What stirred in Leah’s heart was pride whenever the women in the choir spoke of Professor Hong with reverence. She never said anything in these discussions, despite Kyung-ah’s occasional prodding at the professor’s favorite soloist, and none of them knew that she’d been to his house twice accompanied by Elder Shim when the choir director had suffered from chicken pox: once when Elder Shim had to leave her to go to the hospital and another time shortly thereafter to bring him groceries. At the store, while she hemmed trousers or sewed loose buttons on shirtsleeves, Leah recalled the afternoon spent alone at his house with vividness. Bits of the day would turn up in her private thoughts: The choir director kept only two pots and one frying pan in his many kitchen cabinets, his socks were navy blue wool or white cotton, his Baekyang undershirts had a V-neck, and he read mostly American newspapers and magazines as well as the Hankook Ilbo. In moments of vanity, she wondered if he’d kept his shoes ordered as she had arranged them in his closet, or had he cast them aside in his unused bedroom fireplace as before?
The soloists, both male and female, concurred that Professor Hong’s extra work with them after practice had changed their voices for the better. He was a demanding but brilliant voice coach, and the soloists looked forward to their sessions with him. Leah was no different.
Yet she couldn’t look at him during practice when Kyung-ah was there, because her blushing became pronounced. To avoid this, whenever he faced her direction, Leah studied her score, making check marks on the margins with a pencil.
On the first Wednesday rehearsal of June, Charles asked Leah to stay behind to practice for Sunday’s solo. He dismissed everyone at nine o’clock instead of nine-thirty, but no one was upset by this. The choir members grabbed their light jackets for the cool, springlike evening; they were impatient for their dinner.
Leah rose from her assigned seat and moved to the front of the room. This was what Professor Hong wanted soloists to do. She sat quietly in the first row, awaiting his instruction. She watched the young accompanist pack up her things to go. She had two daughters, too.
Charles waved politely at the accompanist, who bowed on her way out. At the piano, he began to play the first few bars, then stopped to scratch the nape of his neck.
“Damn,” he muttered. He began to play again, then stopped abruptly again, shaking his head rapidly like a dog stepping out of a bath.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered, slightly astonished to find her sitting there, as if he had forgotten whom he’d asked to stay behind. “It’s still so damn itchy.” He rifled through his black knapsack to pull out a tube of liniment that the pharmacist had recommended. He rubbed some on his back but couldn’t reach between the shoulder blades. “Goddamn it.”
Leah remained seated, wanting to help him but not knowing what to do. She lifted her hand slightly, as if she were reaching toward him, then pulled it back in hesitation.
Charles scratched his neck and back. He trembled as if he were cold.
“Does the cream help?”
“The relief lasts for a little while.” He tucked the tube away and searched the bag again. The roll of LifeSavers he’d bought at the newspaper kiosk was nowhere to be found. “Damn, damn, damn.”
Leah made a face, feeling sorry for the man. The itching must have been unbearable, and he’d had to control himself during the long rehearsal.
“Would it be better if I came back later?” Perhaps he needed a moment. He had been working without a break.
“No, no. I’m just pissed off because I can’t find the candy.” Charles laughed then, because it sounded silly.
“I have some cough drops.” Leah handed him an economy-size bag of Halls that she kept in her purse.
Charles unwrapped one and put it in his mouth right away. From her seat, she could hear the grumbling in his stomach. “Professor Hong, did. . . did you eat today?” Having been to his home, she knew he didn’t pay attention to things like food.
Charles stared blankly at the back wall with its row of metal wardrobes holding choir gowns. Come to think of it, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. During the day, he’d been so absorbed in his song cycle that he’d forgotten to eat. The song cycle, commissioned by the Lysander Quartet in Boston, was due in two months and would have its world premiere at Berklee College in September. He’d almost been late for rehearsal today because his writing had been going well.
From his lost expression, she realized that he hadn’t eaten all day.