Chapter 14

The next week passed quickly for me. I re-re-rehearsed the Ravel tone poem that the AMO was playing. It wasn’t a hard piano score; Ravel didn’t use the piano much. Then, every day, I set about learning the Kreutzer Sonata. That was hard and not hard at the same time. Only the third movement was technically difficult. It was the interactions with the violinist that were hard.

I downloaded the Isaac Stern sound track, the 1964 version, ‘SoloMusic.mus’ was a god send; they had solo versions of all types, played by famous musicians as far back as they could find them. I also got the Yehudi Menuhin track, from 1945. I hoped that Suzanne would play more like Stern; Menuhin was too ... romantic style. He was always slowing down and speeding up. I could tell that his partner would have had trouble keeping up with him.

On Tuesday, I got a welcome surprise. A mp4 recording of Suzanne playing her version of the Kreutzer – just her part. That made interfacing with her music easier, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Also in Tuesday’s office mail was a thick FedEx package of papers: the contract from Davenport for Town Hall – I was to be paid $1,000 for the night – and his ‘standard representative agreement.’ I took both of them to my friendly contract lawyer down the hall at DOJ-Atlanta.

The b-K didn’t notice. On Wednesday, I told her about my upcoming performances at the Atlanta Arts Center: my premier on Sunday afternoon, and a repeat performance on the following Wednesday – Thanksgiving eve. She couldn’t make it for Sunday, but would be happy to catch the Wednesday show.

For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what she would be doing on Sunday. Then it came to me: of course, the Indianapolis Colts would be playing in Lucas Oil Field. I guess she’d be playing on Lucas’s home field as well. Maybe he’d be sending a blitzer down the throat of her fall back position. Or maybe he’d be nailing her ass when he sacked her.

Bitch.

That thought almost interrupted my rehearsal with sassy Ohlman Roosevelt, the AMO’s guest conductor – but I powered through. Who listens to the piano part of a Ravel tone poem? No one.

Sunday came. I did my part, though no one noticed – except maybe Suzanne Moise and Ludmilla Resnikova. Fourth row, center section, on the aisle. She looked smashing: black evening dress, pearls, baby bump and all. I couldn’t see Luddy’s dress, though honestly, I really didn’t care. I waited backstage through the Haydn, and managed to sneak a peek at the fourth row. She was leaning back, eyes closed. Maybe she was replaying her role when she was a ‘mere’ 2^nd violinist in the early stages of her career. Who knows?

I met her and she insisted on meeting Ms Roosevelt, one of the local black women conductors, who was positively THRILLED at meeting the GREAT and FAMOUS Suzanne Moise. The woman conductor greeted her with a shriek that only the dolphins at the aquarium could decipher and a very carefully cautious hug that managed to avoid the obvious baby beach ball that Suzanne had swallowed.

Suzanne beamed back and introduced Ludmilla Resnikova. I was only the piano player from the orchestra. I didn’t worry. I WAS only the piano player, after all. Not only that, I didn’t understand dolphin.

Suzanne just HAD to be introduced to the concertmeister – the principal violinist in the orchestra. He was polite and respectful of Suzanne’s time. Also, he obviously didn’t understand dolphin either.

We descended on one of Peach Street’s fine restaurants, just after their Sunday evening opening. Suzanne had the chef salad and a glass of milk. Ludmilla had a pasta al forno. I was the male, so I had a steak. We discussed the Kreutzer, of course. How was I doing? Fine, and her audio file was a great help in learning how she wanted to play it. Did I have anything to add – the sonata was supposed to be a conversation between equals, after all? Well yes, I thought she ramped up the crescendos (get louder) in the third movement too quickly.

And so forth.

Later, at home, I reflected on how Suzanne treated me as an equal. A treatment that the b-K never had given me – I realized – not in the 14 ½ years of our marriage. Not even in the 14 years pre-Lucas. Well, what could one expect of a goddess? Equal with the mortal she allowed to share her abode? Never.

I was happy in my servitude, as I thought back on it. I was expecting the shoe to drop at any point, wasn’t I? So it fell.

I had a decision to make. The end of the symphony’s season was coming up. Well, it would be coming up in May, and it was only November. But what was coming up before then was how to serve Lucas his taste of the revenge pie that I was cooking up.

Four and a half years ago, we – Atlanta DOJ – had cut a deal with a hard core hacker that put him in ice, locked away from his computer, in exchange for information about some German hackers who stole some information, and blah, blah, blah. I could track him down, and perhaps strike another deal. I thought he was probably online again. After all, it was his main skill.

It was simple to find his address. A small cottage in the Tennessee mountains without internet connections. But the world changed in four years, in the internet-connection world. I took a weekend off – the orchestra was not in need of me. Then me and my trusty rented car – who could trust that the Tennessee mountains would have a charging station for my new Tesla (courtesy of Mrs. James’s credit card) – went hacker hunting.

For once the GPS voice didn’t send me into a ditch. About forty miles south west of Pigeon Forge, TN, was the supposed hide-out of Salmonella, my hacker of choice. I followed the dirt road to his ‘cottage.’ Some cottage. It was a two-story colonial, complete with a pair of pillars setting off the front door. I parked in front of the door, and pushed the bell. I heard the ding-dong of the bell, and stood back. I waved at the doorbell, and held up my DOJ credentials.