Women

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The auditorium hummed with the bustle of the students taking their instruments out of cases and getting into seats. There were bursts of discordant noise as the various instruments ran short scales, loosening up, and there were occasional jokes and laughter, a murmur of conversation, and a rattle of chairs and music stands. The librarian trotted in a side door with an armload of music folders, followed by a couple of students with heavier loads, and they began working their way along the rows of the orchestra, putting the folders on the stands.

The concertmaster, a thin, nervous-looking young man of nineteen or so who had lank, black hair and a bad complexion, rose from his seat in the string section and walked to the podium, carrying his violin. He took the baton from the narrow shelf under the podium and rapped it against the side of the podium, and the conversation and movements slowly faded away. He replaced the baton and tucked his violin under his chin, then he slowly drew the bow across the strings and sounding a soft, clear A. The piano picked it up, chording, then the other instruments began to pick it up. The sound swelled, filling the auditorium as the instruments harmonized, and the concertmaster walked back to his chair. The A faded and the instruments began to noodle softly in a wavering blur of sound as the students loosened their fingers, with a background rustle from the percussion section as the drummer whisked at a snare with a pair of brooms.

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