Violists | Page 6

you seem... more evolved, shall we say."
Having drawn out the key, she beckoned him to follow. They ascended
the back staircase--likewise taboo for patrons. All the while Gretchen
thought how to exonerate herself should she be caught by one of her
superiors while leading a patron-- alone--into the inner sanctum. She
decided the best approach would be to plead ignorance--"Oh," she
could say, "I had no idea that professors were considered ordinary
patrons." Would that be sufficient excuse?
The book was easy to find, and Gretchen put herself to no particular
difficulty--but nevertheless, Professor Bridwell's thanks were profuse.
He consulted the book--which could not leave the library--for an hour
or more. On departing he returned the book to the counter. He inclined
his head, with the now-familiar flop of his curly hair, and said, "I do
hope to have the pleasure again, Miss Haviland."
Gretchen watched from Miss Sadie's desk as he departed through the
foyer and down the steps leading out. She closed her eyes for a moment
and sat quietly after he had left--simply savoring the moment. A faint
scent lingered behind him: a distinctive cologne that left quite a
favorable impression on her.
* * *
Gretchen attended a short afternoon concert on campus. It was the last
student recital of the season, and she had heard tell of the program: the
afternoon was to open with mazurkas by Chopin and a selection of
those divine "Transcendental Etudes" by Liszt--she could not stay away.
Chopin was an aperitif, followed by a few mildly diverting piano works
by students. Then, she sat breathless and transported--utterly
transported, halfway to tears upon a bed of clouds--through the etudes
of Liszt. In particular she had never heard the "Harmonies du Soir"
more beautifully rendered.
After an intermission, which she spent simply sitting quietly, pondering
the exquisite delicacies of Liszt's piano writing, the second part of the
concert opened with Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons", performed by an
intimate ensemble rather than with the full complement of strings. The
performers were students, to be sure, but she found it delightful

nonetheless. When the "Autumn" season opened, she even felt a sudden
chill in the air--the performance was so wonderfully effective--and she
pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She chanced then
to look across the audience, and thought that several rows down, in
front of her, she saw Professor Bridwell. She had no idea he liked
concerts; in fact, she realized that she knew nothing whatever about
him. She was positive it was the professor--even from the back, there
was no mistaking his curly hair. At once she realized that he rather
resembled portraits of Hector Berlioz. He sat upright, almost leaning
forward in a posture that seemed ready to rise in an instant. She fancied
that could she but see his handsome face, his eyes would be closed, as
he was carried away by the music, blown upon Vivaldi's autumn wind.
Why she was looking at the audience rather than at the orchestra she
really did not know--she forced her gaze away from the professor's
back and tried to concentrate again upon the music. But her effort was
unsuccessful.
When the concert was ended, Gretchen fairly ran to the exit, and stood
there at the door, looking back across the auditorium. Yes, it was he,
she saw finally. He was coming up the aisle and she glimpsed his face
among the swarm of bodies. He appeared to be alone; he spoke to
nobody. She stepped out of the way and kept looking across the
audience, as if seeking someone else. He soon arrived, and when he
walked past, she turned and looked at him, as if suddenly noticing him
for the first time.
His smile was as delightful as always. "Good evening, Miss Haviland,"
he said, with a tone of warmth.
"Good evening, Professor." Gretchen thought that he slowed for a
second or two, but she felt acutely embarrassed to be observing him too
closely, and looked away toward the crowd again. He continued
walking.
When the professor had passed, Gretchen let out her breath slowly. Into
the thick of the crowd she plunged, and went out through the lobby.
Evening had come on and it was dark outside. Vast hordes were
dispersing across the plaza, pouring from the auditorium. As she
stepped into the bitterly chill air and started down the stairs, a voice
hailed her from behind.
"Are you alone, then, Miss Haviland?"

Gretchen whirled around at the sound of the professor's voice, in time
to see him laugh briefly. He was standing just outside the doors, facing
outward, his greatcoat pulled tightly around himself.
Gretchen went to stand on the step below. "Actually, yes," she replied,
looking up. "I am alone. I came by myself on a whim."
"It's