La 5ème Corde

Each instrument in the orchestra attracts a specific kind of person. It's as though there's an unwritten code that musicians unknowingly follow when selecting an instrument. I'm happy to report that French musicians fit what is evidently a universal code for instrument personalities.

Cellists are friendly. The first French friend I made was a cellist named Lucie. We both arrived early for the first orchestra rehearsal, and she came right up to me and asked if she could sit down. We chatted about studying abroad (she spent a semester in Autriche), the funny differences between English and French pronunciations, and string quartets that we've both played. The other cellists are equally amicable, and I like spending our 20-minute pause in that neighboring section that has always made me slightly envious. Cellists are the cool dudes of the orchestra. You can really see it in the men, who very often sport ponytails.

The chef de l'orchestre, Stéfane, is a cellist. He's small and wears striped sweaters, slim jeans, and sporty Puma shoes. He has thick grayish hair and a stubbly beard that lends him a rugged look, like he would go hiking in the Alps with a cello strapped to his back. He has a stern face but makes dorky jokes during rehearsal.

The violists, altistes, are always the characters. My stand partner, Quentin (still working on that pronunciation, it's somewhat close to "kahn-ton"), is a wire-rimmed-glasses-wearing medical student who is always eager to practice his English on me: "We are now in the measure 56." "Here we are in the four time." "Your shoes are very special, but I would not have them for my own." The Quentins of the world are what make viola sections great.

The violinists are all across the board, as usual. Some chic, others frumpy, all they know is the melody. But I won't be too hard on them because they have the hardest music. And I will admit, it is a lovely instrument. The flutists are consistently cute, the clarinetists unfailingly funky. The bassoonist has a long beard. But the one that assured me of my theory was the French horn player. He wears round glasses with thick black frames like Harry Potter and scuttles like a little beetle. He seems oblivious to most things. A congenial man, but rather peculiar.

In English, the names for the different note lengths are indications of their value: half, quarter, eighth, sixteenth. In French, the names describe how the notes look on the page: an eighth-note is une croche, which means 'hook.' A sixteenth-note is une double croche. A quarter note is une noire (black), and a half note is une blanche (white). A whole note is une ronde, a circle. My favorite is the word for a rest: un souffle, a breath. One deceiving faux ami (false friend) I’ve encountered is l'harmonie, which refers to the woodwinds and brass. Well, my automatic response to a conductor asking for the harmony is to pick up my viola and wait for the cue. It happened only once, and I quickly observed that I was the only string player at the starting line. Quentin leaned over and whispered loudly, "This is not us, this is them."

In France as in the U.S., playing the viola opens countless doors. Since there are only four of us, I get to play Bach's 3rd Brandenburg Concerto with a small group of musicians. Just think of the opportunities, violinists.

I'm also singing the university choir, which is great for working on my French pronunciation and annunciation. The first half-hour of each rehearsal is spent making funny noises, I mean doing breathing exercises and vocal warm ups. Having never been in a choir before, and because I rarely get the melody in orchestra, I decided to be a soprano. Thanks to two years of sight-singing classes at Lawrence, I’m happily conversant in the language of solfège. Though I might not catch all the words, I can hum the heck out of those songs.

The university choir and orchestra are open to both students and adults. The choir is composed of more adults than students, and the adults love chatting with us international students. At our last rehearsal, I sat next to a woman who didn't have much musical background, so I helped her with the notes and she helped me with the words. We made a good team.

To picture the chef de la chorale, simply take the image you have of Stéfane and turn it inside-out. Ghislain Louvet is tall, completely bald (the shiny kind), and looks like an Armani clothing model. That just goes to show that in spite of my theory, every musician is unique. Just like everyone else.

Here I must give credit to my high school planner for that inspiring message of homogeneity.

La 5ème (cinquième) Corde is the name of the shop where I rented a viola. The luthier was a young woman with an accent I couldn't quite place. When I went to her shop, she was giving a violin lesson to a girl whose violin was the size of a small animal such as a kitten or a baby raccoon, or any other animal when it is still small. The shop smelled like wood and there was wood-dust all over the floor. The woman noticed my accent and said in French, "I could speak in English, but you probably want to practice your French, right?" I nodded. She understood.

Had I not spoken to her on the phone beforehand, right then I would have ordered un alto, s'il vous plaît. Next time.