“Yes,” I said, relieved to have some company. “How about you?”
“Oh, we’re old-timers.” She smiled warmly at me. Pinned to the neckline of her evening dress was a white ribbon, presumably a charitable cause she supported. “My husband and I have been coming here since 1989. It’s one of our favorite things to do; we look forward to it all year long. We’ve made a lot of friends here.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“And who are you with?” her husband asked.
“Sorry?”
“You must be one of the composers’ guests?”
“I am one of the composers.”
“Oh.” He glanced at his wife as if he needed help in coping with this odd situation, then pulled out a folded program from his pocket and looked through it. “You must be, uh, how do you say your name?”
“Guerraoui.”
“And what does the N. stand for?”
“Nora.”
“I’m David Ford,” he said, shaking my hand vigorously. “This is my wife, Liz.”
The Fords made small talk for a few minutes before moving away, but my experience with them left a bad taste in my mouth. So it was with a great deal of trepidation that, the following morning, I met with Geri Turner and Roy Gilmore, the bass player and drummer who would be performing with me at the end of the week. Each of us worked in different styles, but Geri and Roy were so easy to work with that by the end of our first rehearsal I felt as though I had played with them many times before. I remember looking up from the piano and catching Geri’s eye as she was about to start her solo, or the little nod that Roy gave as I started mine.
Still, the pleasure I derived from playing with these musicians was too often overshadowed by my experiences outside of rehearsal. A security guard stopped me as I tried to go into the venue on my first morning, asking me to show my ID and tell him what business I had in the building. Standing in the middle of the café one day, trying to decide on lunch, I was handed a tray of dirty dishes by an attendee who assumed I was part of the help staff. Another time, a music critic talked to me for a good fifteen minutes before I realized that he thought I was Tahira Khan, one of the publicists at the festival, a woman with whom the only thing I had in common was the color of my skin. Everything else about us was different: she was taller, heavier, prettier, and she even spoke with a British accent. For years, I had wanted to be included in one of these prestigious venues, and now that I had finally been admitted into one, I felt out of place.
I was caught between the contradictory urges of running away from Silverwood and proving myself to all the David Fords in attendance. My rehearsal week brought about an anxiety the like of which I had never known before, and by the time the day of my performance arrived I was seriously contemplating calling in sick. I had been out and about every day, so I knew I couldn’t claim to have the flu, but I could easily have complained of food poisoning. Maybe from shellfish. Or deviled eggs. I was in my hotel room, frantically searching for the festival director’s phone number, when my mother called. She wanted to tell me that she was clearing out the cabin and locking it up until probate closed in October, at which time it would be sold along with the restaurant. She would take care of moving my old piano back, she said, but did I want to keep the antique chandelier I’d bought? Or could she just leave it there for whoever bought the place?
“I can’t really talk right now, Mom. I’m in Boston.”