Stalker

Stalker

by Michael Grant

Copyright 2012 Michael Grant

Smashwords Edition

Chapter One

Framed by the massive sixty foot proscenium of Juilliard’s Peter Jay Sharp Theater, a lone cellist sat center stage, looking very small indeed. Hardly a match for the imposing theater looming before her. Undaunted, she poised over her cello, staring back at the darkened theater, perhaps visualizing the piece she was about to play. Then, without warning, her bow arced across the strings and in an instant the magnificent arpeggiated chords of Bach’s Prelude, Cello Suite No. 1 filled the cavernous theater.

Of the 933 seats in the hall, only one was occupied. An old man with long, wispy white hair sat in the front row, imperceptibly tapping his cane on the floor as he followed her every note with laser-like concentration. His rumpled forest-green suit, his silver topped cane, even his solemn, dignified demeanor suggested Old World. And he was.

Born in the first quarter of the 20th century in Cremona, a city renowned for its stringed instrument making, he naturally gravitated toward music and took up the cello at an early age. By the time he was fifteen, he was being hailed as a child prodigy and was poised to take the music world by storm. Then, in a freak fall from a horse, he shattered three fingers on his left hand. The village doctor did what he could, but the bones did not set properly and, just like that, his budding music career was finished before it started.

Like many young men under similar tragic circumstances, he could have retreated from the world and allowed himself to wallow in a lifelong morass of self-pity and despair. But employing the iron-willed discipline that had brought him to the brink of fame, he resolved that if he could no longer play, he could at least dedicate his life to teaching others. And over the years, he’d done just that. In music circles, especially among cellists, the name of Gregorio Castellano was revered. In his almost sixty years as a teacher, he’d taught a steady succession of students who went on to become world renown soloists and members of the great orchestras of the world.

Sheila Kendall, the young woman on the stage, was the latest in this distinguished line. Now, with dazzling technical proficiency and a deep understanding of the music that can’t be taught, she moved through the piece, giving herself up to it, transported by the genius of Johann Sebastian Bach. As she rhythmically swayed to and fro, her long, straight auburn hair momentarily eclipsed her beautiful face and then, just as quickly, was flung back over her shoulder by a toss of the head. With her eyes closed, she played with an intensity that blocked out everything—the muffled sound of a Con Ed jackhammer on the street outside, the soft whine of a vacuum cleaner in the lobby, and, more importantly, her own fear of failure.

Suddenly the piece was finished. She kept her eyes closed until the final notes drifted up toward the ceiling and dispersed into the ether. It was only then that she opened her lids and her two eyes, brown and intense, fixed on the old man in the audience.

Gregorio Castellano rubbed his palm over the silver knob of his cane and stared up at the ceiling as though he could actually see the last notes fade away. After a very long silence, he said, Better.

Sheila remembered to breathe and exhaled sharply. Good enough for the Wellington?

The old man shook his head. Not yet. But the Wellington is still nine months away. He thumped his cane on the floor. That is all for today. I have another student coming in.

Sheila made a face. Conrad?

Castellano studied her under his busy eyebrows. Yes, Conrad Dietrich. Why do you ask?

Sheila collected her music in silence, then blurted out, Professor, is he better than me?

The old man rolled his eyes. Why do you students make these stupid questions? I ask you, who is better quarterback—Tim Brady or Patrick Manning?

"You mean Tom Brady and Peyton Manning."

Castellano shrugged elaborately. Whatever. It makes no difference. You two—Conrad and you—are different. That is all.

Then why does he always beat me in competition?

Castellano sat back down heavily and absentmindedly rubbed the ruined fingers on his left hand. Perhaps because sometimes you play like a sparrow, he said after some reflection. You must learn to play like an eagle.

I don’t understand.

Sheila, technically you are brilliant. But the passion, the fire... It is not there. I can teach you everything there is to know about the cello, but I can’t teach passion and fire. That you must supply. There is a certain—he groped for the word—timidness…in your playing. It prevents you from breaking through to greater heights. Let me ask you, Sheila. Are you afraid of being great?

Sheila didn’t understand the point of the question. Who didn’t want to be great? What was there to be afraid of? But then she surprised herself by responding, I might be afraid of being great.

Castellano nodded. That is not a bad thing. In fact, I would have been disappointed had you answered differently. Fear can be debilitating—or it can be exhilarating. You can let it beat you or you can use it to your advantage. I have seen wonderful musicians whose careers never happened because they allowed fear to rule them. You know the fear that comes over you when you are about to perform before an audience? Some call it stage fright. Your mouth is dry. Suddenly, you can’t remember the notes or the tempo. You feel faint. All you want to do is rush off that stage. But—you don’t, do you?

No, you don’t, she said automatically. But, strictly speaking, that wasn’t entirely true. At least not in her case.

Stage fright. Every time she heard those words, they reminded her of her father. Sheila was just eleven when she got the chance to perform her first solo at a junior high school recital and she could barely contain her excitement. With the immodesty of youth, she saw this as an excellent opportunity to show her father and her teacher, both of whom were in the audience, what a great cellist she was. But then the curtain came up and when she saw the sea of faces before her, a paralyzing fear suddenly overcame her. It was just as Professor Castellano described. She was overwhelmed by every one of those stomach-churning symptoms. And in her case, she did bolt from the stage.

After the concert, her father took her for ice cream. They sat in a booth facing each other, but Sheila, burning with shame, buried her face in a menu pretending to read it.

Her dad was an intimidating presence. Well over six feet with a buzz cut and thick neck. But he did have wonderfully twinkling blue eyes that didn’t seem to fit with the rest of his face. He leaned across the table and those eyes came close to her. You all right, Muffin?

Dad, I’m so embarrassed.

Don’t worry about it.

I was so scared. I don’t know what came over me. I knew the piece. I just couldn’t stay there.

He patted her hand. It’s called stage fright, honey. Everybody gets it. Professional actors, musicians, hell, even me.

"You! You’re a Navy SEAL, Dad. You’re not supposed to be afraid of anything."

You’ve been listening to my buddies. Don’t pay attention to those guys. Every time I’m about to go on a mission, I get scared. Hell, I even get scared during training exercises.

You do? Why?

Lots of reasons, Muffin. I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to embarrass myself. I don’t want to let my team down.

Sheila had never heard her father talk this way, but then again, he wasn’t around much. On the few occasions when he did come home, he always brought a bunch of his buddies with him. Over time they became her adopted uncles. Well after she was supposed to be in bed, she would sit on the stairs and listen to them tell war stories over a few beers. Not once had she ever heard one of them admit to being afraid of anything.

What do you do about the fear, Dad?

You grab it by the throat, you wrestle it to the ground, and you overcome it. You feed off it and it gives you courage and strength.

Sheila shuddered. It sounds so violent.

He ran his fingers through his buzz cut. Well, in a way it is. You’re not fighting a physical adversary. You’re fighting something much worse—yourself.

"Me? I’m causing the fear?"

Not causing it, Muffin. Letting it happen.

So what do I do the next time?

First off, recognize that it’s going to be there. Realize that it’s not a bad thing. Hell, if I’m not afraid to go into combat and you’re not afraid to play the cello in front of a bunch of strangers, then there’s something wrong with the both of us. Fear is good. It sharpens the mind. Fear is bad only when you let it control you. Does that make sense?

I think so.

And the more she thought about it, the more it did make sense. From that time on, Sheila never again allowed herself to be overwhelmed by fear.

As she packed up her cello, Professor Castellano put a hand on her shoulder. Sheila, you must never compare yourself to Conrad or any other musician. You are you, and that’s the way it is.

You’re right. It’s just that he psyches me out and I don’t know what to do about it.

Castellano sighed. I do not know what to tell you, Sheila. I teach music. I am no psycho.

Psychologist...

Whatever.

#

In the school cafeteria, Sheila waited her turn behind a gang of ravenous students who were attacking a row of vending machines like Las Vegas slots. She bought a Diet Coke and a bag of Cheese Doodles and made her way toward a table where a young woman and a young man were already seated. She dropped into a chair.

I’m famished.

Linda Yin, a violin student and Sheila’s best friend, eyed the plunder from the vending machine. Breakfast of Champions.

And lunch and dinner, Sheila muttered, tearing open the bag.

Linda shook her head. I don’t get it. You eat junk food all day and have the shape of a model. I, on the other hand, am fifteen pound overweight. How can that be? I’m Chinese for chrissake. I’m supposed to be emaciated.

"Only if you eat boiled fish heads and rice, offered Manny Elliott, a short, rumpled man with an unruly head of black hair that looked like a white guy’s stab at an Afro. On the other hand, it may have been that he just never combed his hair.

Linda patted Manny’s arm. Sweetie, for a musician you have a real tin ear. That was a cry for sympathy, OK? If you can’t offer that, then please shut the fuck up.

Excuse me for stating the obvious.

What is it about viola players? Linda addressed Sheila. They’re such assholes. Case in point: why would anyone choose to play a viola when they could play a violin? I rest my case.

To change the subject, Manny blurted out, You look really nice today, Sheila, and promptly turned beet red.

Shit! He’d done it again! When was he going to learn to keep his big mouth shut? Telling Sheila she looked nice was like telling the builder of the Taj Mahal that he’d done a pretty decent job. From the moment he’d met her—more than a year ago—he’d developed a world-class crush on her—which was the reaction of most guys who met her. But he quickly realized that it could never be. With her brown eyes, long flowing auburn hair, and a figure that wouldn’t quit, she literally turned the head of every straight and sighted male within a radius of a hundred yards. He, on the other hand, couldn’t attract a decent female with a fistful of credit cards and an apple red Lamborghini. And so he had to settle for that most ignominious of categories: just good friends. Well, at least he was a good viola player, in spite of what Linda said.

Yeah, you do look good, Linda said. No sweat shirt, no jeans—she peeked under the table—high heels, dress… What gives? Got a big date?

Job interview.

What about your waitress job at the Cock and Bull or the Slimy Lobster or…

"The Surf & Turf. I’m tired of being chased around the tables by that octopus of a manager."

You shouldn’t be working at all, Sheila, Manny said. You need to practice for the competition.

He’s right, even though it’s one of the few times I agree with him, Linda said.

Hello! I need money for the competition, guys. There are entrance fees, a dress, transportation, hotel rooms, and on and on.

"Where is this job? Manny asked.

Some law firm. Diddle, Cranks, and Booby or something.

And the title of your job? Linda asked.

Office assistant.

Manny almost spit a mouthful of Coke across the table. Office assistant? That means you’ll have to make the coffee and take the boss’s clothes to the cleaners and buy his wife’s birthday card for chrissake.

Linda shot a sideward glance at Sheila. "If that’s all she has to do, sweetheart, she’s way ahead of the game."

Yeah, but an office assistant?

Sheila patted his hand. Manny, there’s not a whole lot of demand out in the business world for cellists.

Well, it’s only temporary, Manny said, completely bummed out. You’re going to be a great cellist.

That’s right, Linda added brightly. And some day you’ll look back on all this from your villa in the south of France and have a good laugh about how bad the good old days were.

Maybe. But first, I have to beat Dietrich.

Screw Conrad Dietrich, Manny said with genuine vehemence. He’s a third-rate cellist. He only beats you because he psyches you out. Don’t pay attention to that sonofabitch.

Linda grunted. Second time today, but I have to admit it, Manny’s right. Conrad can’t beat you. Only you can beat you.

Sheila knew they were stating the obvious, but it was easier said than done. She glanced at her watch. Gotta go. Wish me luck, guys.

Luck.

Luck

#

With a pounding heart Sheila stood on the sidewalk at Park Avenue and 51st street and looked up at the enormous glass and steel tower that housed the law firm of Barrow, Marlowe, and Casement, Attorneys At Law. Why, she wondered, was she so nervous? After all, it was just a part-time job, not a life-changing career move. If she didn’t get it, there was always The Surf & Turf—and that lecherous manager. Suddenly, the words of a song from Chorus Line, popped into her head. "Oh, Lord, I need this job!"

Her main concern was that even the lowly job of office assistant—whatever that entailed—was a stretch for her. All through college she’d gravitated toward the traditional fringe job of students, musicians, and actors—waiting on tables. One summer she’d even taken a shot of being a bartender. She was fine with beers and scotch on the rocks, but she’d never been able to master the ingredients of all those goofy drinks that called for flags and umbrellas. She took a deep breath and she pushed her way through the revolving door. Let the games begin.

#

She stepped off the elevator on the fifty-first floor and into an intimidating world of expensive mahogany paneling, plush carpets, and exotic plants. A receptionist was seated behind a desk the size of an aircraft carrier. On a wall behind her the name of the law firm of Barrow, Marlowe, and Casement, Attorneys At Law was spelled out in three-foot high gold leaf letters.

"May I help you? The receptionist asked in a low, husky voice.

Hi, I’m Sheila Kendall. I’m here to see Mrs. Masterson.

Please have a seat, she’ll be with you in a moment.

Sheila sat down and self-consciously straightened her skirt. She had the distinct impression that the receptionist had given her the once over and found her wanting. Or maybe it was just her imagination. No, on second thought, it wasn’t her imagination. She, too, had given the receptionist the once over and realized that she was a hell of a lot better dressed than she was. Yeah, but could she play the cello?

Sheila was thumbing through a copy of Architectural Digest when a middle-aged woman dressed in a no-nonsense pants suit strode purposefully into the reception area. She thrust her hand out. Miss Kendall? she said in a commanding voice. Sharon Masterson. Please come this way.

There it was again. Sheila was certain that in the few seconds it took to shake Masterson’s hand, she, too, had sized her up and found her lacking something. Sheila saw her chances of getting this job fading fast, but she reminded herself—all was not lost. There was always McDonald’s. Oh, God!

She almost had to run to keep up with Mrs. Masterson as she followed her down a confusing labyrinth of corridors and crossovers. They were moving so quickly that she barely had time to glance into the numerous cubicles and offices that flicked past her in a blur. But her impression was that here was a place where grave men and women, surrounded by mountains of papers and files, took their work seriously, worked very hard, and were mindful of every second of their time—not to mention the humongous bonuses that would be forthcoming at the end of the year if they did all of the above.

As they approached the end of a long corridor that flanked the south side of the building, the landscape changed dramatically. It was like driving out an inner city ghetto and into a gloriously green countryside. Instead of the steady and constant babble of voices emanating from doorless cubicles, this end of the office complex was sepulture quiet. Tiny cubicles gave way to lavish open spaces where just a handful of secretaries, looking very important, lorded over their domain. Sheila noted the names on the offices of the senior partners—Barrow…Marlowe... There was no Casement. She wondered if he was dead.

Further on down the corridor, a door swung open and a tall, good-looking man stepped out. He was tanned and trim, early thirties, impeccably dressed, and possessed the commanding presence of someone who was used to being in charge. When he saw Sheila he seemed to freeze in place.

Good afternoon, Mr. Emory, Mrs. Masterson said, as they passed.

He didn’t respond.

Sheila glanced over her shoulder. He was still there, watching her intently.

Who’s that? Sheila asked.

That’s Julian Emory. He works closely with the senior partners. Don’t worry, your job description ensures that you will have absolutely no contact with the senior partners. Mrs. Masterson led Sheila into a small room with just a desk a computer and a chair. Please have a seat. Fill out this application. Answer every question. When you’re done with the typing test bring everything to room 5150.

#

Thirty minutes later, Sheila was sitting in Mrs. Masterson’s tiny office. The woman studied Sheila’s application, clearly unimpressed with what she saw.

No dictation... typing skills leave a lot to be desired... no office experience...

Sheila was tempted to tell the patronizing woman that while it was true that she didn’t type very well, she had managed to memorize and master all six Bach Cello Suites. But she decided that that probably wouldn’t sway the humor-challenged woman.

Mrs. Masterson looked up from the application and began to deliver the coup de grâce. "Ms. Kendall, I’m afraid...

Just then, the door swung opened and Julian Emory came into the office. Mrs. Masterson looked up, clearly taken aback. Apparently, it was highly unusual for senior staff to insinuate themselves into the hiring process of lowly office assistants. Julian straightened a picture on the wall. He stepped back to make sure it was even, and turned to the office manager.

Is this the applicant, Sharon?

Why, yes, Mr. Emory, but… I was just about to tell her...

Julian held his hand out. May I? Julian took the folder from the startled office manager’s hand and glanced at the resume. His eyebrows shot up. Juilliard? You attend Juilliard?

Yes.

Instrument or voice?

Instrument. I play the cello.

The cello… Julian slid into a chair, suddenly pale. For a moment Sheila thought he was going to be ill, but he recovered quickly and flashed a disarming smile. So tell me, why are you applying for a job in a law office, Ms. Kendall? It seems quite far afield from music.

Sheila remembered something she’d read in a book on Interviewing For Dummies. Well, Mr. Emory, I believe that whatever career you ultimately choose, it’s important to be well-rounded. And the legal profession is... She stopped when she saw that he wasn’t buying her bullshit Interviewing Techniques 101 response. OK, the truth is, I need the money. There’s this very important competition coming up. If I win, it’s an opportunity to launch a solo career. But it takes money and... Sheila felt herself reddening. OK, let me be honest here. I’m not qualified. I’m really not. I’m sorry I’ve wasted our time. She stood up and started for