August 7, 2005 at 10:06 AM

All the musicians are tied up at the moment. The summer music festival is in full swing, and I'm playing hookey from the community orchestra. I don't know if most of them have the summer off, or are otherwise less occupied, but I found forty hours of rehearsal and driving over the next two weeks, all on top of a gloriously hectic job, to be a bit too much. So I play hookey while all the musicians flock to rehearsal.

Meanwhile, Peter and Erin planned their wedding, picking the colors, booking the restaurant, calling the cake decorator. Little did they know that they should never have picked the 13th of August for their most special day, for all the musicians of the town have vacated. By the time the bride-to-be reached me, she had such a desperate look about her that I felt the urge to rub my hands together with dollar signs zinging in my eyes. I refrained--after all, she's my friend. She begged me to play. It was all up to me. Me, and the Russian Pianist.

Peter talked to me the other night about the pianist. "Yeah, she goes to our church, and we like her a lot, and perhaps you could work things out with her over the phone and get back with us." Sure, no problem. With emphasis on the word "you", they seemed overly enthusiastic to hand me all the power of coordinating the music end of things. I heard the Russian play Rachmaninoff a couple of years ago at the local "Evening of Classics" concert, and felt more assured about blindly accepting a gig with so little notice. At least I knew we could play Pachelbel.

I tried to contact her and got the machine the first two times, so I left a couple of lengthy messages. Then came a brief response on my own machine: "Yeah Natasha, I call back." Later, "Yeah Natasha, I'm looking... ...play Pachelbel for... ...not have Bach... ...call me." I couldn't understand everything that lies between the dots, since her accent was authentically thick. Later, I tried her number once more.

"Yeah Natasha." Behind her voice, I could hear a recording of a rich tenor voice singing opera. "Nice music," I commented. She began to talk about the singer as she flipped off the recording. I immediately drowned in her accent, and although I caught more than once the phrase, "You see, my English is clumsy," I knew little else in the soliloquy. She was explaining her love of the tenor; I caught that part. "...beautiful... ...favorite... ...moral, spiritual, physical... rich and full..." She shared her passion for the opera singer for some ten minutes as I squinted to see if it would help me understand her better. I suppose it didn't matter if I translated all the words anyway; I got the gist of what she meant. She let me know that if we should become friends, she would have me borrow the recording so I could enjoy it with her.

I've spoken with Natasha twice now, and I'm curious as to exactly how much we each are successfully translating. I suspect that as I speak, she squints her eyes on the other end of the line to see if it helps her understand me better.

One thing we're both clear on: Pachelbel. I think I'm getting her the music on Tuesday, and I think she lives on Redoubt street, and I think we're rehearsing on Friday. I know we're playing Pachelbel.

From Laurie Niles
Posted on August 8, 2005 at 5:32 AM

Maybe this will be the start of a beautiful relationship, eh? It is nice to have a pianist to play with!

From Pauline Lerner
Posted on August 8, 2005 at 11:14 PM

How about communicating by email? Heavy accent no problem. I'm sure you can handle this, Emily. Just remember that music is an international language. ;-)

From Patty Rutins
Posted on August 9, 2005 at 2:44 PM

Maybe she'll teach you some Russian swear words!

From Emily Grossman
Posted on August 10, 2005 at 10:03 AM

She might after I lost her number and couldn't get to her house. Not off to a great start...

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