The low November light swept in
under the clouds and flooded the
wall of windows with golden light.
Inez Townsend tilted her head
away from the glittering sea water
outside the Harpa concert hall and
hoped that the reporters thought
she looked interested, not squinty.
She had agonized over what to
wear to her first press conference
and finally settled on standard
concert attire, a simple black tunic,
but had given a nod to her new
home in Iceland by swapping a
pair of knee-high black boots and
leggings for her usual pumps.
The audience was a mix of
high-level donors and journalists.
It was easy to tell them apart, and
not just because the journalists
had lens augments glinting
from their foreheads like third
eyes, but the donors sipped
champagne and wore natural
fibers that made all the printed
fabrics seem stiff and flat. Thank
God her dress was cotton.
Next to her, Sóldís
Vilhjálmsdottir was effortlessly
glamorous, with her silver curls
tumbling around her face as if
she’d just woken up from a tryst
with Odin. The Chief Conductor
and Artistic Director for the
Icelandic Symphony Orchestra
was tall and slender and had lines
that made her face seem more
interesting with every one of
her seventy-six years. Just sitting
next to her made Inez feel like
her life was finally taking off.
All she had to do now was not
remind anyone that she was
all of twenty-two and the least
experienced person in the room.
“Here, yes, we are happy to
introduce to you the results of
our competition for emerging
voices.” Her voice had the breathyIcelandic aspiration at the ends
of each word as if the wind were
snatching extra sound from
between her teeth. “First, please
meet our new composer in
residence, Ragnhildur Leifsdottir.
Ragnhildur is an Icelandic
composer, of course, who had
studied at the Royal College of
Music in London before returning
here. She has already had success
in Europe with her work, Autumn
Concerto. Tell them what you have
written for us.’”
On her far side, Ragnhildur
blushed and studied her hands,
twiddling her thumb augments
with obvious nerves. Her blond
hair was pulled back in a bun sosevere that the little tendril in the
front looked like a comma. “It’s an
orchestral piece with solo piano –”
Sóldís moved the microphone
closer to Ragnhildur and Inez
made a note to speak up when
it was her turn.
Clearing her throat,
Ragnhildur started again. “It is
called Einhverfjöll, which for
those of you without augments,
translates to ‘Some Mountains.’ It
is structured in three movements,
Svartur or ‘Black,’ Blár or ‘Blue’
and Ljós or ‘Light,’ and it is for
orchestra and solo piano with
twelve fingers.”
Inez twitched, almost bodily
turning to stare at Ragnhildur.
Twelve fingers. That meant
augments. Inez didn’t have
augments. Augments werethe unholy in the sight of God– No.
No, she knew lots of good people
with augments and–
Sóldís turned to look at her. With
effort Inez kept her smile fixed and
was grateful that the conductor
had been turned away when
Ragnhildur had said twelve fingers.
But seriously. To just announce
that without asking her?
“Now, please allow me to
introduce our pianist, Inez
Townsend, an American pianist
here on scholarship to the Iceland
Academy of the Arts. Inez has
been a finalist in the Van Cliburn
competition, and she’s been
playing professionally since the
age of thirteen. We especially
picked her from a field of
many other pianists because
her approach to the piano
seemed to pair naturally with
Ragnhildur’s vision.”
Except for the part about
twelve fingers. Inez’s smile felt
frozen to rigidity as Sóldís turned
the microphone to her. “Thank
you so much. I’m excited to be
here.” They could talk about it
later. Questioning her conductor
in front of donors and the
journalists wouldn’t win her
any friends. “Ragnhildur’s other
work is stunning and I’m honored
to be invited to play this debut.”
The rest of the news conference
passed in a blur of smiles and
questions. The clouds scudded
past Mt Esja, dimming the sun
on the water to a bearable level,
but an ache started to form
between her eyes. Twelve fingers.
“Thank you all for your
questions. We look forward
to showing you our work in
the spring.” Sóldís pushed back
from the table, standing with
a smile. She lowered her voiceViews A sci-fi short story
By the Pricking of
My Robotic Thumbs
A pianist faces a difficult choice when it comes to playing
a new piece, in this short story by Mary Robinette Kowal“ It is structured in
three movements,
and it is for orchestra
and solo piano with
twelve fingers”Bio
Mary Robinette Kowal
Hugo and Nebula-award winning
author Mary Robinette Kowal’s
books include The Calculating
Stars, which is part of the Lady
Astronaut series, and Shades
of Milk and HoneyJOONHO^ BRIAN^ KO38 | New Scientist | 18/25 December 2021