with his questions, his eagerness to show just how
much he knew about each of our teachers. When
Brock Marlowe asked him about parts he had played.
Howard rattled off a very impressive range of roles. I
was terrified Mr. Bergman would follow by asking me
how many times I had performed in public, what
orchestra I had been a member of, or what
my training
had been up until now. I would surely look like a
musical pauper.
I continually glanced at Madame Senetsky to
see her reaction to everything said and asked. She
maintained a stoic expression, her eves barely
confessing an emotion or a thought. I had the distinct
feeling that she wanted her staff to make its own judgments about us and would do nothing to influence
that evaluation.
As the evening wore on, most of us did relax.
Despite the formal, stiff beginning to the dinner, each
of our teachers spoke about himself and his
professional experiences, and before long we were all
witnessing a fascinating conversation about
international theatrical events with names of famous
people woven in so casually and so quickly, we didn't
have a chance to react. Every so often. I looked at
Cinnamon and Rose, who wore soft smiles of
appreciation on their faces. Steven looked bored and
from time to time fidgeted with his silverware. Ice
looked like someone visiting another country, her
eyes small but full of curiosity. Only Howard sat with
a demeanor of confidence, as though he was a regular