Where The Wind Blows

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“That sounds wonderful, ladies,” Brooke cheered, making a closing motion with her hands. “This is going to be the best part of the whole concert.”

Big smiles, some complete with braces, broke out on the faces before her.

“Don’t get complacent. It’s a long time until our concert, and we have much, much harder pieces to learn. Now, go home, and don’t forget; those of you who are coming on the field trip need to be back in an hour and not a minute more.”

A blonde girl raised her hand.

“No, you didn’t turn in your paperwork on time. I told you I needed permission slips and payments no later than yesterday or you won’t be on the list. You’ll have to come with a parent.”

The girl sulked as only a disappointed rich girl can while the rest of her class meandered down the risers, their sneakers stomping on the metal planks. The heavy door of the choir room groaned open as the girls dispersed in a chattering herd.

“Brooke?” Nancy called from her office, which was set off to the rear of the choir room, with a glass wall so she could oversee rehearsals she wasn’t leading.

Brooke crossed the room. “Yes, Nancy?”

“Are you sure you don’t mind staying so late? I swear you work until seven every night.”

“As opposed to what?” Brooke teased. “I share an efficiency with a near-stranger. There’s nothing there to hold my attention. I’d rather be here. This is my true home.”

“You might try a date,” Nancy suggested.

“What’s that?” Brooke cupped her hand around her ear. “I can’t hear you.” She giggled and changed the subject. “Anyway, I won’t be here until seven tonight. The school bus is leaving for the opera hall at six. And on that note, I have a couple of things to finish up before I head out.”

Nancy gave her a purse-lipped frown. “Before you run off, I heard a rumor that they’re planning to post the head director position. I’m sure it’s a formality. Rules, you know? But you have to go through the motions. Just wanted to let you know. Be on the lookout.”

“Thank you,” Brooke told her colleague sincerely. “I will certainly do that.”

Waving to Nancy, she made her way into her office, tucked between Nancy’s and the corner. Unlike her boss’s, hers had a solid wall and a non-soundproofed door. Still, it was a nice place to escape to.

Brooke plunked into her comfortable office chair and rolled her mouse to activate the computer. One click started her classical music soundtrack. Another brought up the internet, where she quickly updated her participation grades before taking a final check of her plans for the rest of the evening. Permission slips. Tickets. Paperwork for the bus. Roster checklist. The ritual comforted her ever-present anxiety to a certain degree. The minutes passed quickly as she busied herself with mundane tasks until the time arrived to meet the students in front of the school in the bus lane.

Darkness had long since fallen, ratcheting mid-fall chill down to wintery iciness. Winter. Ugh. It’s going to be so cold. No matter how many years I spend in this city, I can’t adjust. Zipping her coat, she stepped out beside the bus. The driver operated the arm to open the door.

Various cars waited in the student parking lot. Some belched exhaust from their tailpipes as shivering parents waited to ensure their child’s safe delivery to the bus. Others sat empty, the students having gathered inside the school’s vestibule to pass the time chatting.

At Brooke’s arrival, students surged around her like a wave from the ocean. Or maybe from Lake Superior, she thought wryly. The ocean’s a long way from here.

Though the actual number of students attending the opera was small, a pack of high school students always sounds like a flock of tropical birds; a chirping, chattering cacophony of hormones and conversation. Brooke loved their energy.

“Miss Daniels,” one young woman shouted, not because she was angry, but because her normal speaking voice was incredibly loud. “Miss Daniels, my dad sent the money after all. Can I go?”

“Melissa, you and your dad should drive along behind us, in case I can’t get last-minute tickets.”

“You didn’t buy them?” the girl demanded, incredulous. “I told you I was going.”

“And I told you,” she reminded her student gently, “that you had to pay by yesterday. I’m not saying no. I’m only saying you don’t want to be stuck in the lobby. Have your dad drive you to the opera hall. If we can get tickets, fine, but I can’t guarantee it at this late time.”

Melissa sighed and stomped back to her dad’s Mercedes.

Someday, I hope she learns that deadlines apply to her, just like they do to everyone else, regardless of her dad’s income.

“Now then,” she pitched her voice higher, so all the chattering teens could hear her. They continued unabated, so she lowered her volume. “I’m going to stand over here by the door to the bus. You all listen for your name. You may board the bus when I call you. Janet Anzaldua.”

Janet obediently stepped forward, and Brooke smiled. The quiet senior always set a good example for her younger, more rambunctious classmates.

“Janet, I have your letter of recommendation ready to go. I’ll drop it in the mail tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Miss Daniels,” Janet said earnestly. She tugged her letterman jacket tighter around her body, adjusted her gloves and climbed up the noisy steps onto the bus.

“Aimée Borden. Sophia Cardini. Damien Fernandez. Jorge Gutierrez.” One by one, she ticked off the students and ushered them onto the bus. Then she boarded behind them.

The stinking beast lurched away from the curb, pulling cautiously into the stream of traffic that continuously flowed past Mahalia Jackson Art and Music Academy. It headed downtown toward the opera hall and the students’ first experience with live musical theater.

It always surprised Brooke how many people attended opera performances here in this city. The crowd surrounding the opera hall hindered the bus’s forward movement. Three busses ahead of them also crept toward the front doors inch by painful inch.

The huge white structure with its three mismatched towers loomed over them.

“Wow,” Sophia breathed. “It’s so pretty.”

“The angles and roof lines are appalling,” Aimée snapped.

Brooke grinned at her impatience. She’s going to be one hell of an architect someday.

The bus finally inched its way to a stop in front of the building. The door hissed open, and Brooke descended, blocking the exit with her body. The students crowded up.

“Okay, guys. Stay with me, all the time now. I don’t want to lose any of you. I’ll be calling roll when we leave the will-call desk and when we get to our seats, so do not wander. Bathroom only with a buddy. Everyone understand?”

Nods and affirmative responses greeted her.

“Okay, let’s go.” She stepped aside, and her twelve young music-lovers filed off the bus and gathered on the sidewalk, shivering and blowing frosty breath in the air. Wow, it’s cold for October.

After a quick count of heads, Brooke pointed at the doors. In a knot, they climbed up to massive double doors, now flung wide and flanked with ushers. Entering an opulent, crowded lobby, she herded her young charges toward the will-call desk beneath a ceiling of crossing beams and gleaming pink panels in diamond shapes.

From behind a heavily-carved desk, a uniformed man with long sideburns asked, “Can I help you?”

She smiled at him. “Thirteen tickets under the Mahalia Jackson Art and Music Academy account.”

He raised one eyebrow, but dutifully punched keys on his computer. A moment later, he passed a thick stack of small rectangles printed with the opera’s logo.

“Thank you,” she said, collecting the tickets.

From the corner of her eye, Brooke saw Melissa and her father, matching scowls on their faces, stomping out of the opera house. They headed away from a ticket window from which a sign bearing the words SOLD OUT hung.

Brooke grinned. Then she sailed through the lobby, leading a trail of teenaged ducklings into the concert hall. With a bit of help from a female usher, she found their seats, along the aisle in three partial rows. Brooke claimed the rear corner seat, where she could keep tabs on all her students.

“So, guys,” she said, luring heads in her direction, “take a look at your program. This opera, as we’ve discussed, is called Faust. Many composers have set it, but this particular one is by Charles Gounod.” She enunciated the name carefully in French. “It tells the story of a doctor who sells his soul to the devil. The devil is called Méphistophélès, and you should pay close attention to his famous aria, where he laughs. It’s a famous and surprisingly tricky role…” She cut off, realizing she was rambling.

The lights flashed.

“Okay, kiddos. We’re about to start. Last potty call until intermission.”

Three girls scrambled up the aisle together. The rest of the kids settled in, some reading the libretto, others idly chatting, until the lights went out again. Then, the music rose. First, a strong cord. Then, the low strings began a pulsing beat, which the violins transformed into a mournful yet passionate melody, rendered strange by unexpected accidentals. Another, higher cord rang through the concert hall. The low strings again built into a sad, tender melody as the stage lights illuminated a scholar at a table, wrapped in a red blanket.

The music and story immediately swept Brooke away. In the long minutes that followed, she had no idea whether her students chatted, slept or pulled out their phones to distract themselves. The stage, the music and drama thereon, captivated her.

At last, the moment she’d been waiting for. Méphistophélès appeared.

Even from this distance, Brooke could make out the soft fullness of his form. The gleam of his dark skin. The coarse crinkles of his thick beard. He enunciated the French lyrics flawlessly, with a sincerity that surpassed mere acting. His serenade began, teasing her senses with a roguish charm and a wicked chuckle that had been written into the music. The whites of his eyes flashed as he rolled them in fiendish delight.

I’m being seduced by the devil, she thought, not sure whether that amused or alarmed her. How long has it been since I was seduced? Too long, my sister would say, and yet, it doesn’t seem to have been nearly long enough. Not after…

Her mind veered away from painful memories. The opera, Brooke. Watch the opera. There’s no harm in crushing on a handsome bass. He’s unavailable and way out of your league, just like a celebrity. A safe crush. It’s perfect.

So, she allowed herself to wallow in his gorgeous, low tone, his handsome face, his delightfully charming evil persona. Time passed. Faust faced his eternal reckoning, choosing damnation to save his beloved. The devil took his due.

As the final notes faded away, Brooke sank back in her chair, saturated in music and infatuation. She closed her eyes, letting the moment seep into her soul.

Light flared behind her closed lids.

“Miss Daniels,” an adolescent female voice cut into her awareness. She opened her eyes to see Sophia peering at her curiously. “Miss Daniels, did you fall asleep?”

She shook her head. “No, of course, not. I was just taking it in. Well, ladies and gentlemen, what did you think?”

Blank, bewildered faces met her gaze.

“Need some time to process it?”

Nods.

“Okay, let’s make our way back to the doors. Again, stick together. I don’t want to lose anyone.”

They rose and made their way toward the rear of the hall.

“Miss? Miss Daniels?” A hand tugged at her sleeve.

“What is it, Lupita?”

“I need to use the bathroom.”

Brooke suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “Okay, Lupita. Better now than halfway back to school, I guess, but there may be a long line.” Actually, waiting a few minutes in line here in the warm building might be preferable to waiting on the cold, stinky bus.

“Change of plans, everyone. We’re making a potty stop. Take the opportunity, because it’s a bit of a drive, as you might recall, and the traffic downtown is heavy, even late at night.”

The boys groaned in annoyance, but relief blossomed on several female faces. Bingo. I had a feeling.

After stepping from the concert hall into the expansive lobby, they picked through a massive, roaring crowd, executed a sharp left turn, and headed toward a discreet sign nearly hidden in the dark wood paneling. As expected, a long line of women, many wearing fur wraps and glittering gowns, waited for their turn. Outside the men’s room, two gentlemen in suits chatted, not clearly in line, but not clearly out of it either.

Typical, Brooke thought. Venues should make twice as many ladies’ rooms as men’s rooms. That would help.

To their credit, her girls stood sedately in the line, chatting at a quiet volume and not dancing in place as they waited. Their school-issued performance gowns, while not as fancy as the blue-sequined sheath on the woman in front of them, didn’t look out of place.

The boys approached their restroom, quietly questioning the waiting gentlemen, and upon hearing that they were, in fact, in line, took their places behind.

Keeping part of her attention focused on her students, Brooke allowed herself a moment to people watch, wondering if she’d see anyone she knew. Even in a big city, the music teacher community is not so big we can’t occasionally meet up. She scanned the faces but didn’t recognize anyone.

As her students inched toward the restroom, a bit of conversation, pitched at a different volume than the rest of the crowd, cut through to her.

“Sir, are you aware that your role, Méphistophélès, represents the devil?”

“Well, of course,” A richly-dark tone replied.

Brooke’s head turned involuntarily, snapping to the side as she gawked, stunned, at the familiar dark face and full beard of her favorite bass.

“Gentlemen, I’ve spent the best part of a year preparing this role. Aside from the fact that we’re singing, not speaking, this is an acting job. I had to consider the character; his motivations, drives and weaknesses so I could bring it to life. I knew before I began that I was playing the devil. I knew before I began rehearsing what Faust was about.”

It’s an interview, Brooke realized, eyeing the two pale young adults. They’re covering the concert for something, possibly a school project or student newspaper.

They glanced at each other with the oddest expression on their faces. The taller of the two, a slender young blond who looked like a runner, cleared his throat. “Don’t you think their casting is a bit inappropriate?”

Kenneth’s dark eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean?”

Oh, God. I know where this is headed. Kenneth doesn’t deserve this. Not when he’s on a post-performance high. That alone could be enough to make his answer less than thought out and measured, which will only fuel their nonsense. She waited, curious how these dweeby social-justice warriors would handle their extremely rude and ignorant questions.

“I mean, as a person of color, it’s typical to be cast in the antagonist role, while the Caucasian gets the lead. It makes me question the motivations of the opera’s leadership.”

Kenneth’s face twisted. “Um, I don’t think that’s right, I…” He stuttered, brow furrowed, seeking words to explain the situation. “It has nothing to do with that.”

“But how can you be sure? This sort of racism is often covert.”

“That’s not what this is about. I, uh…” he struggled again, the words refusing to form.

I know what that feels like. It’s such a shock to the system, trying to think moments after a heady performance. They’re going to make him sound like an i***t because their questions are so far from where his mind is at.

Brooke had heard enough. Stepping away from her students, who had nearly reached the front of the line anyway, she barged up to the group.

“You guys knock that s**t off,” she snapped.

They turned to stare at her. Her cheeks heated at her own unexpected boldness, but if there was one thing her father had always taught her, it was that you should never back down. Especially since I’m righting a wrong, not that Dad would care about that.

“Look,” she explained, trying to rein in her temper, “you’ve just taken in a gorgeous musical performance, one that represents years of planning, months of rehearsal, and all you can talk about is your own white guilt? You’ll need to find better ways to assuage that than harassing an artistic genius moments after he leaves the stage. But let me make one thing perfectly clear. You are so far off base with this line of questioning, you might as well just stop. Rewrite your questions so they’re not stupid and try again later.”

“Ma’am, I know you think you’re helping,” the tall one said, condescension dripping from his tone, but…”

“But nothing,” Brooke interrupted. “Your questions are ignorant. Faust calls for a tenor as the lead, a bass as the antagonist. Mr. Hill is not a tenor. That role would have been out of his vocal range. He would never have been cast that way, not because of his race but because his voice won’t go that high. It’s as simple as that.”

“Then perhaps,” the shorter blond boy gently suggested, “they might have chosen a different show…”

“Why?” Brooke demanded. “If the opera company’s tenor were black, or if the whole cast were white, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we? There’s nothing wrong with the opera. In reality, the company has selected singers without consideration of race, caring only for their musical talents and the skills they’ve developed.”

She drew in a quick breath and ranted on “They cast those musicians in the roles to which their voices are best suited. Isn’t that the goal? For each person, no matter their skin color, to be selected for the position for which they are best suited?”

The two young men stared at her. A hint of understanding dawned in the eyes of the shorter one again, but the bigger one still looked confused.

“Instead of prodding into an accidental alignment, why not comment on the beauty of the performance, the incredible way in which all the singers—including Mr. Hill—executed their roles. I mean, it’s actually rude of you two to assume that he somehow didn’t know what he was taking on. He’s a professional musician and actor. He knows what his role represents. If it had bothered him, he wouldn’t have agreed to it, and for you to imply that he didn’t understand what he was doing is actually far more insulting than him taking on a challenging, famous operatic role and executing it convincingly.”

“Well,” the taller student snapped, his challenged ego puffing up, “I think you’re…”

“Stop, Brett.” The shorter one laid a hand on his arm. “She’s right about at least one thing. Our assumption about Mr. Hill’s awareness was way off base. I think we should rethink some of our questions. We don’t want to write an ignorant piece, do we?” He closed his hand on his friend’s arm and all but dragged him away.

In the wake of the tense confrontation, Brooke sagged.

“Thank you,” the deep voice said softly.

She inhaled, and the scent of cologne and perfect male filled her in every cell of her body.

“I know you,” he added. “Where have I seen you before?”

“Symphony chorale,” she pointed out.

Awareness dawned. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Miss Daniels?” Sophie asked.

Brooke glanced behind her to see her gaggle of students gathered around her, finished with their pit stop.

“Ready to go?” she asked. They nodded. She turned her attention back to Kenneth. “I have to get my students back to school now. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Hill. The performance was glorious. Guys, did you like the show?”

“I like how you laughed in your solo,” Damien said. “I’m a bass too. I think I’m going to learn that one for my college auditions.”

Kenneth beamed at the youth. “You do that. It’s tough, but if you can handle it, you’ll really set yourself apart. Swing for the fences, young man.”

Damien beamed.

See, that’s what I’m talking about. Artists encouraging each other.

“Thank you again, Miss… Daniels was it?”

“Yes. Brooke Daniels.” She extended one hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Hill.”

His hand, warm and slightly damp after so much time under stage lights, engulfed hers and sent a tingle all the way up her arm. “Call me Kenneth. It’s great to meet you.” He turned to her students, shaking each one’s hand and thanking them for coming.

At last, Brooke led her group out to the bus. She took roll with only the slightest attention to the names on her roster.

Still in a daze, she delivered the students to their waiting parents, floated to her office to retrieve her satchel, and drove home without noticing the road. She barely remembered the rule she and her roommate had put in place and didn’t turn on the lights, lest Jackie be sleeping.

She wasn’t.

Soft groans and squeaking springs greeted Brooke as she crept in the door.

Not wanting to interrupt, she slipped into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and made her way to bed in near silence.

The sounds of her roommate’s ongoing encounter blended with images of a handsome, bearded face, the sound of a rich, low voice, the scent that still lingered in her nose, and the sensation of his hand on hers. Wrapped in overpowering sensations, she slipped into a long and passionate dream.