William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

But it didn’t really matter what the provocation might have been. Maestro Palmer would have gotten a nasty notice in any case. That was Ridley C. Groendal. To know him was not necessarily to love him. That was an accomplishment of Peter Harison—and few others.

“Uh-oh . . . take a look out there!” Cellist Roberta Schwartz beckoned David Palmer to the peephole.

“Who is it?” Palmer asked. “Oh, never mind; I can tell from your tone: It’s the gargoyle, isn’t it?”

“And early, too.”

“Naturally. He wouldn’t want anyone to miss the fact that he’s arrived. Groendal—either early or a late grand entrance—you can depend on it . . . the News or Free Press here yet?”

Roberta moved her head from side to side to scan the panorama of the hall. “No, not yet. But why should they be: They’re normal.”

She moved away from the peephole so Palmer could use it.

“Uh-huh.” Palmer squinted through the small opening. “There he is, the old fart, already making notes in his program. I mean, how can you review a concert before the damn thing begins?”

“I wonder how we did.”

Despite his foreboding, Palmer smiled. “Not well. On that you can depend. I wonder what we did wrong this time?”

“This is only a guess—God knows Groendal could write anything as long as it’s so filled with jargon that no one can comprehend it—but if he’s writing before we begin, I’ll bet he doesn’t like the program.”

“That sounds a little too logical for Groendal.”

“Just for safety’s sake, you wanna tuck in a little Stravinsky?”

“Not unless you want everyone to leave at intermission and not come back—ever!”

“Just asking.”

“Let’s just give it our best shot. At least we can hope the two dailies will be honest and maybe even objective. Besides, I’m afraid I insured us a really rotten review from Groendal.”

“That couldn’t have been hard. Most people can get a really rotten notice from him without trying at all. What could you have done besides become leader of this group?”

“I sent him a note . . . a letter.”

“Conciliatory, I hope.”

“’Fraid not. I really told him what I think of him and his so-called expertise. And I added a little personal message that should have set his teeth to grinding.”

“I guess it wouldn’t matter; in the final analysis we’re all going to get it eventually. Oh, well, maybe we’ll get lucky: Maybe your note will upset Groendal so much that he’ll just up and drop dead. He does have high blood pressure, you know.”

“And heart problems too.” Palmer seemed uncomfortable. “I must admit the thought has crossed my mind. What a service to humanity if someone could eliminate him! Maybe it could be done by making him so damn mad he’d explode.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think my note worked though. I sent it quite a few days ago and . . . well, there he is: ready to stick his stiletto into us and twist it.”

“Oh, don’t give up hope. You know how backed up the mail gets at Christmastime. Maybe the post office hasn’t delivered your message yet. So maybe Groendal hasn’t read it yet.” She grinned. “Maybe you’ll kill him yet.”

The very real possibility that he might be able to bring about Groendal’s death, or at very least his removal from the artistic scene, had occurred more than once to Palmer. The prospect made him almost giddy. There was little doubt that eliminating Groendal from the critic’s chair would be hailed as a noble deed.

Well, in any case, it had not worked. For there he was—or rather, there they were, Batman and Robin. The Midwest Chamber Players would perform Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Schubert, and would perform them very well. After which the group would be massacred by Ridley C. Groendal. It was foreordained.

“Let’s get limbered up,” Palmer said. “Just fifteen minutes till showtime.”

Palmer and Schwartz joined the other strings in exercising fingers and flirting with some of the melodies they would be playing in just a few minutes.

“God, I wish they wouldn’t play so loudly when they warm up,” Harison remarked.

“It’s Palmer, that showboat! It’s his way of dominating the other musicians. Don’t worry, Peter; I’ll take care of him.”

Harison was certain Palmer would be cared for unto critical death. He turned slightly to see who else might be arriving a bit early. “I think that’s Mitchell a few rows back.”

“Who?”

“Carroll Mitchell—the playwright.”

“You do him too much honor. He doesn’t deserve the title.”

“For some reason, this always seems to be the most exciting moment at a concert.” Lynn Mitchell had just settled into her mid-main floor seat.

Carroll Mitchell smiled. “You mean all that noise? That’s cacophony.”

“No, Mitch, listen: The musicians are tuning their instruments and warming up. And in between, you can catch snatches of the melodies they’re going to play . . . hear that one?”

“What one?”

“There: the violin. It’s the loudest. That’s David Palmer. It’s sort of a trademark with him. No matter whether it’s a small chamber group like tonight or the Detroit Symphony, you can always hear him above everyone else.”

“Yeah, okay, I can hear him. Isn’t that kind of distracting to the other players?”

“I don’t know. It’s just the way he is. But isn’t that a lovely melody? It’s the Mendelssohn. Don’t you get a thrill, Mitch? Behind those curtains are eight professionals getting ready to recreate some of the most beautiful music ever composed.”

“Don’t get me wrong, honey. I know I’ll enjoy the performance. I just don’t get much out of warm-ups. But then we’re even: You don’t get much out of the calisthenics before a football game.”

“Oh, come on!” She grimaced in mock anger. “What do your actors do before one of your plays?”

He cleared his throat. “Limber up, lose their cookies . . . things like that. But that’s different.”

“Oh?”

“The audience doesn’t hear any of that. They do their make-up and warm-ups in their dressing rooms. Even if they did do it backstage, they’d never be heard by the audience. So it’s not the same as all that racket we’re hearing now . . . although the feeling must be the same. Getting ready for any audience is a nerve-wracking experience. You never know what to expect. Each audience has its own character and no two are exactly alike. And if you don’t grab them at the opening curtain, you may never get them. At least that’s the way it is in theater. I assume it’s the same with a concert.”

“I suppose so,” said Lynn. “Except that a concert like tonight’s has three chances to catch or lose you.”

“Three?”

“Um-hmmm. If you don’t like the Beethoven, then how about the Schubert or the Mendelssohn? Speaking of those three old faithfuls, I don’t guess the situation makes him very happy.” She nodded toward the front of the hall.

“Who’s that?” Mitchell craned to see.

“Down front, second row, on the aisle . . . see?”

“Damn! Groendal! Did you have to point him out? All he has to do is show up and an evening is shot. I think his motto must be, ‘Help Stamp Out Fun.’ I hope those poor souls backstage don’t know he’s here.”

Lynn shook her head. “If they don’t know now, they certainly will after his review is printed.”

“What was it you said . . . something about old faithfuls?”

“The program. It’s three composers from the same general era. And worse, there’s nobody from this century represented.”

“Well! A sin that cries to heaven for vengeance, I assume. You know, probably a whole bunch of these people came tonight just to enjoy some beautiful music. But just seeing Groendal and knowing the kind of review he’s bound to write, they’re going to be hypercritical themselves—see if they can guess what he’s going to find wrong and try to agree with him.”