita wondered how he could keep track of all that music.

Birkoff eagerly awaited her reaction. "So. Whaddaya think? Cool, huh?"

Nikita wanted to tease him a little. "Ummm, Birkoff, just where do you EAT?" she sounded a bit more sarcastic than she intended. "Or do you just live on the scores?" she added, noting the cookies and assorted weird munchies on his desk. She examined a bag of some kind of gummy insects. "You actually put this stuff in your body?" She couldn't help letting a tiny grin play around her mouth. Birkoff feigned hurt feelings.

"Do what you see me do," he instructed her. He walked over to the coffee table and knelt down on a floor pillow next to it. "Pretend you're Japanese," he said, putting his palms together in a zen greeting and trying to be serious. He bowed from the waist.

They both fell into fits of laughter, Nikita giving up and sitting on the floor next to the table. "Oh Birkoff, this feels like old times, doesn't it?" Birkoff stopped laughing and gave Nikita a meaningful look. His voice dropped to a softer level. "Yeah, but it's not old times, is it?"

"Hmmmm," she sighed, "...ever the brutal realist." But she knew in her heart that he was right. It was truly a different world now... now that she was facing the loss of her mother. She knew that Roberta had refused treatment because she couldn't afford it. She'd never had any medical insurance. She was so incredibly stubborn about things like that. Thought she was just throwing her money away. In her dream, Nikita pictured herself as the well-to-do concert artist, making enough money to help her Mom out financially, finally lifting the burden of day-to-day struggle off of her. But now that dream seemed childish and futile.

Nikita sat quietly, lost in her thoughts, while Birkoff moved off to the kitchen to pour them a couple glasses of wine. "She's wound up pretty tight," he thought, hoping a drink might help take the edge off, and padded back to the table. Nikita accepted the glass and mustered a small smile in appreciation. They sat for a few minutes, enjoying the soft tang of the Medoc.

One thing Birkoff did have in the apartment was an excellent sound system. He used it extensively to help with studying scores, reading and listening at the same time. He decided that music would be the way to transform Nikita's funky mood. The next thing she heard was the opening strains of the harp in Debussy's "La Mer". Birkoff knew that it was her favorite piece of symphonic music that did NOT have piano in it. She exhaled and began to relax. The music washed over her like the waves of the sea that it was meant to conjure. A few more minutes passed.

The effect was hypnotic. She set her glass down, and laid back on one of the floor pillows, closing her eyes. Birkoff heard her breathing slowing down. Moments later, she was asleep. Birkoff finished his wine and went to his desk, leaving Nikita to rest. She was obviously bone-tired and needed it. Slowly he began to form an idea. He made some notes and fell to studying, letting the sounds of the music fill his peripheral senses. They would talk later.

* * * * * * * *

Paul Wolfe strode down the hallway toward the conference room, the video of Nikita's audition tucked neatly in his pocket. He knew that he would be the last to arrive at the Board meeting, and wanted to avoid small talk. It was a close-knit group consisting of the Chairman, the Orchestra Manager, the Conductor, the Artistic Director Dame Adrian Perry, and the Financial Director Reneé Jardin. Paul stepped softly into the room and took the last empty seat next to Reneé. She gave him an intimate sidelong glance that did not go unnoticed by Madeleine. Gail Stryker, George's secretary, sat ready to take notes.

George Sobel, Chairman of the Board, looked up when Paul entered and gave him a quiet nod. He had been overseeing symphony affairs for nearly thirty years, and had seen many musicians and administrators come and go. As conductors went, he knew he had the finest in Paul Wolfe. They both had the success of the orchestra as their first priorty, but came at it from opposite ends of the spectrum. George was ultra-conservative, both artistically and financially, but relied on Paul's unfailing judgement in musical matters. They often worked at cross purposes, George playing the devil's advocate, but also tended to balance each other out. Each had considerable respect for the other's brilliant mental powers.

They worked through the agenda, all the regular business being disposed of, and George addressed Wolfe. His words were deliberately measured, his voice tinged with the lilt of his native New Zealand. "So, I understand that you have a petition for a new Principal pianist, Paul. Have you prepared a briefing for us?" George shrewdly anticipated that Paul would already have Madeleine in his pocket. Try as he might, he'd never been able to drive a wedge between those two.

Wolfe smiled. "I do believe that what you are about to see will speak for itself." He prepared the video for viewing, and sat back in his seat with a self-assured smile. "Madeleine has already expressed her approval."

Paul had no doubt in his mind that the others would follow suit. Even George would not be able to dispute Nikita's awesome talent in the face of the evidence. And Adrian usually agreed with George. They'd worked together since before Paul had been hired. As for Reneé, well... his powers of persuasion could be exercised with a minimum of emotional involvement. That could prove to be a most pleasant diversion.

He started the tape and let the music do the talking.

* * * * * * * *

Nikita arrived home to find Roberta sound asleep on the living room couch. She didn't have the heart to wake her up. There were no smells coming from the kitchen, and Nikita decided she'd call out for a pizza. She tip-toed past her Mom and headed for her room. There on the vanity was a note in Roberta's unkempt handwriting informing her that a Madeleine Duprés had phoned and she was to appear at her office at eleven o'clock on Wednesday morning! Nikita let out a whoop of ecstasy and tossed the note in the air.

Her mother was roused from her sleep and came running at the sound, but her apprehension disappeared when she saw the blissful expression on Nikita's face. She stood in the doorway to her daughter's room and smiled back at her. Then Nikita watched as the blood drained from her mother's face and Roberta collapsed in a dead faint.

"Oh my God... Mom..." her voice was a mere whisper. Her heart stood still for a split second.

Nikita frantically tried to gather her Mom up and carry her to her own room, but could not manage to lift her. Roberta came to just as her daughter was picking up the phone. Nikita wanted to call 911. But Roberta insisted that if the ambulance came, she would refuse transport. "I am not going to die in a hospital," she stated flatly, "and that is the end of that discussion."

Nikita gave up and went to bed. She was just too tired to argue.

* * * * * * * *

Tuesday morning dawned clear and cold. Michael rose early and went to the dojo on Bryn Mawr. He changed into his workout clothes, and began some t'ai chi warmups to prepare for his aikido class. As he gracefully slid through the moves, he began to center and focus on his physical body. He was strong and sleek, and each controlled action brought him closely in touch with his powers of concentration. His black jacket and pants accented his panther-like grace, and a white rolled scarf tied around his forehead created a warrior-like aspect.

Always the ghost of Simone moved beside him. They had been in complete harmony with each other in their martial arts studies, and their deep spiritual connection flowed naturally into their music. He could imagine her moving in sync with him, like two dancers with identical precise rhythms.

As he looked into the mirror he saw Karen Kent, Madeleine's secretary, slip through the front door and disappear into the women's dressing room. She occasionally showed up on Tuesdays, but it wasn't her regular day. Michael had taken to coming on Tuesdays in order to avoid her. But today he decided he would make his play and attempt to extract from her any information she might have about Paul Wolfe's plans. He silently apologized to Simone, and gave Karen a sexy smile as she exited the dressing room and walked out on the floor to begin her workout.

An hour later, they were out the door to get some coffee. Karen was flattered. At last, Michael was showing her the attention she deserved. She would make sure he wouldn't forget.

* * * * * * * *

Birkoff sat in the Café de Marseilles. He waited until the early morning rush subsided, sitting at the counter instead of taking a table, reading the newspaper. When things quieted down, he struck up a conversation with Walter.

"I guess you overheard the news about Nikita's mother huh?"

"Yeah... that sure is a tough break for the little lady and her mom. Anything I can do to help?"

Birkoff hesitated. "Well, as a matter of fact, I do believe there is. Now, here's my idea..."

* * * * * * * *

Nikita got up. She hadn't slept much. This was no way to get in shape to meet with Madeleine. She was completely devastated by Roberta's collapse the night before, and was afraid to leave her alone in the house. Her mother's lack of cooperative spirit was not helping. She brushed her teeth, splashed some water on her face, and looked at her haunted image in the mirror. She was shocked to find the eyes staring back at her proclaiming her deeply disturbed mental state. She needed to focus. She needed to play. Alone. She dressed quickly and headed downtown.

* * * * * * * *

Michael was more than elated to find that Paul Wolfe did indeed intend to promote him to Principal of his section. It was all too easy to pump Karen for the scoop. He offered to accompany her to work as personal pennance for his taking advantage of her. He even walked her to Madeleine's office and held her hand lightly as he took his leave. She was ecstatic.

Now he needed to play. He needed to focus. Alone. He headed to his locker and grabbed his backup instrument, and made his way down to the soundproof practice rooms in the basement.

There were plenty of empty rooms. He set up his cello and sat down to play. But it wasn't the Bach that came out. Visions of Simone and Adam crowded his brain, and he began to finger the notes of a lullaby he used to play when his little son couldn't sleep. It had a melancholy meditative mood, and Michael's excited state was gradually quieted by the plaintive timbre of the strings. He allowed himself the luxury of thinking about Adam freely, and the pain in his heart was exquisitely translated into the sweet sighing of the instrument.

* * * * * * * *