Sight Reading by Daphne Kalotay

bought it for her when she was fifteen, a used Otto Erdesz of a soft tan color, the burnished maple of its back a light-and-dark feathered pattern; if you peered through the f-holes you could find the small white label, Joannes Baptista Guadagnini, in delicate, flowing script. Remy still treated it like a new gift, always wiping it carefully with her chamois cloth as Mrs. Lepik had taught her, making sure never to leave the faintest trace of rosin on it. She wondered if Conrad Lesser was going to criticize the brand of strings she had purchased.
    But what he did, to her shock, was turn each of the pegs just the slightest bit, so that the instrument was out of tune.
    Then he handed it back and asked her to begin from where he had stopped her.
    â€œBut it’s not in tune—”
    â€œBegin, please.”
    As Remy began to play, she quickly heard which strings were sharp and which were flat, and automatically began to correct for the differences, grateful for her responsive fingertips. As confusing as it was to have to accommodate this way, it was also oddly exhilarating to instinctively make the infinitesimal changes necessary to stay in tune. Before she knew it, she had arrived at the end of the movement.
    The other students applauded, as did Conrad Lesser, and Remy had to smile.
    â€œMy dear,” Lesser said, probably because he couldn’t recall Remy’s name, “may you never have to perform on an instrument as mistuned as that. But I hope you noted—that all of you noted”—he turned to the class—“the energy our young colleague generated just now. The electricity born of fright. Or rather, the electricity that results when we overcome fright.”
    Remy laughed nervously.
    â€œYour goal for this summer,” Lesser told her, “is a very basic one. I want you to play fearlessly. By that I mean with abandon. To move past your fear and free yourself—free up your playing. Do you follow? I want you, my dear, to feel limitless.”
    â€œOkay,” Remy said meekly, and everyone laughed.
    â€œListen to that,” Lesser told them. “We limit ourselves every day without even knowing it, simply by doing what we always do, falling into patterns, not pushing ourselves further. But every one of you has expressive reserves you’ve not yet discovered. Your dear colleague here has just discovered some of her own, by facing a mistuned violin. I want to help each of you find those reserves, so that you can tap them and go further, and give more, than you ever have before.”
    BY THE END OF THEIR first lesson, Conrad Lesser had determined what each student’s goal would be. Just as Remy was to learn to feel “limitless,” the boy who played like Heifetz was to become “sincere.” For the twins, who tended to play with a terse, tight vibrato, it was to “soften your touch.” For the Russian boy it was to use more contrasting sounds in order to “expand your expressive vocabulary.” Today’s class had focused, so far, on Barb, the pretty girl who was also best in the class. With Barb, Conrad Lesser was focusing on the finest of fine-tuning, helping her work out fingering that better matched passages of the piano accompaniment, and that might bring out the ethnic and period qualities inherent in the music. Her goal for the summer was to become more “nuanced.”
    Yet even she looked worn out from the past half hour of Lesser’s scrutiny. “Good, very good,” he said, dismissing her. “It’s difficult to sustain this level of effort, I know. That’s why after you’ve worked hard and long at this level of intensity . . . then what must you do?” He did not wait for an answer. “You must relax .”
    He turned to address the class. “This goes for all of you. What we’re doing here takes incredible concentration. Physical stamina and psychological strength. When we learn