The Silver Swan (22 page)

Vendrell, a village of whitewashed houses and shuttered shops an hour south of Barcelona on the sea, was dusty in the summer heat, even its olive trees drab. Women clothed in black moved slowly through the narrow streets, carrying their baskets. What music they heard blared from boom boxes. Pablo Casals, Feldmann’s great mentor, had been born here, but there was little to commemorate him. Two miles farther, however, in the village of Sant Salvador, they visited a museum devoted to Casals.

Here they lingered longer. There was a salon with a bust of the cellist, a cello on a makeshift stage, and rows of crimson chairs. One room held a stone death mask of Beethoven, a few framed measures composed by Brahms, and a lock of Mendelssohn’s hair. Mariana was talkative. She seemed nervous and strangely disconnected, he thought, unable to meet his eyes. They ate lunch and drove north through the mountains to Prades.

Casals had lived in exile here when he fled from Franco. Street signs were in Catalan as well as Spanish and French. Their hotel, a small one on the central square, was called the Alchimie. The narrow main street — Avenue Charles de Gaulle — would not have had that name, Claude knew, when Casals and Feldmann walked its length, as he now did with Mariana. At the outskirts of the village, they reached the virtuoso’s home, the Villa Colette. Its entrance, disappointingly, was locked. They peered through the gate and then walked back toward the hotel.

At the bar where they stopped for a drink, all the old men claimed to remember Casals, to have known him personally. Some claimed to remember Feldmann as well. They told
Mariana about her father, “Alejandro,” who would practice late at night and disturb the other guests. The
patrón
of the bar announced that he himself was seventy-eight and the son of the previous owner. He recounted stories of his father’s arguments with Casals’s students, some of whom, like Alexander, had lived above this very bar and played too late and too loud. “Alejandro,” he winked at Mariana, “was quite a man with the ladies.”

Upstairs at the Alchimie, he and Mariana made love. That first night she was passionate. But at breakfast the next morning she seemed withdrawn and disconsolate. He had no idea why.

“Is something wrong? You don’t seem happy.”

“Do you have something to tell me?” she asked, looking at him searchingly.

“Yes, my sweet, I do. I am very happy to be here with you. I’m glad you proposed this trip.”

“Even without the Swan? With no way to practice?”

He felt she was testing him. “Even without it,” he lied. “It’s
you
I want to be with.”

“And no one else?”

What an odd question, he thought, as he poured more coffee.

On their third and final day in Prades, they walked a winding road up Mont Canigou. The homes gave way to olive groves in the commune of Codalet, and then to stone escarpments, until in the distance, finally they could see the tower of the ancient monastery, Saint-Michel de Cuxa. Silent except
for the wind and bird cries and, somewhere, the tinkling of belled sheep, the monastery loomed large as they drew near. Even in the August heat, the buildings retained a chill calm. The saint who hallowed Cuxa by sleeping outside on the flat stony ground had had his outline incised in the rock. Built in the ninth century, and rebuilt centuries later, after the leveling rage of anticlerical soldiers, the chapel was a place Casals had often played — a Benedictine retreat made holy for Claude by the thought of his teacher, and his teacher’s teacher.

Mariana reminded Claude that she had actually met Casals long ago at the Marlboro Festival in Vermont, when she was a small child. She spoke of her father’s deference to his old master, whose hand he kissed repeatedly, deference she had never seen before and never saw again. This legendary artist was part of her family’s history. She’d grown up in her father’s sophisticated circle, meeting the great artists of the era. Claude was envious. Though it would now be said that he was Alexander’s “musical heir,” Mariana owned the legacy. He’d received his portion — the Swan — only because she’d stepped aside.

His mind had wandered. Mariana was talking. She told him that a portion of the monastery had been purchased by the American millionaire John D. Rockefeller and transported to America in ships. There he’d rebuilt it at as a museum called the Cloisters at the northern tip of Manhattan. “Can you imagine that?” she was asking. “Moving all these stones across the ocean?”

“Did your parents take you there?”

“To the Cloisters? Never. I went on my own. My father hated museums; they made him feel stupid and they bored
him. He knew nothing of art or literature. He cared only about music. Everything else was of no importance. I think in all the years he traveled to Europe to play, he never once walked into a museum.” She sounded harsh and contemptuous.

Claude took a stroll alone around the monastery while Mariana sat in a pew in the ancient church. He returned to find her in tears, and he was touched, certain she wept for the memory of her father who had so often played here. He put his arm around her waist. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We haven’t much time left.”

Mariana leaned against him. She asked again, “Do you have anything to tell me?”

“Yes,” he repeated. “I have loved these days together — being with you again.”

They walked back down the winding road to Prades, arriving in the village just as the church bells began their plangent evening song.

In the Fiat, early the next morning, they sped down the mountain to Perpignan and then south to Barcelona. Both were weary and preoccupied. Claude was returning home to face Sophie and his mother. On the drive he was too tired to talk about the future — when and where they’d meet again. Somewhat to his surprise, Mariana avoided the subject as well. He tried to make her laugh about the endless series of roundabouts —
ronds-points
— the French had created to control traffic. One could barely go five hundred yards without going in a circle. But a curtain had descended. As they crossed the border into Spain, Mariana was silent and pensive. Because her flight to New York left first, at two p.m.,
she had to be at the airport by noon. Claude, eager to collect the Swan, had urged her to accompany him to the bank — but she did not want to go into the city. She said she feared she’d miss her flight and insisted he drop her off first.

They turned off the highway at a rest stop to have coffee. When he tried to kiss her, she turned her face away. He stroked her hair instead. “What was the Tanglewood matter you called me about?”

“It was nothing, a pretext. I wanted to find you and you weren’t answering my calls.”

“I wasn’t answering
any
of my calls.”

“I think there’s something you haven’t told me.” She put her hand on his.

He was again puzzled. “How much I’ll miss you?”

She searched his face. “I love you, Claude.”

Perhaps that’s what troubled her. He hadn’t told her he loved her. Suddenly, he wanted to tell her he loved her too, that he too was sad to say goodbye. But would he feel this way next week, next month, next year? Instead he said, “I know. I know you do, darling.”

The moment passed. She reached into the green bag at her feet. “The papers for the rental car are in the glove compartment. Here’s the key to the new cello case. You’ll need it.” He took it from her and slipped it into his shirt pocket. They drove on in silence.

Claude dropped Mariana at the airport, returned the rental car, and went straight to the bank branch office, a gloomy building on the Plaça de Catalunya. He presented himself to the manager, who shook his hand briskly and said it would
take a moment to make sure his identity papers were in order before he removed the cello from the vault. He hurried off. Claude paced the tiled floor, trembling with impatience; here at last, alone in Barcelona, he would claim the Silver Swan. The instrument would be his life’s companion, his to cherish and protect. Claude felt a surge of joy and gratitude.

The bank manager returned and escorted him to a small private room, with a table and two chairs; there, the instrument case was brought to him. As he undid the locks, excitement made him clumsy. He fumbled with the stiff clasps. The bright blue color of the fiberglass case was too garish for his taste. He would exchange it for something much more dignified — in keeping with the Swan. The case squeaked as he opened it. Tenderly, he removed the soft protective cloth around the instrument as if raising a bride’s veil. Then, holding his breath, he unfastened the ribbons that bound her and lifted the instrument out into the light.

Something was not right. He stared. It took several moments before he understood he did not hold the treasured Swan. He could hardly breathe. Laying the cello on the mahogany tabletop, he peered at the label through the f-hole. To his surprise and horror, Mariana had brought him the J.-B. Vuillaume.

Hoping to reach her before her flight took off, he stepped into the hallway and tried to call, but her phone was shut off. There was a knock on the door. The vice president of the UBS office, an elderly Catalan in a black suit with black pomaded hair, introduced himself and asked if everything were satisfactory. Claude, ashen, struggled to answer. “No.”

“No?”

“This is not the instrument I expected to receive.”

The bank officer stiffened visibly. Rubbing his hands together, he said, “I assure you, sir, this case has not been touched since the señora has delivered to us. We placed it immediately into the vault. Whatever you have found inside is what she has put there for you.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t understand what happened. I’m not accusing you of anything …”

“I must repeat. Whatever may have happened, Señor Roselle, it does not happen in our bank. Is there anything we can do? Would you like to make a telephone call or contact perhaps the police?”

“No, no,” said Claude. “This is not a matter for the
guardia civil
. I’ll return to Switzerland and solve the problem there.” He replaced the cello in its case and redid the clasps. “I’m sure there’s a good reason, and Miss Feldmann will explain it to me when I get back to Lugano.”