The Silver Swan (18 page)

Back in Manhattan the week after Claude left, Mariana met with Heinrich Baum. He had left her a message, inviting her to dine at Bella Rosa, a fashionable restaurant on Lexington Avenue. At eight that evening she found him perched on a stool at the bar, sipping a glass of wine. He waved as she entered. She joined him.

“I’m glad to see you. What will you drink?”

She ordered a sidecar. After the silence in Stockbridge, the echoing din of the crowd at the bar assaulted her.

“I’m sorry about the Swan, Mariana. I’ve just been to an auction where an Amati violin received a record-breaking price. These great instruments become only more valuable.”

“Well, let’s hope the newer instruments do as well.” She handed him the folder of papers listing all the copies of the Swan, and they went over the value and merits of each. After a second drink, Baum put his arm around her and asked — they were, after all, old and intimate friends — if she might like to go to bed with him. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked.

“Oh, goodness, Hanns, you’re taking advantage of an orphan.” Laughing, she pushed him away. “Anyway, it would be like sleeping with an uncle! Interesting but ill-advised.”

“Such scruples, Mariana,” Baum answered irritably. “You’ve always seemed to like older men.”

“Go to hell, Hanns,” she snapped. The maître d’ invited them to their table. Mariana, storklike, strode ahead of the instrument dealer. They were shown to a semicircular booth where they sat back on the plush red leather cushions. A waiter asked if they would like another round; she declined. Hanns had something on his mind, she could tell, and she wanted to keep a clear head. “Just water, please.”

Baum, recovering his dignity, ordered a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet. At last, having studied the menu, he said, “You know, there were rumors about your father …”

“Yes?”

“About his affairs. Surely you heard them as you grew up. He was very appealing to women, very charismatic. He was known to be a roué. People always talked, but no one could be sure what was true.”

“Yes, isn’t it curious?” She looked away from him. “People always seem intrigued by the sex lives of artists — the famous ones. I don’t know why they find it so fascinating. If my father had had all the affairs people claimed, he would have had no
time at all to play the cello. It’s idle gossip and it was hurtful to my mother.”

“I’m only worried about you. You’ve lost something that was always intended to be yours, Mariana. How will you provide for yourself?”

“I have his accounts, his assets, and his property in the Berkshires. He didn’t leave me poor. I’ll be okay. I’ll return to teaching.” She touched his hand with hers. “Hanns, this really is none of your business. Your job is to sell the copies.”

“Fine. But please do tell me when you decide it
is
my business. I’ll be waiting.” Baum signaled to the waiter. “Would you like to order, my dear?”

Mariana brought dinner to an end as quickly as she could, claiming exhaustion. She had not slept well since Claude left. He had not called. Walking up Lexington Avenue to shake off the unpleasantness of the evening with Baum, she passed the 92nd Street Y. In the fall before his ninetieth birthday, Feldmann had been honored by friends and musicians at a concert there. Every seat was filled. A film was shown about his life and career — a film in which he failed to mention the existence of Pilar or Mariana. At midnight she and her father rode back to their hotel in a taxi. He had drunk too much champagne. “Sweetheart,” he declared, patting her knee, “all my life I’ve wanted only
one
thing for you.”

Mariana held her breath. What had he wanted? Had she succeeded or failed in gratifying his wish?

“I wished for you,” he finished, “that before I died you would see me honored the way I was tonight, and you would know how greatly I have been esteemed.”

Built of glass and steel, Claude’s apartment building towered over the stone structures of old Lugano. Claude greeted the concierge as he strode into the lobby. He took the elevator to the twelfth floor, extracted the apartment key from his cello case, and unlocked the door, dropping his bag and raincoat in the foyer. Standing his cello against the Steinway — on which were arrayed stacks of music and one crystal goblet, the dregs of dried red wine in its bowl — he felt glad to be home. He had been away for well over a month.

The room was alight with morning sun, its large plate-glass windows unshaded. Two chairs with music stands stood adjacent to the piano, reminding him that he’d been playing piano trios the day he left for Boston. How much had changed since then.

The flight, once it departed, had been uneventful and he’d slept through much of it, but he felt weary. Francine, as promised, had arranged a car service for him at Malpensa Airport. He wanted to rest and shower before joining his parents for lunch in Montagnola. So many people — Mariana, Sophie, his mother, his father, his manager, his friends, his concert
audience — demanded his attention. Claude, burdened by all their expectations, craved time alone.

He drank flat Pellegrino from an open bottle in the refrigerator. On the marble counter by the sink he found a note from Gina, his maid, written in her childish hand: “Sir, I have answered the phone when I was here because it ring so much. I thought it must be you calling me, but it was Miss Sophie. Your father also call to say he cannot meet you for lunch tomorrow when you come back. You must telephone at his studio. Welcome home.”

He sighed, exasperated. Francine would be at the house by herself. He’d get the third degree. He dragged his suitcase into his bedroom and spilled its contents out on the floor. The bed had been impeccably made, its duvet smooth as glass. He lay down.

Try as he might to sustain interest in the lives of others when he was not in their presence, Claude was apt to be forgetful. He realized this was a shortcoming, but it was hard to correct. What was in his head when he was on his own was only music, cello technique and the demands of his most immediate travel and performance. With the cello, he lived his fullest life. Perhaps because he’d been an only child, and his parents were not young, it had been his closest companion. He had started young and become so quickly caught up in his music studies, he knew he’d missed some other parts of his youth. For whatever mysterious reasons one young person chooses music and finds a lifelong passion while another begs to be freed from it, Claude’s commitment had been clear by the age of five. Throughout his early years, when the rewards were private — untold hours, practicing alone in his room — he never longed to be elsewhere, never looked at
the clock except to make sure he’d left enough time for his homework and the dull demands of school.

These were the hours he cherished, and his effort was rewarded by every improvement he heard in his playing. Other boys scored goals, served aces, sped down the Alps on skis, or excelled in class. Claude lived for the cello, his lessons, the chance to play chamber music at the conservatory and sit first stand in the orchestra. He traveled the city of Lugano with the instrument strapped to his back, hearing music in his head, practicing phrases on his leg as he stood on the bus or ferry, train or tram. Because he was handsome and easygoing, he never lacked friends, though he had little time for them unless they were musical as well. Together they would talk shop, listen to recordings, critique performances, and discuss technique the way other boys talked of football matches.

Once he began to perform, the rewards became more tangible: the attention and applause, the money and excitement of travel, the beginnings of a career and his power to move people with his playing. But his interest in people went only so far.

Why had he been relieved to say goodbye to Mariana? It wasn’t that he wanted to leave her, he decided, but that he was ready to return to work. He wasn’t accustomed to intimacy. As his career enlarged, so too had his expectations of himself and his certainty that he had no room in his life for a partner. He had announced this to Sophie from the start. She had, perhaps, not believed him, waiting patiently for him to change his mind. She had never reproached him, but he’d begun to worry he would hurt her. The possibility of tears, recriminations, explanations
quite bored him. When he next saw her, they would have to talk about it. With Mariana, he’d be very careful. Whatever the intensity of his present feelings, he surmised it might be largely about sex.

The telephone rang. He checked the caller ID on his bedroom phone. It was his father. He would have to answer. Settling back against the pillows, he picked up the receiver. “Papa?”

“Claude. Welcome back.”

“It’s very good to be home. When did
you
get back to Lugano?”

“Only yesterday. It’s always good to be back here.”

“I got your message about lunch. I’m sorry you can’t join us.”

“Yes, I was looking forward to it,” said Bernard. “But there’s a meeting at the conservatory I’m afraid I can’t afford to miss. Dinner, perhaps tomorrow? What’s
your
schedule?”

“I was surprised to learn you’re here. Maman says you’ve been busy in Vienna.”

“I came to Lugano to celebrate the Silver Swan with you. Isn’t it extraordinary?”

Claude stretched. “Totally! I can hardly think of anything else.”

“I must say,” Bernard continued, “the news came as a surprise to me. Your mother often said Alexander might give you the cello one day —
she
doesn’t seem as surprised as I. In any case, it’s wonderful news, well worth a trip to celebrate.”

“
Grazie
. It was amazing to play the Swan at my New York debut.”

I’ve heard of your great success there. Maman sent me the reviews.”

“Yes, the tour went well, though I’m very tired now. Shall we have dinner this evening, Papa?”

“Tomorrow’s the day, so I’m told. Maman says you’ll be seeing Sophie tonight.”

Claude was perplexed. He’d made no date with Sophie. He hadn’t even planned to call quite yet. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Your mother will arrange everything.”

“She always does,” Claude said. He was annoyed. Bernard hung up.

Claude showered and shaved. Dressed once more — in clothes from his closet, at last, not his suitcase — he took the elevator to the underground garage. In the dim light, his silver Porsche Targa waited. He coaxed the car into sputtering life, opened the sunroof, and eased it into gear. As the garage door rose, he was momentarily blinded by the noontime sun. He put on his sunglasses, revved the engine, and roared up the steep hills to Montagnola.

Francine awaited him. As he climbed the stone stairs, she threw open the door. There were flowers in the hall — bright gerberas, his favorite — and the smell of the house was familiar: furniture polish, fresh bread, coffee. Chopin mazurkas played on the old stereo set. The windows had been opened to the summer air. His mother, wearing her striped red-and-white apron, reached up to touch his hair. “You must be tired,
chéri
.”

“Yes, I won’t stay long today. I need time to sleep.”

She drew him into the house. “Really, Claude, your schedule is too busy now. You
must
make time to rest.”