Rendezvous

The keys jingled in the dim foyer, along with the sound of approaching footsteps. In a moment, the massive oak doors creaked open. Mr. Howard Davidson, with his companion, stepped out into the bright sunshine. He gazed upward for a long moment at the majestic white stone building from where he had come. He could see the tall chamber that stretched toward the sky. He still pictured the great console inside.

“Tired?” The girl’s voice struck the still air.

The man nodded slightly. “One more rehearsal day, Julie, and then…”

“A wonderful concert,” she added, “by a marvelous artist.”

He smiled, his eyes still fixed on the immense structure before him. “It’s a fabulous organ.” Together they started toward Howard’s little red Volkswagen, which was almost lost in the late afternoon shadow of Carnegie Hall.

It was rush hour in New York City, yet Howard Davidson hardly saw the busy streets or heard the honking about him. His mind drifted back as he remembered how this had all begun.

It was in Phoenix—his own city. Even now, he sensed the breathless silence of the desert cathedral before his hands ever played a note. He felt the thrill of the keyboard as the sounds from the giant pipes filled the church and floated out into the summer night. But it hadn’t stopped there. After San Francisco, there had been Dallas, and then—

“The Chicago concert,” the girl’s voice filtered into his reminiscence, “—how does that organ compare with this one?”

“Well, the Chicago organ had a better selection of reed stops, but this one has ten more ranks of pipes. However,” he went on, “I’ve never seen such an acoustically responsive auditorium as—”

“Pardon me, Mr. Davidson,” Julie broke in, “but we just passed the hotel.”

With a chuckle, he turned the car at the next intersection. He still basked in the memories of the wild ovation in Miami and the fan letters from Los Angeles and Denver. And now—his biggest chance—he would perform in New York. Success here meant success of the entire concert tour.

“Thank you.” Julie stepped out of the car when they pulled up to the front door.

“I must make a few more calls—president of the A.G.O., New York Times editor,” he commented briefly. “See you later.”

That night in the hotel, Howard stopped by the pay phone in the lobby. He unfolded the slip of paper that he drew from his pocket. “Call Janie—Cherry 4-9761,” it read. After dialing with a slow, steady hand, he waited.

“Hello?” The woman’s voice seemed unsuspecting.

“Hello. This is Howard Davidson calling. I received a message this morning to call—”

“Howard!” she cried in sheer delight. “How are you?”

“Fine, Janie.” He smiled. “Never thought I would talk to you in New York City! Are you living here now?”

“No,” she replied, “just vacationing. I just happened to see the announcement in the morning paper for your concert tomorrow night. They gave the name of your hotel, but I wasn’t sure the message would get to you.”

Howard chuckled. “Well, will I see you before we both leave town? You’ll be at Carnegie tomorrow night?”

“You bet I will!” she assured him. “And if I can fight my way through the crowds—”

“I’ll be looking for you, Janie.” Howard pictured the scene.

“The French have a word for it, don’t they?” Her voice was almost mysterious.

“Oh—rendezvous?” He chuckled. “Tomorrow night, Janie.”

“Goodbye, Howard,” she murmured, “until then.”

Howard slept little that night. His music lay undisturbed on the desk close beside him, but Howard tossed and turned. Every hum of the elevator outside his room seemed to Howard like the surging wind past the huge shutters of the organ. Every onrush of traffic was a sudden sforzando of the 32-foot pedal notes. Every whisper of wind brought the ethereal flutes and strings from high above Howard’s whirling brain. Every moonbeam was a great staff pushing the half notes, the quarter notes, the dotted eighths and sixteenths that filled his weary body.

Morning came at last. Howard was already in the parking lot when he realized Julie was not with him. Then he saw her slight frame leaning on his car.

“You’re late,” she said politely. “Weren’t we to leave at nine?”

“I’m sorry.” He hung his head. Then, “Hey, what are you doing out here? I mean, why did you come out—”

Julie laughed. “I knew you were deep in contemplation,” she said. “You have been for several days. Anyway, it was such a lovely morning for a walk. So I just ended it here.”

He opened her door. “I’m so glad you understand.”

With a click, he snapped open his briefcase. “Check the music, will you, please?”

“Yes, sir!” Methodically, Julie lifted the stacks of music from the tan leather bag and, with secretarial efficiency, soon had everything in complete order. “Relax!” she commanded gently, looking at his tensed physique. “You know it all so well.”

He took a deep breath as one hand fell from the steering wheel to shift gears. “Just the thought of tonight!” he stared straight ahead. “Julie, do you realize what it can mean to a musician’s career!”

“Yes,” she replied softly, “I know.”

The empty auditorium was almost cold that July morning as Howard’s skilled hands and feet called forth the powers of the greatest masters that had ever lived—Bach, Buxtehude, Franck. Although she had heard his repertoire many times, Julie stood wide-eyed and entranced, never moving a muscle except to turn the pages as Howard had beckoned. After all, that’s what she was there to do.

Hour after hour passed. Boellman. Handel. Mozart. Sowerby. Hindemith. It was well past one o’clock that warm afternoon when Howard and Julie seated themselves in a small sidewalk café called The Rendezvous. The food was excellent, but Howard ate very little.

At long last he spoke. “The Organ Concerto in E-flat,” he said dreamily as Julie nodded slightly. “How would it sound with the orchestra parts on a Steinway or Yamaha grand?”

She looked at him with almost amused curiosity. “Might sound all right. Probably sound better with an orchestra.”

His deep blue eyes pierced through her seemingly complacent countenance. “But we could work it up in a few months’ time—don’t you think?”

“Could be, perhaps,” Julie agreed. Then, with a twinkle, “You can’t afford an orchestra, Mr. Davidson?”

“And you, too?” He smiled condescendingly.

There was a long moment of silence. The neon sign above the café, visible from their table, kept flashing on and off. Rendezvous. Rendezvous.

“Tonight!” Howard breathed half out loud. His gaze shot far past the milling crowds. “Just thinking of—of the future,” he mused, “and all it could mean.”

During the rest of the afternoon, Howard tried to relax as much as possible, but it was difficult in view of the big event that every moment brought closer and closer. He stretched out on a lounge by the pool and buried himself in the latest issues of The Organ Journal Julie had so thoughtfully brought. It was a lazy day, but he seemed to absorb little of the casual atmosphere that surrounded him. For a fleeting moment he thought of his pupils in California—those ambitious young organ students, so promising but so untrained as he once had been. He even thought once of visiting the museum at Carnegie—the Music Hall of Fame. At last he dozed—his contorted body started to unwind—as the sun sank lower in the sultry sky.

Presently Julie appeared with a cool glass of lemonade. “Supper will be served in half an hour,” she announced.

He looked blankly for a long moment into her innocent brown eyes. “Thank you,” he said.