Ari Goldman - The Late Starters Orchestra

I had my Petra adventure, but I paid for it afterward. The long bus rides to and from Jordan and the arduous walk along the rocky ancient city took a toll on my back. I could hardly move the next morning. I finally rolled out of bed and went crashing to the floor, then made my way on all fours to the bathroom. A friend brought me some pain medication but it provided only temporary relief. A fellow back sufferer in Jerusalem directed me to her osteopath, who manipulated the bones and muscles of my back but that relief, too, was temporary. Not only did I not get to practice cello, I barely got to the college. Most of the trip was spent struggling with my bad back. My biggest fear was flying home. I was not looking forward to sitting in a tiny seat in a cramped airplane for eleven hours. I loaded up on painkillers and boarded the flight. I made it home with the realization that I was going to have to put my cello dreams on hold.

In New York, my physician sent me to a physiatrist who prescribed a course of physical therapy. I went twice a week and gradually began to feel better. Soon I was able to sit at my desk, but the idea of wrapping my body around a cello seemed still far off. I am sure physical aliments happen to younger players, too, but they are especially threatening to late starters like me. We are more vulnerable to back pain — and every other pain, it seems — and we heal more slowly.

While this was going on, Elena sent around a note informing us that LSO had lost its performance space. The old coat factory turned actors’ studio booted us out. Elena found a rehearsal space in midtown near Times Square but needed something bigger for the “open rehearsals” that LSO offered four times a year. Big spaces in New York come with big price tags, something that LSO could not afford. I called my synagogue and made a “match.” LSO could play at Ramath Orah on those four Sundays at a nominal fee. To save money for a custodian, I agreed to open and close the building.

The marriage of the shul and the orchestra was a good one. On more than one occasion the orchestra was tuning up while the afternoon prayer service was getting underway. One Sunday afternoon they were short the full complement of men — ten are needed for prayer in an Orthodox congregation — and the rabbi came down to the social hall to enlist me. “Are there any other Jews here we can recruit?” he asked. Dan, the violinist, seemed pleased to accommodate. He couldn’t recite the Hebrew prayers but was certainly comfortable with the choreography of the synagogue — the getting up and the getting down and the subtle bow that punctuates the Aleynu prayer.

The next time LSO gathered at the synagogue, Dan even brought his own yarmulke and asked me several times if he was needed for a minyan. His enthusiasm reminded me of what Elena had said about how people who stretch to accommodate music in their lives might keep stretching for other new experiences.

Because of my back problems I was unable to play at our concert, but I was eager to participate as part of the audience. There were about thirty players that day and some forty guests in the hall. I took my seat among the guests, glad that I could sit without pain.

Magda raised her baton and I heard the music, imperfect to be sure, but beautiful nonetheless. But, there, from my new perspective, I noticed something that I did not see when I played with LSO. And that was the look on every musician’s face. The violinists, the violists, the double bassists, the cellists — they all looked happy. They were concentrating on the music, some with furrowed brows and clenched jaw, but there were also small, almost imperceptible grins. And when Magda conducted the final notes, and held her hands up as the last sound softly faded, those grins broke out into huge smiles. Then she swept her hands upward and everyone stood. The audience continued to applaud and the musicians, beaming, seemed almost surprised by the adulation. Each person stood just a little bit taller than when the concert started.

The joy in making music was palpable. Sitting in the audience made me eager to be back on stage. I longed to wrap my arms around my cello again and resume my cello dreams.

My physical therapist said I was not ready. My wife said I was not ready. Everyone warned me of a relapse. “You’re better off if you wait a few more weeks,” said Toni, the therapist, applying pressure to my lower back as I did modified sit-ups under her supervision. Toni, barely over five feet tall, was standing on a stepping stool to reach my back as I lay on the padded exam table. I struggled to lift off the table as she pushed down on my lower vertebrae. It seemed like she was trying to snap them back into place. “We are just getting your back into shape. Sitting in front of a cello is not going to be good for you right now.”

“Listen to her,” Shira urged when she picked me up to drive me home from therapy that day. “You’re not ready. Your back is going to go out again.” I reminded Shira of my birthday plans. My goal was to play in public and, damnit, I needed to practice. “You can’t stop me,” I said defiantly and more than a little childishly.

My argument lost some of its persuasiveness when Shira pulled the car up to the apartment. I was able to open the door but couldn’t lift myself out of the car. Shira came around to help me. “Listen to Toni. You’re not ready.”

I did, however, have images of Mr. J playing his cello well into his eighties, even as arthritis took its toll on his body. The pain passes, Mr. J explained as he played , but the beauty remains. And, in fact, the music was as gorgeous as ever.

I wasn’t going to let some back pain stop me. Later that day, as Shira was working in the dining room, I closed the door to our bedroom and called Noah. “I’m ready,” I told him. We made a date. I could easily keep Toni in the dark about this plan; Shira was the greater challenge. After all, she was working at home just feet from where I keep my cello. One day, I waited for her to go out for an appointment and, with my heart pounding, I spirited the cello out of the house and into my office a block away. Later that day, I brought my cello to Noah’s studio. While I usually walk — it’s about a mile away — I decided instead to take the bus. I didn’t want to put more stress on my back. Plus I was already worried that Shira would somehow see me or that I’d meet a friend on the street who would later tell Shira, “Oh. Hi. I just saw Ari and his cello walking down Broadway. I thought he had a bad back?”

I boarded the bus and the driver, a rather garrulous type, greeted me loudly. “Hey, Elvis,” he said, mistaking my cello for a guitar. He then leaned back in his seat and began to play air guitar. “Ba-ba-ba-ba-baaaa,” he sang and laughed good-naturedly. Smiling uncomfortably, I moved to the back of the bus trying to be as inconspicuous as any six-foot-tall person bearing a cello might be. But he wasn’t finished with me. “Wow. That is a big guitar! What kind of guitar is that?”

I quietly tried to explain that it was a cello. “A cello? Aren’t those things heavy? Should you be lugging that around? A guitar would be easier. Or may be a ukulele. We can have a luau right here on the bus!”

I looked around at the other passengers. Everyone seemed to be enjoying his banter.

The one who would have enjoyed it most was Shira. I often think that Shira has magical powers; in fact, sometimes I think she is a witch. A good witch, of course, but a witch nonetheless. Having now spent almost thirty years with someone who has eerie psychic powers of perception, I wouldn’t put anything past her. I had to wonder: Was the bus driver’s behavior somehow Shira’s doing? Was she in cahoots with the bus driver? And, if so, how did she know about my sneaking out with the cello?