The Audition by Iris Rosewater

The sun burned wickedly into the fabric Evelyn’s black dress as she walked up the familiar steps of the concert hall. Heat burrowed into her shoulders and the back of her neck, releasing a trickle of sweat and sending it down her well-postured vertebrae. Her mother’s shoes clicked an embarrassing staccato along the corridor, which was much too cold to compensate for the oppressive heat outside. The damp spots beneath Evelyn’s arms had gone cold, and her teeth began to clatter. She held the leather handle of her case like the hand of a dear friend, and followed obediently the metronome of the shiny bronze shoes that led the way. The matching purse swung on her mother’s elbow as she signed forms, the smell of stale cinnamon polluting the air around her every time she opened her mouth to give Evelyn a direction. “Sit here.” “You better start warming up. You only have half an hour.” “Go to the ladies room and freshen up - you look like you’ve just been jogging!”


The bathroom was full of women in black dresses. They chatted around the mirrors. Some fiddled with their hair and make up. Evelyn tried not to see them as she entered the room, gazing instead at the intricate pattern of black and white tiles that swirled on the floor beneath her black flats and the puddles of water on the marble counter tops. She was still nervous, she was surprised to discover, sorting through the layers of emotions and shivering in front of a basin. Her hands had lost all blood flow and were white, webbed with purple from her chill. She went through her routine, turning the silver knobs of the faucet and letting the hot water spill over her wrists, inviting the blood back into her hands. It flowed gently over her delicate palms and agile fingers, slipping over their calloused tips. Twenty five more minutes, she thought to herself, splashing a handful of water on her pale face. Her insides danced with excitement.
　

The first time Evelyn touched a violin, she was four years old. She would always remember the way it felt - running her finger around the curled maple scroll, down its neck and glossy spruce belly. Learning to play came as naturally as running or laughing. She worked through Suzuki Book One in the first three weeks, and then her teacher referred her to one of the members of the Santa Fe symphony, who she loved dearly. Ms. Bell had red hair so curly Evelyn was strongly tempted to pull down a lock and watch it bounce at every lesson. She was patient and nurturing, fostering her tiny student‘s fledgling gift. Evelyn’s Mother, however, was not so patient. By eight years old, Mother had pulled her out of school and hired a private tutor so that more of Evelyn’s waking hours could be spent practicing. By ten, she was the youngest concert master in the Santa Fe Youth Philharmonic’s history. At age twelve, she began to notice things. Once the other members of the orchestra got over her astounding musical ability, they largely ignored her. And, she discovered, when a person is quiet, they are assumed to be deaf as well. She listened the girls talk about boys and dances and their friends at school, pointing at the faces smiling through the clear vinyl on the fronts of their notebooks. Evelyn’s notebook stared up at her, vacant. Her schedule had been tightened the older she got, rigidly enforced by Mother. Wake up, get dressed, eat, practice, study, eat, practice, study, eat, practice, go to sleep - not to mention orchestra rehearsals and performances… and, the compliant soul that she was, she got up and executed Mother’s will every day. The music was good, and she did love it, but she began to wonder if there wasn’t more to life than just music? Wasn’t music an expression of experience? Once, she tried to compose something of her own, but kept finding that she only mimicked someone else’s song… someone who had felt something real, be it joy or pain. At age fourteen, she had been concert master of the Santa Fe Youth Philharmonic for four years and Mother had decided it was time that she moved up in the music world. Today, she would audition for the Santa Fe Symphony Orchestra.



The fear began to creep in again as Evelyn walked in the green room to warm up. Her mother shot her an exasperated look and glanced at her watch as she opened her case. Expectations were everywhere. They were on the faces of the other violinists in the room, in Mother’s impatient foot, fidgeting away in its tacky shoe, in Ms. Bell’s proud smile. It was loud in the green room. Fellow musicians tuned and plucked, playing simultaneously in discordant swells, every neck marked red with devotion from the push of rosewood and ebony. Her violin seemed happy to see her as she unsheathed its sweet face, tenderly cleaning white rosin dust from its strings and belly before bringing it under her chin. It was easy to choose her solo. It was the first song she heard and asked what made such a sound… the music that made her heart full to bursting. Nonchalantly, the other violinists grew quiet as Evelyn drew the first long, gushing note of The Young Prince and the Young Princess. She forgot there were any witnesses after the first phrase and played the story as innocently as only an innocent could, weaving into every cadence her own longing for life. When she finished, the room kept still for several moments, before bursting with applause. “Rimsky Korsakov would have wept,” Mrs. Bell whispered at her side. Evelyn bowed deeply as the musicians stood cheering. Her heart cheered, too. There would be no audition. She had played the final performance of her young years, played as proof to her comrades that it was a choice… and her life would begin today.