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She wanted to know about me. I explained my job and the online poetry magazine I edited. I’d done a PhD program for comparative lit at Boston University (one of those ABD’s, all but dissertation), but now felt more at home in (cheaper) Portland, Maine than Boston, hence the move. Plus, it was a happening scene. This engendered a stumbling explanation of what “happening” meant, and I’m still not sure if her periodic head shakes were anything more than to prove she was paying attention.
It was after eight when we left the restaurant. She was dragging due to the flight, time changes and two glasses of wine but insisted on checking out the Merrill. We walked down to it. I used my press credentials to get us past the night man, and we walked around the theater as well as stood on stage. She loved the space, saying how much she enjoyed older concert halls. In the Southwest, everything was new and plastic. By ten I was in my Forest Avenue apartment, while she was undoubtedly enjoying the nighttime harbor lights from Room 814 before dropping off to sleep on a foam top, queen-sized Serta-Perfect.
Thursday morning’s rehearsal was the Elgar Cello Concerto in E Minor. I’m not much of a classical music buff. I know about Beethoven and Mozart but couldn’t name anything by Elgar if my life depended on it. Soon Rae was dressed in casual musician chic — black slacks, a plum turtle neck and the ubiquitous artsy scarf. I’m sure that half her duffle bag contained scarves for any and all occasions.
She was relaxed with plenty of low-keyed banter between her and the silver-haired conductor. Most of his criticism was directed at the orchestra to dial it down, allowing the cello to shine. They went at it for three hours, breaking often while the maestro ironed out some rough spots with the strings and a weak brass section. She didn’t want to leave the place for lunch, so I went out to Sully’s for roast beef grinders. We sat in the back row of the hall, trying not to make too much of a mess. They did a final run through about three in the afternoon, then called it a day. Clearly, there were areas of concern, but they’d work on them late tomorrow afternoon and hope that the evening concert would benefit from that.
We had the afternoon to ourselves. “Show me America” was what she answered when I asked what she wanted to do. I drove her to the Old Port and let her loose in the shops, trying to act interested when she held up cute things. She was close to buying several items but always stopped short. She really had no place to keep stuff; she’d been living on a friend’s couch out in San Francisco. Three hours of shopping resulted in one hand-painted scarf before we headed to Gilbert’s for chowder, fresh shucked oysters and succulent clam rolls.
She wanted to see where I lived. I hesitated, because I’m not the neatest person and immediately played back how I’d left the place before I left that morning. I figured, what the hell; she’d probably come from much worse in Korea.
She liked it: plenty of books lying around (I tend to read several at a time), and she went through my CD collection. She wanted to do more modern material with the cello, take the instrument out of the stuffy concert hall, as it were. Still bloated from our seafood, we settled for wine and Girl Scout cookies I had lying around. In an off-handed manner, she wondered aloud if she could save money by staying with me.
“Actually, your agency pays for the hotel and meals, which is why I keep the receipts.”
She ignored that logic and offered up that she didn’t sleep well in hotels, plus she couldn’t practice the cello for fear of disturbing others. There was much noise from other rooms, people doing hanky panky (love that dated Korean slang) and the elevator making “bang, bang” all the time. Seeing no harm, I agreed to have her as my guest, with the proviso that she take the bedroom while I used the pullout couch in the living room.
We went back to the Holiday Inn, checked out and came back to my place. She took a stack of CDs and my Walkman into the bedroom. The last thing I heard from her was, “Good night, Mr. Derek. Don’t let bugs bite you in the bed.” And a witty Korean house guest at that.
~~~
She drove me nuts on Friday. Now I know what wives of pro athletes must deal with on game day. I made blueberry pancakes, which she ate because I had gone to the trouble to make them, and then promptly threw up. She paced. She took the cello out and practiced silent fingering. I asked why she didn’t play, and she said she was afraid of bothering me. I said it was no bother and left the apartment, heading over to my desk at the Herald. I brought back lemon chicken soup from The Greeks for lunch, which she ate and kept down. At one in the afternoon, she began to get ready. Showering, selecting the right dress and scarf took two hours; putting her hair up in a simple bun had it going on four in the afternoon. We were slated to be there at five. It was an easy walk to the Merrill from my apartment, but I knew we had to leave well before that to dispel her nervous energy.
The concert began with Beethoven’s “Leonora Overture #3.” Then she came onstage for a Dvorak short piece, “Rondo for Cello and Orchestra.” She did well. Most cello works don’t have that much pep to them, but this had spark, kind of a back and forth dueling banjo style with the orchestra. It wasn’t long enough to be a virtuoso, showstopper selection, but the audience treated it kindly.
Debussy’s “Afternoon of the Faun” opened the second half of the program, and then Soon Rae came out for the Elgar. She’d changed her scarf to one dominated by lime green. The concerto runs close to thirty minutes. She was on top of her game. I’d never heard anything by Elgar, but his work had a few surprises to it. There were no “bravos” at the end, but she was presented with a nice bouquet of flowers, standard operating procedure for women performers.
As we walked back to the apartment, she was highly critical of her playing. I tried to be supportive, but my comments were dismissed, because I really didn’t know how the music should have sounded. She slept late on Saturday morning, toyed with the cello during the afternoon, refusing to eat much because her stomach was “with butterflies” (all non-native speakers are bedeviled by English’s prepositions).
Saturday’s concert was much the same as Friday’s. She was still in a funk about her lackluster performance when I went backstage to pick her up. I suggested we walk to O’Hanlon’s Pub for something to eat. We wolfed down decent burgers and onion rings, then listened to the band. Music perked her up, and she was soon clapping in time and singing along with the crowd. On the walk home, she hooked her arm in mine and thanked me for taking her out. “Sometime I be depressed; you are cure with me tonight.”
She slept late on Sunday. I went out for a jog, grabbed the papers and a half dozen muffins. I intended to have breakfast at Bintliffs, but you have to get there early to avoid waiting in line for hours. At eleven she stumbled out of the bedroom wearing outsized sweat pants and a cat-themed tee shirt and plopped down on the couch, wanting coffee. I don’t drink the stuff, just stock a small jar of instant for what few guests I have. I offered her muffins and tea but could see she was disappointed. I said I’d go out and get her whatever she wanted while she showered. She wrote down a latte and toasted bagel order. “We go out today?”
“If you want.”
“I think stay home, no washing hair or making face up.”
“Fine, there’s always stuff on cable, or I have Netflix on demand.”
We lolled away the day. It didn’t matter what was on TV, because she drifted off during most of it. I ordered Chinese for dinner, steamed vegetable and tofu for her and the General Tso’s chicken with extra spring rolls for me.
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About D.E. Fredd
