Unfinished Sympathy

by Andy Conway

  Kath Bright had been banished to this place too, flung through decades of time to the most remote of places. Had Rachel chosen that or was it chance? Was there something about that place, the Montana plains, and that time, just before the Battle of the Little Bighorn, that meant something to Kath? Or had it just been some random accident?

  Had Mitch come here to this moment because it was this week of Mahler’s life, of all the moments of Mahler’s life, that was most important to Mitch?

  Was he banished too? Was he stuck here forever?

  Like Kath, would he have to crawl through time to get back a year at a time?

  Eleanor would be born three years from now. She would be twenty in 1931. He could wait for her, but in 23 years Mitch would be a 77-year-old man.

  The train pulled into Union Station at midday and he stepped out to find it warmer than New York. His breath still clouded around him, but it was a fresh winter morning.

  A row of carriages lined up outside. He hopped into one and told the driver to take him to Ida Place in the west end, and swing by the White House on the way.

  A million tourists must have given the same instruction. It was nothing unusual.

  It was a nice neighbourhood. America’s Bach was from a middle-class, black family in Washington, unlike America’s Mozart, who was a ragamuffin juvenile delinquent in New Orleans.

  Maybe he’d take a trip down there too and see Louis Armstrong. If he hung around here any longer. Maybe he wasn’t going back to his own time at all. Maybe he was stuck here. Mahler’s money wouldn’t last long. He’d have to find work somehow; survive here just like everyone else. He should be careful with his money instead of going first class.

  The driver stopped on the corner of Ida Place and New Hampshire Avenue, and said, “Are you sure you want to be here, sir?”

  Mitch looked around. It was a bustling, respectable neighbourhood. Men and women promenaded along the boulevard in reasonably fine clothes. It wasn’t the Upper East Side, but it wasn’t Canal Street either. It was sedate and respectable. The only difference was that almost everyone was black, not white.

  “Yes, thanks. Quite sure.”

  The driver shrugged, took his fifty cents and rode off.

  Mitch looked all around. No one seemed shocked that he’d landed in their neighbourhood like an alien. No one looked twice. In fact, he noticed there were other whites here: that policeman, strolling the boulevard; that grocer standing proudly by a landslide of fresh fruit; that gentleman in shirt sleeves and a derby hat opening the bar to a queue of customers piling in.

  Mitch looked along Ida Place, a short street that linked two larger boulevards, and set off walking along it, checking the numbers on the mailboxes. Two-storey clapboard houses spoke of the relative wealth. They weren’t Park Avenue mansions, but neither were they East Village hovels.

  Number 2129 — how had he remembered it so clearly all these years? — sat in the middle of the row. He took it in as he strolled by, but there was no sign of life. Should he knock and make up some story? What to say?

  He walked on along the street till he came to a dog leg, and lost sight of the house behind him. He about turned, crossed the street and walked back, this time passing right along so close that he could reach out and touch the mailbox.

  At New Hampshire Avenue, he crossed the street and stood so he had a view right up Ida Place, suddenly feeling this was a fool’s errand. He should just hail a cab and go back to... where?

  New York? Why not just do it here — whatever it was he’d have to do to get back home? Why not just think himself back home right here on this spot — just will himself back to his own time and disappear right off the street?

  Or to Eleanor.

  His fingers went to the locket under his shirt, like it was a button he could press to teleport him to her. This was why he was trapped here, perhaps. He didn’t know where he wanted to go; couldn’t decide. And where was Eleanor, in the vastness of time — where and when was she?

  He watched a while longer, carriages trundling by, and wondered how long it would be before he drew attention to himself, wishing there was a convenient café window he could spy from.

  Then he saw the boy emerge, skipping down steps, and turning towards him. A smart young black boy clad in a tweed knickerbocker suit and baker boy cap, a red wool scarf trailing over his shoulder, a leather satchel tucked under his arm.

  The boy approached and Mitch made out his face. Round and pale, full lips. Just a hint of the distinguished man he would become.

  Duke Ellington.

  — 45 —

  MITCH STEPPED INTO the street and crossed over, arcing towards the boy, who saw him approaching and eyed him curiously but without fear.

  Mitch tipped his hat. Were you supposed to tip your hat to anyone but a lady? It was pretty much certain that no man tipped his hat to a child, let alone a black child.

  “Excuse me, young boy, I’m lost.”

  “Hello, sir,” the boy said.

  And it came to him. A name he’d never forgotten because of the ridiculous musicality of it. “I’m looking for Mrs Marietta Clinkscales.”

  The boy frowned. “The piano teacher?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Why, she’s my piano teacher,” he said with a pout.

  “Is that so?”

  “I can show you, sir. It’s just along here.”

  “That would be most kind of you.”

  “It’s not far, and it’s on my way.”

  They walked off together up the wide avenue and no one looked twice at this stranger walking with a boy.

  “I’m on my way back to school and Mrs Clinkscales’ house is on the way.”

  “How lucky I bumped into you. My name’s Mitchell, but people just call me Mitch.”

  “Edward Kennedy Ellington,” the boy said proudly.

  “That’s quite a mouthful.”

  “Yes, sir. My friends call me Duke.”

  “That’s a nice nickname. Pleased to meet you, Duke.”

  He shook the boy’s hand, and the boy did not seem fazed at all by this — as if he were an adult and this kind of thing happened all the time.

  “How old are you, Duke?”

  “I’m almost nine years old. I will be in a month and a half.”

  He seemed a good deal older, but Mitch thought it best not to point this out, although he would no doubt take it as a compliment. They walked on and began zig-zagging their way through the west end streets.

  It wasn’t far, he’d said. Mitch felt a sudden panic that they would reach the house and then this would be over all too soon.

  “How long have you been taking tuition from Mrs Clinkscales?”

  “Not long. A few months.”

  “I can tell you’re not too excited at the mention of the piano. You don’t like music?”

  “I prefer baseball if I’m honest, sir. All the real he-men are athletes, but Mother thinks learning piano is more important.”

  “Your mother is right. Piano is important.”

  “I don’t see how. You see, when I play baseball, the President sometimes rides by on his horse and watches us play.”

  “President Roosevelt?”

  “That’s right. Just him. No guards or anything. He just rides right by on his horse, straight from the White House, and watches us play on the old tennis court on 16th Street up ahead.”

  Duke didn’t seem amazed by that. It was quite natural. He lived in the same city as the President, after all, so it was quite natural that he would stop by and watch Duke Ellington play baseball with his friends.

  “Now, the way I see it is, the President of the United States watches me play baseball, but he doesn’t watch me play piano.”

  Mitch chuckled. “Maybe one day he will. You never know. If you get good enough at it.”

  “My mother doesn’t see how baseball could advance a person of my race, not as much as the piano.”

  “Well, a piano has keys,” said Mitch. �
�Keys open a lot of doors in the world.”

  Duke giggled. “Yes. I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “You don’t listen to music?”

  “I like ragtime, I guess. Mother likes parlour music. Father plays operatic arias. Me, I prefer reading a good mystery.”

  “So do I. In fact, I was involved in a mystery in New York. I was employed as a detective to solve a mystery.”

  “You’re a detective? A real detective?”

  “It’s not my real profession. I only did it the once.”

  “So you’re an amateur sleuth! I’d do anything to be a sleuth one day; to solve a real mystery.”

  “It’s not as glamorous as you might think.”

  “No, I’d imagine it would be dangerous, though. You’d meet all sorts of ruffians in the course of your investigation. And you might have to sock a few jaws along the way. But in the end your brain would triumph. Just a matter of working out that simple thing that’s been staring everyone in the face all the time.”

  Mitch laughed. “You really do like mystery stories.”

  “Oh, I’ve read all of the Sherlock Holmes stories, and most of Cleek of Scotland Yard. I know all the burglar theories, every possible machination, and just about every murder device you could put a name to.”

  He pronounced machination with a hard c. Mackination.

  A thin, high-pitched hum of unease, like a tuning fork on his skull.

  “I can see I should have had you as my faithful assistant,” Mitch said, trying to smile.

  “Dr Watson.”

  “Though, I’m a pretty poor Sherlock Holmes, if I’m honest.”

  Duke stopped and pointed to the blue painted clapboard house. A notice in the window. Mrs M. Harvey Clinkscales. Piano Tutor. He was here. It was over.

  That uneasy hum. He thought it might be coming from her house. But no. It was in his head.

  Mackination.

  Where had he heard that before?

  “So who did it?” Duke asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t solve the case. It’s not as easy as it is in the books.”

  “Oh, rats.”

  “I guess I’m not really a detective.”

  “It’s the butler,” Duke said.

  Mitch laughed. “Yes. That’s what they always say. But in this case, there is no butler.”

  “Well, it’s the person who’s always there in the background, quietly watching it all.”

  Mackinats.

  “The person no one sees, yes,” Mitch said. “That’s often the way of it.” For a wild moment, he thought of Clarence, and laughed at the thought.

  “What’s so funny?” Duke asked.

  “Oh, I just thought of a servant at the hotel. I don’t think he’s the type for blackmail, though.”

  “It’s always the one who isn’t the type for it. Or the one you don’t notice. Or it wouldn’t be a mystery at all.”

  Mitch chuckled again. “Yes, I guess so.”

  The one who sees everything but no one sees them. There was no one like that in this story, Mitch thought. They were all too conspicuous. The only one who might possibly fit that description was little Anna. Gucki.

  Playing with her dolls on the rug, babbling in German.

  Mackinats.

  He looked back up the street, looked all around, as if he’d forgotten his key, his mind flashing back in panic to where he might have left it.

  Macchinazione.

  “The girl,” he said. “The little girl showed us the whole thing.”

  “Are you all right, sir? You look like... Hey have you solved the mystery?”

  Mitch turned to Duke, beaming with joy. “You know, I think I might have.”

  “Well, hot dog! Did I just help you crack the case?”

  “Yes, you did. You really did.” He shook the boy’s hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Duke Ellington.”

  “And you too, Mr Mitchell, sir. Boy, no one will believe me. I helped solve a mystery!”

  Duke walked on, quickening his step, late for school.

  Mitch watched him go, a roaring in his ears.

  He knew who it was. He had to get back to New York right away, before it was too late.

  — 46 —

  HE RAN ALONG 6th Street till he could hail a passing cab. It thundered to Union Station along Massachusetts Avenue and at the ticket office he barked his order for a second-class ticket back to New York.

  If he’d bought a return-ticket in the first place, he could have saved most of that. But he’d thought he was never going back. See the Duke and then go home. That had been the whole of it.

  And the Duke had solved it.

  Macchinazione.

  A train to New York leaving in three minutes.

  He ran through the stew of people, pushed through to the barrier where an officious oaf examined his ticket like it was an antique. The train shrieked and hid itself in a cloud of steam. He ran through it, blind, grabbed a handle and yanked a door open, leaping from the platform as it shifted away from under his feet.

  He swayed down the corridor and edged past an amorous couple. Stopped and stared. Too hard. They felt his gaze and the woman pulled away from her man and stared out of the window at Washington receding. Her beau glared at Mitch as he pushed through to the dining car.

  Macchinazione.

  He found a table and settled in, pulling out his notebook and scribbling his thoughts.

  The girl had acted the whole thing out for him. They had all watched her theatre show — Alma, Gustav and Mitch — and not even noticed it. She’d acted it out on the rug with her dolls to an unseeing audience.

  An amorous couple kissing in secret. A trip on a streetcar, down a sidewalk to the nickelodeon, a place where two lovers meet and talk in a language the child doesn’t understand. It wasn’t charmer they said, but ti amo. I love you. And the other word she’d kept repeating. Mackinats. Not German for machine. She wasn’t talking about a movie projector.

  Macchinazione.

  Like Duke had said: machination.

  Plot, plan, conspiracy.

  The child hadn’t been babbling in German and English. She’d been repeating the words she’d heard two lovers say in another language.

  A woman and her beau — a man who worked at a nickelodeon near the Lower East Side.

  Little Italy.

  It was the person who was always there in the background, quietly watching it all, just as Duke had said. Not any butler. Not the bell hop. Not the child.

  The governess.

  The woman who took the child with her everywhere. Took her wandering the streets of Manhattan. To the Natural History Museum to see the crocodiles. That was what she taught the girl to talk about to her parents. But not the other place she took her: a nickelodeon downtown, where her beau worked. A secret rendezvous where they kissed and discussed their plot, their machination, in a language they thought the girl wouldn’t understand.

  Macchinazione.

  Not German. Italian.

  The dining carriage was hot and too small. The train sliding along too slow. Three hours to New York. Could he send a telegram ahead? He wondered if that was possible? From a moving train? Would he bring attention to himself for even asking if it was possible?

  A black waiter came to serve him and he ordered a tall glass of water, no, a pitcher of iced water — on a cold day like this, how crazy — and a whiskey too. A double.

  He scribbled in his notebook; words and theories tumbling from his sweating brow onto the page — just to see what they looked like in print. To see if they made sense when he read them back.

  It had been the Italians all along. That ridiculous rivalry at the Met between the Italians and the Germans. Toscanini was the spirit of the new Italy. Mahler was a German Jew.

  Whether Toscanini was involved or not, the conspirators had tried to create a link between the Mahlers and Selig Silverstein — a dangerous Jewish anarchist. They had tried to send Selig to Chinatown to get h
im snapped by a photographer and make a further criminal connection with Gustav.

  The governess and her lover had plotted to undermine the Mahlers’ marriage, associate Alma with scandal, and make a link between the respectable Jewish conductor and a lowlife Jewish anarchist from the slums. The Jews, the smear would say: they’re all the same. And it was the political dimension that had been particularly clever. The likes of Selig Silverstein threatened the safe, comfortable world of high society and no matter how respectable they looked, the Mahlers were a part of his dangerous world.

  Even Gustav despised the Jews of the Lower East Side as a subhuman species utterly beneath him. The place was a swamp that infected the air that wafted to the Four Hundred in their Fifth Avenue mansions. But a simple letter had drawn the Mahlers into that swamp.

  All the Jews were the same, they would say. The New York Metropolitan Opera was much safer in the hands of the Italians.

  And behind it all was that war between Italy and Germany. The Italians pointed to the Germans and said the country had fallen to the Jews. It was a smear that would echo down the years, and right this moment there was a 19-year old Austrian art student being rejected by the Viennese art establishment. A bitter, talentless mediocrity, he would take up that cry — the country has fallen to the Jews — and turn it into a holocaust.

  The nightmare of history.

  Mitch could go to Vienna right now and shoot him dead.

  But would it stop the holocaust? Would it change history? Mitch’s life’s work had been preventing people meddling with history, but wouldn’t you kill Hitler given the chance? You’d have to be inhuman not to.

  He knocked back the whiskey, enjoying its bitter tang, and glugged on the water, fat and raw in his throat. Outside, the sun set across acres of white fields.

  He thought of Jack Zelig, groaned and banged his fist on the table. People looked up and he mimed apology at his clumsiness, rubbing his elbow.

  Jack Zelig had never been anything to do with blackmailing the Mahlers. He’d never heard of them until Mitch had blundered into Jimmy Kelly’s bar and blabbed his name to Izzy. Mitch had sent out a wild threat to one of the biggest gangsters in town and brought the Mahlers to his attention. His kidnapping of Alma had been pure opportunism. Some nobody had threatened him so he’d shown them he was somebody.