William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Realistically, Groendal had no way of blocking Palmer’s entry to the DSO. That had happened much too early in Ridley’s career, long before his power had emerged to any degree. Besides, there really was little argument that Palmer was good enough to be a member of a major symphony orchestra. The only question was how far his talent might take him. It was to this question that Groendal effectively addressed himself.

In a sense, it was Ridley’s easiest victory. Groendal was powerfully motivated to make Palmer a victim. As far as Groendal was concerned, Dave ranked first, at least chronologically, as an instrument that had changed and ruined Ridley’s life.

Further, Palmer existed for the world of music, the strongest of Ridley’s critical fields and the one for which he would become best known.

Once Groendal was completely established at the New York Herald, it had been almost child’s play to torpedo Palmer’s musical career. Harshly negative reviews, ignoring important concerts, the almost unique instance of singling out Palmer as the cause of a failed orchestral performance; anticipating Palmer’s occasional auditions for other orchestras and reminding the pertinent music directors of Palmer’s many “failings.”

Added to all of this was Ridley’s enormous sway with not a few other critics. All in all, Groendal enjoyed being able to keep much of his clout in reserve and still make Palmer run in tight frustrating circles within the DSO’s structure.

A few weeks before Ridley’s death, Koesler had been invited to the Palmers’ for dinner. It was not the sort of invitation that Koesler welcomed. He’d been through it occasionally and invariably had endured an evening of the couple’s petty bickering, recriminations, arguments, and sullenness.

From time to time he wondered why the Palmers did not simply divorce. Their brood had grown up and moved away. The two were left grousing and generally dissecting each other. He wondered if they might be the embodiment of that fictional couple who filed for a divorce in their nineties. The judge, at a loss, asked how long they’d been married. Seventy-five years, they said. Then why had they waited so long for this action? They had been waiting, they replied, for their children to die.

If the Palmers were waiting to bury their nine children, they had many years of connubial misery ahead of them.

“Would Father like more spaghetti and meatballs?” Anna Palmer asked Koesler, preparatory to clearing the table for dessert.

“No, no, that’s fine, Anna.” Koesler was grateful he’d gotten through the single serving Anna had heaped on his plate. The overcooked spaghetti had been dry. He knew he would have trouble digesting it. And the meatballs reminded him of that old TV commercial: “’Atsa some spicy meataball.”

He wondered how Palmer, with his ulcer, could stomach all that spice. Having experienced Anna’s cooking many times in the past, Koesler had downed his glass of Chianti before taking a first bite of anything, hoping the dry red would make more palatable what would follow. He thought it had helped.

“You want more, honey?” Anna asked her husband.

“No. And why the hell do you put so much spice in those meatballs? You know I’ve got an ulcer!”

“You and your ‘hell’ with a priest in the house! Besides, if you didn’t baby that ulcer so much, it wouldn’t bother you so much.”

Dave tossed his napkin on the table in disgust. “I’m not in a contest with the damn ulcer. I’m not trying to conquer it. It won a long time ago. I’m just trying to live with it. And all that spice isn’t helping.”

It seemed that Anna did not hear all that he’d said. While he was speaking, she was rattling the dishes in the sink. They both finished at about the same time. She took from the refrigerator three servings of red Jello and put them on the table. For the first time Koesler wondered about the truth of the motto, “There’s always room for Jello.” Perhaps not, he thought, after one of Anna’s meals. But, out of politeness, he would try.

“Will you be coming to the concert, Bob?” Dave asked.

“Which one?”

“The Midwest Chamber Players.” Dave seemed miffed that there was any doubt as to which concert was under consideration.

“Oh, yes.” Koesler acknowledged he should have known Dave had to be referring to his baby rather than the DSO. “I remember now. It’s going to be right after Christmas. Gee, I don’t know, Dave. Even if I’m not busy that night, I’m sure I’ll be beat. That’s a very busy season for Santa and for me. But I’ll try.”

“I wish you would, Bob. Chamber music needs all the support it can get. After all, this isn’t Minneapolis. Chamber never caught on here in Detroit as it should have.”

“There you go,” Anna cut in, “nagging our guest. Can’t you let the man eat in peace?”

“I’m not nagging! I just asked Bob if he planned on going to our concert.”

“That’s nagging. And what’s with this ‘Bob’? The man’s a holy priest of God. Why don’t you call Father ‘Father’?”

“For God’s sake, Anna, we grew up together! He’s a classmate, for God’s sake!”

“There you go, taking God’s name in vain. Breaking the Second Commandment. And a priest right here in the same room!”

“Good! Then he’ll be able to give me absolution!”

“You have no fear of the Lord!”

“I’m more afraid of your spicy meatballs!”

“So, Dave,” Koesler, who was beginning to develop a nervous stomach, interrupted, “what are you going to play in your concert?” Experience had taught that his efforts at peacemaking could be little more than stopgap measures.

Dave smiled at the thought. “Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Schubert.”

“See?” Anna said. “All the old-timers. Dear, you’re going to make everybody think you never heard of the twentieth century.”

“There she goes again!” Dave countered. “An art student—and not a very good one at that—and she wants to be my program director!”

“Leave my art alone!”

“Why not? Everyone else has. But tell me, my lovely, whom would you have on the program?”

“Somebody. Anybody. At least from this century. Stravinsky maybe.”

“Good! Excellent! Superb! Then we could be certain that if someone fired a cannon during the concert, no one would get hurt.”

“Okay. All right, Andre Previn. Stick to your ‘masters’ and see where it gets you.”

“A few more people. Maybe a full house, my pet!”

“And the usual negative reviews. Ridley Groendal is not going to like that program.”

“Ridley Groendal can go to hell!”

“Forgive him, Father!”

“Forgive me, Father.”

Koesler shook his head.

Anna rose in a huff and went to the sink to scrape dishes and stack them in the dishwasher. Though it was a little noisy, it enabled Palmer and Koesler to talk without interruption.

“She’s wrong, you know,” Palmer said. “God knows I understand the atonals as well as anybody. And I like a lot of them. But we’ve got to face it: The general public has resisted them. With the Symphony, we’ll tuck one or another of them in among the classics, hoping that the audience will come to hear, say, Mozart, and learn to like Cage. But, to date, it hasn’t really worked; they’ll give Beethoven a standing ovation and sit on their hands for Prokofiev.”

“And you don’t fear Rid?”

Palmer shrugged. “I never feared Rid. I alternate between not understanding him, pitying him, and despising him.”

“An odd mixture.”

Palmer rose and motioned Koesler to follow him into the living room where the kitchen sounds would be muted and they could talk more comfortably. “I suppose. But that’s the way it worked out.”