“You white cock-sucking motherfucker, I’m going to come there and cut your balls off and then your prick. You go fucking my woman, you hear, you honky cock-sucking motherfucker.”
The phone hung up. And later, Aspasia rang that she was hiding out up in Harlem on Sugar Hill and in the Florence Mills Apartments on Edgecombe Avenue. At least one had the consolation of the apartments being named after that wonderful musical-comedy star. Her boyfriend broke her door down and threatened to choke her to death to get my telephone number I wrote on the piece of paper I’d left at the Art Students League. And now her boyfriend was looking for me to cut off my balls but didn’t yet know my address. And if he didn’t kill her in the meantime, she would call me again. I growled my own few angry words that I’d break his ass and blow his fucking head off if I saw him. Meanwhile as deaf as Beethoven I spent the rest of the day sitting with my head in my hands and my balls spiritually in a sling. That night I propped a chair against the door and stacked milk bottles to get knocked over to alert me from sleep. I slept with the carving knife, part of a canteen of cutlery I planned to soon pawn, from Sylvia’s adoptive parents. My hand gripped to the handle under my pillow. Waking up bleary-eyed, it was a struggle to go out to buy something for breakfast. Heading downstairs, I had to look in every shadow to see if anyone lurked there. Standing then looking left and right to see if the way was clear in the street. But I already had in my hand a letter from the mailbox. My name written in flowing beautiful script on an elegant cream-colored envelope. A gold-edged card inside, and beneath the Butterfield 8 telephone number were a dozen brief words.
As promised instead of my tinkle
my card.
The Steinway awaits.
Dru
Boyo boy I mean it, did I in one goddamn hurry dial Butterfield 8. And those words I heard on the other end of the phone. “Come right over, why don’t you.” And I nearly broke my ass in the speed with which I took a shower. Ripping the shower curtain down as my feet slipped on the soapsuds in the bath I crashed on one buttock and one elbow and banged the back of my head. It was a wonderful feeling. Even with my broken ass trembling I was elated and as if I were on the stage of La Scala in Milan I sang an aria from La Bohème and looked at my naked form in the mirror. Not bad. And looking trim. Then putting on my clothes and trying to find clean underwear, socks and an ironed shirt. New York became a different city as I rode north on the BMT line and got off at Fifth Avenue and Central Park South and now I didn’t give a good goddamn how sad the look was on people’s faces. Or maybe I did but they were now too crushingly dismal to contemplate. Also any second I expected some black bastard to come charging at me with a knife, screaming, “I’m going to kill you, you white bastard.” But at least for a moment or two, I had somewhere to go in life and play music. I walked east on Fifty-ninth Street, stopping off in the shoe-repair store, where, from one of their efficient team of shiners using about a dozen different creams, I got a badly needed shine. And here I was, all the way from Pell Street. And on these quieter pavements of Sutton Place again, that you would believe was another and nicer world. In which my presence produced a slight suspicion and then surprise in the eyes of the doorman, who pretended not to recognize me and had stepped back behind his desk, his finger already pointed at names in a book.
“Are you expected, sir.”
“I’m expected.”
“And who may I say is calling.”
“Alfonso Stephen O’Kelly’O.”
“Oh, yes. Listed here as Stephen O’Kelly’O. One moment and I’ll announce you.”
The elevator operator kept glancing down at the slight peg in my pants and then at my shoes which were before getting a shine, a little worse for wear. I felt more and more inappropriate as we rose up through the elegant floors of this building. Even old Gilbert forgetting he ever saw me before and, at the door, giving me the once-over. But recovering his powers of recognition as I made no bones about my identity.
“Oh, of course, Mr. O’Kelly’O, nice to see you again. I’ll take your coat. Madam is awaiting you in the music room, then if you’ll follow me this way.”
Another hallway exiting in another direction from this domed-ceiling lobby. The feet silently tread in the serene peace across these carpets. And then make noise on the parquet. The faint smell of wood smoke. And something not noticed before, a curving staircase sweeping upward to an indoor balcony. Dare one ask how many rooms and how many floors this joint has. No. Don’t dare. Just carry on. Let all knowledge arrive freely. A left turn and then a right through two double mahogany doors paneled in green baize, the doors closing over one another and opening into an enormous, somber if sumptuous room with prints and gilt mirrors on the walls, picture windows, a small terrace, and far below, on the river, a tug boat hauling barges, its bow afoam pushing its way through the ripples and waves. And there, across the golden carpet, the ebony concert grand piano, its top ajar ready to be played. Flames licking a brace of logs in the fireplace. But not to be ignored in the soft hues of light and seated at a small table in another of her white clinging gowns, her hair gleaming and drawn back from her face, Drusilla. And by her elbow, a dish stacked with a variety of cookies, and from within an elaborate silver ice bucket peeked a golden-topped bottle of champagne, and on a side table a tray with pink tulip glasses and canapés.
“Ah, the moment I’ve been waiting for while I’ve been playing my game of patience, with cards of course, as you are a little later than expected.”
“Forgive me, ma’am.”
“Oh please, no.”
“Sorry. I mean Dru. I had to find clothes to wear.”
“Well, I had a perfectly awful thing happen. So your later arrival has given me further time to recover my composure. Join me in a drink to help wash away images. You will, I hope, have some of my favorite champagne.”
“Yes, thank you. What a wonderful room.”
“Yes, originally two enlarged into one. Entirely soundproof. Well, there it is, the Steinway waiting for you.”
“Nice to feel one has no worry concerning any protesting neighbors.”
“And it is so nice to see you, Stephen, it really is. And I’m so so sorry about the situation. It’s not, of course, for the first time that Sylvia has run off and disappeared.”
“What would you like me to play.”
“Well, I’d love to hear your composition.”
“I might perhaps warm up my fingers on some composer whose music already possesses proven greatness.”
“Oh, you are modest, aren’t you.”
“Well truth be known, yes I am. Possibly because when I first used to play piano, growing up in my house, among my unappreciative family, only my dog Chess, appreciated my playing. And he would sit up, trying to balance on his hind legs out on the driveway below the living room window, howling always in perfect pitch.”
“Well then, would you know something perhaps by Rachmaninoff.”
“Yes, I believe I would.”
“Then Rachmaninoff.”
“How about some passages from his Piano Concerto Number Three in D Minor.”
“Oh, yes, that has such marvelous bursts of romanticism. And the climaxes arise so splendidly.”
Stephen O’Kelly’O massaging his knuckles and fingers, advancing to the piano. Turning to gently bow back to his smiling hostess. When about to sit to play, always the moment to set the scene. With the utmost seriousness in one’s posture, stand perfectly still, count to thirteen. Then be seated, look upward, as if seeking spiritual inspiration from above. Hold outstretched the fingers above the keys. For a moment, hold them as if to cause levitation and the whole piano to rise to the ceiling. Contract the fingers ever so slightly. Then. Now. Bring them down. Strike. Fingertips concussing upon the ivory whiteness. Usher into the world this exquisiteness of sound. What a pity it can’t escape across the fast flowing, shimmering water of the west channel of the East River. And thence pass over the gloomy shadowy buildings on Welfare Island to
Queens and thence across to the distant lights of Brooklyn. And, in traversing the ether, even reach a sympathetic ear in Brownsville and Canarsie. To quaver, quiver and tremble their euphonic sensibilities as one’s fingers touch the keys and reverberate the strings strung across this cast of iron. And most nobly best of all. To have as well, as I strike the last chord upon the keys, the appreciative warmth and joy of an admiring listener.
“Stephen, that was wonderful, wonderful. Oh, you do play so beautifully. So marvelously easeful. Without being extrovert. Yet youthful. And with such forward surge. I can’t imagine why you’re not on the concert stage giving performances.”
“Well, having undergone a rather long stale stretch in the navy, where there were few pianos to be found to play, I have I’m afraid missed the boat. Very little privacy to pursue musical interests within a gun turret aboard a battleship.”
“Oh, you poor you, you. Did you make big bangs. Here, let me replenish your glass. And then, although I’m aware it’s not entirely finished, you must play for me your minuet.”
Stephen O’Kelly’O rising from the piano. Crossing the room, tripping on the carpet. Gaining his composure, a hand held over his heart, a broad grin on his face. Taking up his glass and drinking deep into the delicious grapey substance. If there were any condition and moment mankind could undergo that could be termed that overabused word happiness, then this was it. Amazing how with just a little admiration one is tempted to strike a Napoleonic pose and behave like a prima donna. And of course meanwhile wondering when old Jonathan Witherspoon Triumphington is going to jump out of a closet or from behind a door or come swinging into view off a chandelier with a .38-caliber pistol aimed at my head. And make his own big bang for my being here playing his piano and drinking his champagne and desperately now wanting to fuck his wife, who hasn’t even winked once since I began to play. Which I again return to do. The world premiere performance of my minuet. Bow. Beseat oneself to play. Totally and absolutely inspired. Improvise and embellish chords and harmonics. Fingers going wild, produce integral multiples of fundamentals up and down the octaves. Then dulcet passages on this dulcimer instrument. Tears welling in Drusilla’s eyes. Her hands folded still in her lap. Which, as I struck the last faint key, she raised to clap. A diamond on a finger glinting along with diamond-encrusted bracelets on her wrists. She stands and crosses to me. A kiss on my brow.
“That is simply so wonderful. So sadly delicate at the end. I’m so glad I worked up all my nerve and invited you to play.”
“And I’m so glad that you did and that I played.”
“Well you are brilliant. Come and let’s finish our champagne. Oh, but you’re limping.”
“A fall in the bath taking a shower in my rush to get here.”
“Poor boy, you must show me where it hurts. I believe in the laying on of healing hands. But now I do have a question or two, of course. Is your first Christian name Alfonso. They called from the lobby as you were coming up in the elevator.”
“In fact, yes. But I only use it to achieve people’s attention.”
“Ah. And question two. And I must warn you, I am incurably and insatiably curious. And I must ask. When last here, whatever were you doing in the loo, if I may use the British slang. Gilbert thought there had been a burglary, or at least a pipe leaking.”
“I did wonder when you might venture to ask me that. I suppose it was a damn silly business. But I was conjuring up to compose a march of pipes and drums.”
“Dear me, in the loo. How interesting, although I do hate and despise the word interesting and all those who use it throughout these our United States. But I do so love your pedantic speak.”
“Well as a matter of true fact, it comes from a slight impediment I have in the use of English, not that I speak French and Italian that well. However in the loo I had rather an insufferable situation. An accident. Or rather, discovered I had mistakenly put my shorts on back to front.”
“Oh my God. Forgive me. I can’t help finding that just a little bit droll. No wonder my dear fellow, that you had to pee. And your march you were conjuring up, pipe and drums. Did you compose it.”
“As a matter of fact, in my panic, I didn’t. But being also enamored by the lute and harp I instead put together a little bridal hymn.”
“Oh, did you. How sweet.”
“Well I’m afraid it’s not exactly sweet. Despite my classical tendencies, I do synchronize on the downbeat.”
“Oh, do you.”
“Yes. For hepcats. But I guess on the occasion in your powder room, I would have been better occupied composing something a little more akin to a dirge with muffled drums.”
“Oh, you mustn’t say that.”
“Well except for tonight in your wonderful presence, I’ve only met thus far dissent, opposition, and rejection in my efforts to enter the public forum, and to be recognized for my work. I eschew the barren and trite minds consumed with their pose of cultural omnipotence and pretense at original creativity, who by their very existence make the dedicated composer’s life such a misery.”
“You know, I have a solution. You must come out to Montana. I have a little ranch out there. Mostly wilderness. A grizzly bear or two. Buffalo, moose. And I suppose it might have more than a few rattlesnakes. But I’ve never seen one. Otherwise completely possessed of solitude. No one but me, a ranch hand or two, and the caretaker need know you were even there. I could have a Steinway for you. And I know you could work quietly in peace. Why do you not answer.”
“Well, I’m trying to remember all the languages that I can say yes in. Oui, sí, da. Igen.”
“And a’iwa, I believe, is Arabic.”
“And ja, I believe, is Lettish.”
“You have such exquisite hands, Stephen. I’ll bet you were lionized by the girls when growing up.”
“Well again, as a matter of true fact, I wasn’t. As a relatively poor boy of a very large family I could never ask anyone out on a date, even to the movies. With hardly much change left out of a dollar and ice cream sodas gone up to fifteen cents in the sweet shop where once they were only ten cents. And where some of the kids hung out who could afford it.”
“Oh, how sad for you.”
“Well, there was a little kid we could bribe for a nickel who cleaned up the candy wrappers and Popsickle sticks inside the movie theatre. Who would open up a side emergency fire exit to let us in, but I thought it an inappropriate entrance for an invited young lady.”
“Oh dear, I would have thought that so sweet and exciting.”
“Well I’m afraid young girls in the neighborhood were a little too conscious of what kind of an impression they were making. Their dignity and esteem and their reputations to uphold I’m afraid took precedence over the carefree.”
“Oh dear. When I was that age, before the war living as we did in Paris, where on Avenue Foch there were no neighborhood cinemas, no ice cream parlors, I remember I was always dying for something carefree and American like a pineapple soda and a jukebox crooning out something like ‘I’ll Never Smile Again.’”
“Pineapple’s my favorite too. Well I hope you weren’t, had there been sodas then in Paris, short of an extra franc or two.”
“Well as a matter of fact, I was. Very short indeed. I’m afraid my frugal parents did not believe in children’s allowances. The only entertainment to be found for me as a young girl was a nearby street named Rue Rude, which I always laughed at, thinking that if you walked there, someone would be discourteous to you. Although I suppose, for all my parents’ parsimony, one might say one lived in rather ornate if shabbily genteel circumstances amid treasures. And as the saying goes, the beauty of which give their owners so much joy. But to a juvenile girl just wanting desperately to find someone to love her, giltwood consoles, rock-crystal chandeliers taken from the imperial palaces of Saint Petersburg, even a few pieces of silver furniture belonging to Louis the Fourteenth which he hadn’t melted down to finance his wars, were of very little consequence. And frank
ly, I always thought we were always very poor. To the degree sometimes that I shudder having to give someone a dollar.”
“Well Dru, I’d be glad to lend or give you a dollar anytime you feel nervous like that. And if I may gently say so, it’s not half-bad the way you’re living here.”
“Well, perhaps I exaggerate a little. Owning divine things is how people cling to life, I suppose. And especially at the time the end of their own lives inexorably approaches. Ah, but how morose one is. Time to fill our glasses. Do have a cookie. We are still alive. But I did, before my own unpredictable demise may come, delayed as it may hopefully be, simply have an overwhelming urge to hear you play. And I would so like you to stay and play some more but I have to go meet Jonathan due soon at Penn Station off the train. He hates flying. He’s been duck shooting out west. He does rather have a fixation on his shooting, claret, and cigars. And he hates not having someone meet him. But I shall see you soon again, shan’t I.”
“Yes, for absolute sure.”
“You know I often watch along with the numerous seagulls, faithful pigeons fly together past and below the window here, their wings almost touching and it sends a wrench through me. And I do think I can talk about anything under the sun with you and circumstances permitting, think I might want to know you better. I am, after all, I do believe, still your mother-in-law.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, that keeps slipping out.”
“Well, I’ll keep forgiving you. And I know that it may rather seem I’ve propositioned you, but you will think of Montana, won’t you. You have, you know, helped to set my mind at rest. After a totally unsettling experience just before you came. Gilbert was otherwise occupied and I thought I heard a noise outside the service door at the larder end of the kitchen. Opened it, and there was the grocery boy with a delivery but with his trousers open, pulling upon himself and at the crucial moment insisting I watch, and I thought he might have a gun. It made one flush with rage. Then he, pale with fright, poor boy, burst into tears. And said he was so ashamed. An altar boy at his church. I felt sorry for him. Then had to let him get the groceries in, two enormously heavy boxes. And before sending him on his way, he was in such a state and so shaking, I gave him some whisky and strictly advised him not ever to come back. Do you think I did the right thing in not calling the police. I can of course, be such a sentimental old fusspot.”
Wrong Information Is Being Given Out at Princeton Page 8
