Isolation

Morning came unexpectedly quickly. Delia woke to the faint sunlight filtering through the curtains and stretched, trying to get rid of the heaviness in her eyes. She got out of bed and went to the washbasin. In the mirror she saw her reflection - dark eyes with fatigue, hair slightly tousled from the night.

Suddenly the door of her room suddenly swung open, and a guy with long, disheveled hair and an embarrassed but kind smile appeared in the doorway. He walked a little casually, as if he was a little late, but he didn't care at all.

"Hi, new girl, I'm Jerome! How did you sleep, cutie, were you pining for a man?" he asked in a carefree tone, leaning on the door frame.

The guy's gaze was lively, a little predatory, but with that elusive charm that often comes from people who are used to being the center of attention.

"I slept fine," Delia replied, frowning slightly, "but why does it matter to you? And how dare you ask me about my personal life?"

"Oh, you're a girl with character! I like girls like that!" he said with an unpleasant laugh.

Delia felt hurt and, deciding to put him in his place, she suddenly moved from her place and went up to him. When Jerome turned to her to say something, Delia, unexpectedly for herself, made a sharp movement, as if she was going to grab his hand.

The guy froze instantly, his face turned pale. He took a step back, clenching his fingers as if expecting a blow, and then ran out of the room in obvious panic. The girl thought that an obscene word escaped his lips, but it could have just been his breathing too loudly, which she could have accidentally taken for a phrase.

Delia, having seen the impudent fellow off, returned to the bed to get dressed. Having rummaged through her wardrobe, she chose dark jeans, a blouse and a light jacket. A few minutes later she was ready to go out. Slightly lifting the collar of her jacket, she went out into the hallway and immediately ran into the cellist, who was slowly walking down the hallway, absorbed in his thoughts.

Delia stopped and, adjusting her hair a little nervously, spoke:

"Excuse me, could you tell me where the orchestra building is? I need to see the bandmaster, he needs to see me. I just arrived, and..."

"You're new, aren't you?" the guy interrupted. "I'm Carlton. Our bandmaster's just down the street, then turn left. But... if you're going there, you better not be late."

He spoke with obvious indifference, without looking her in the eye, and did not even try to add anything polite.

"Thank you," Delia replied, confused by his sullen tone.

Carlton, not noticing her tense reaction, continued on his way, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind him. Delia, after stamping her feet, soon left the dorm. She moved carefully down the street, each new face on the street making her a little nervous.

Soon she came to a tall and majestic orchestra building, with massive columns and ornate windows. She climbed the steps and lightly pushed the doors - they immediately opened with a characteristic ringing sound.

It was spacious and slightly dark inside, with only a few dimly lit lamps illuminating the walls, which were decorated with old paintings and concert posters. Delia walked quickly down the long corridor, looking around until she noticed a sign that led to the bandmaster's office. Her heart sank with excitement, but she forced herself to continue walking. The door to the office was open, and Delia quietly entered.

The bandmaster sat behind an old desk. He had grey hair and wore a pince-nez on his nose, which he adjusted from time to time. When Delia entered, he slowly looked up at her.

"Are you new?" His voice was dry, but not harsh. He looked her over carefully, as if he were analyzing her at a molecular level. "Come closer."

She took a few steps forward, feeling her shoulders tense involuntarily.

"So, do you want to join the orchestra?" he asked, without changing his expression.

Delia swallowed, feeling her heart pounding in her chest and fear clenching her stomach. She quickly straightened up to appear more confident and answered decisively,

"Yes. I play the flute and I would like to..."

"We have newcomers coming to us every day," the old man interrupted her with obvious disappointment. "They all want to play flutes and violins, as if they were the only instruments worthy of attention. They all want to be in the spotlight, in the center, in the lead roles. But those who are ready to stand behind the drums, who agree to work with cymbals or triangles, are worth their weight in gold. Of course, I'm not against flutes and violins, but much more valuable would be someone who is ready to take on a role in the ensemble, rather than lay claim to a place on the podium. Do you understand?"

He spread his hands, as if to emphasize that, despite all the external displays of importance, the orchestra needs those who are ready to stand in the shadows, and not just those who strive for fame.

"If all these flutists," he continued, "instead of dreaming about the first desks, would simply take on something less flashy, but no less important... It could change everything. But for now we have to wait for someone to realize that, despite all their ambition, an orchestra is not just a solo. It is a collective."

His gaze slid over Delia again and he exhaled, obviously tired of the endless talk of talent and ambition.

"Okay, enough about that, - he said, turning his attention to the girl. - Let's get down to business. In twelve days we have the premiere of Mahler's sixth symphony. It's a serious event, which we prepared long and carefully. And as luck would have it... our girl who played the cymbals went on maternity leave, she's getting ready to give birth, you see!"

He pressed his lips together, clearly annoyed by this force majeure. Delia felt the tension in the air increase. This was not just a random occurrence - this was a real crisis for the orchestra.