by Gene Wilder
“What are you going to play for me today?” she asked.
“Chopin. Please pour yourself a little wine, Clara. I’ll have mine later, if I play well for you.”
I looked at Clara sitting on the blanket, a streak of sunlight resting on her auburn hair, and then I played one of my favorite nocturnes. It was soft, dreamy, and a little sad . . . something like Clara. When I finished, she was crying.
“That was—” She took several sips of wine as she wiped her tears with a linen napkin. “You can have your wine now, Jeremy.”
After I put the violin away, Clara poured a glass of Gutedel for me. I sat down next to her and she raised her glass. “To beautiful music,” she said.
We clicked glasses as I repeated, “To beauty,” thinking of how beautiful Clara looked just then.
After several more sips of wine, she said, “I suppose you want to lie down with me.”
“I . . . I’m not exactly sure what—”
“With clothes on,” she said.
“Yes. I’d like that very much,” I said.
“Well then, ask me!” she said.
Here we go.
“Would you like . . . me . . . to lie down next to you . . . keeping my clothes on?”
“Yes, I would,” she answered.
I lay down beside her and put my arm under her head as she nestled into my shoulder. We stayed that way for several minutes, without talking. There was no attempt on my part to do anything more, even though I wanted to; we simply enjoyed the closeness and the warmth of our bodies. Then, without saying a word, she suddenly lifted her head, leaned over me, gave me a long kiss on the lips, returned to her position on my shoulder, and fell asleep.
She slept for almost thirty minutes and even though my arm throbbed for lack of blood flow, I didn’t want to disturb her. When Clara woke with a start, she looked around, as if she were trying to see where she was, and then seemed to recognize me.
“What happened? Oh! I fell asleep, didn’t I? I’m not used to drinking wine so early. I’m sorry, Jeremy. Please forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive. I took a little nap, too. But it was nice holding you in my arms. Well, on my arm. You must be hungry, Clara. There’s a nice salad that the chef made for you.”
"While we had lunch, Clara asked me dozens of questions, about Chopin and nocturnes and what an étude was and what was the difference between sharps and flats. And then she wanted to know how I started playing the violin.
“It was my mother. She bought me my first violin when I was five years old. She had wanted to be a concert pianist before she had her first heart attack, but her instinct told her that I would take to the violin more than a piano—don’t ask me why—and I’m sure she was right. We didn’t have much money, but she coaxed and charmed the best teachers in town to take me on. And you know, when your mother thinks you’re good at something, it gives you confidence that you really are good at that thing.”
“Is she still alive?”
“No, she died two years ago, but—now stop crying, Clara—she was there when I gave my first concert at Carnegie Hall, and that meant the world to her.”
“Oh, good. I’m so glad.”
We packed up our things and headed back to the hotel. Clara held on to my arm as we walked. Nothing that special had happened, and yet I was very content with our little rendezvous.
TWENTY
“COULD I ASK A GREAT FAVOR OF YOU, JEREMY?” Dr. Gross asked.
“Of course,” I answered, assuming that his request had something to do with helping Clara.
“I know that you’ve been playing the violin for Clara, and playing it beautifully. Would you play once more for our guests . . . but no string quartet . . . just you? And no tricks, I promise. I only want to see if we are making the progress that I think we are making with your condition. Or should I say the progress that you and I and our spa and Clara Mulpas are making with your condition? But no pressure! Only if you want. If you are at all worried or uneasy, then please—”
“Does Clara know what you’re asking me to do?”
“Of course not. I would never say anything without—”
“I’ll do it—but don’t tell Clara.”
That night, a little after eight, Clara came into the Garden café and sat down next to me. I squeezed her hand and said, “Excuse me, Clara,” then reached under our table to get the violin case, walked onto the small platform where the quartet had played, and looked at the audience.
Dr. Gross was sitting at his table near the back of the restaurant, smiling a little nervously. Next to him sat Chekhov, with his handsome, noncommittal face.
“Ladies and gentlemen . . . a few nights ago, when I was playing with the string quartet, I think I ruined some very good music with my silly antics. Tonight I’d like to play for you again and try to make up for the last time.”
The audience applauded politely. Most of the guests who were still eating put down their silverware and watched me. I took out Gerhardt Fleischer’s violin.
“This piece was written by Niccolo Paganini, the famous Italian virtuoso. It’s called ‘The Caprice Number 24 in A Minor’ . . . but I would rename it: ‘Look at me—I’m a showoff.’”
The audience laughed with a little more enthusiasm.
“The twenty-fourth caprice has come close to driving some violinists mad, but since that’s already happened to me, I’m not at all afraid.”
The audience laughed again, even more cheerfully. Karl Gross smiled. Even the corners of Chekhov’s mouth curled up slightly.
I felt the confidence that comes with musical familiarity, because I’ve played this piece many times as an encore. I tucked the violin under my chin, took a deep breath, and began playing. As insanely difficult as the Caprice No. 24 is, I poured my heart into it and it was coming out pretty well, despite the fact that I hadn’t played it for more than a month. While I was playing, thoughts ran in and out: When will the crazy man appear? How long before I ruin this piece of music? After slightly more than five minutes, I flew over the mountains and landed safely. The audience rose in unison to applaud me.
I looked at Clara, who was beaming. I lifted my shoulders as if to ask, “Was I all right?” She nodded a sweet yes.
The audience wouldn’t stop applauding. I urged them to sit back down.
“I’ll play just one more selection for you. It’s very soft, very romantic and, I think, a little mysterious. I dedicate it to Clara Mulpas, who is very much like this piece of music. It’s called ‘Songs My Mother Taught Me.’”
I played Dvorak’s short, simple song and when I finished, the audience applauded warmly. When I looked at Clara, I saw tears streaming down her face. I put the violin back into its case and walked back to our table.
“Now I could eat a horse,” I said. “Well, no—perhaps a cow or a chicken.”
“Can we have a picnic tomorrow?” Clara asked, while patting her wet cheeks with a napkin.
“Of course! Why do you think I chose that song?”
LYING IN bed that night I had another little conversation with myself: You knew she would love “Songs My Mother Taught Me” and that she would cry, but did you have to say it was soft and romantic, like her? That’s the seducer working—don’t you know that? YES, I KNOW THAT, AND I WAS AWARE OF IT AT THE TIME. NOW SHUT UP AND GO TO SLEEP!
TWENTY-ONE
OUR FOURTH RENDEZVOUS
Knowing Clara’s predilections by now, the chef made us a beautiful Salade Niçoise: tomatoes, tuna, hardboiled eggs, boiled potatoes, a variety of lettuces, all topped with a light vinaigrette, no anchovies. We each had a glass of Gutedel.
Clara kept staring at me while we ate, hardly speaking, which wasn’t like her. When we finished as much as we were going to eat, she glanced up a few feet above her head.
“Did you notice those two dragonflies that were circling above us?” she asked.
“I did. They seemed very playful.”
“Did you know that dragonflies make lo
ve while they’re in flight?”
“Are you making a joke, Clara?”
“No.”
“Well, that must be very difficult to manage while they’re flying?”
“I suppose you’d like to see me naked now.”
My God, this is an unusual woman.
“Yes, I would,” I answered.
“Well then, ask me.”
Here we go.
“Clara . . . would you like . . . to take off your clothes . . . so that I can see you naked?”
“Yes, I would,” she replied, and started undressing. Then her head popped up. “Aren’t you going to take off your clothes, too?”
“Yes, of course.”
When we were both naked, we lay on the blanket and I embraced her, but very gently.
“Now what do we do?” she asked, without the slightest hint of a smile. “My only experience was with Gustav, who just stuck his willy into my private part and pumped me.”
“Let’s lie quietly for a few moments and let me kiss you,” I said.
I kissed her cheeks and then her lips. When I kissed her breast, she let out a small squeal.
“No, don’t stop!” she said. “I was just surprised. Gustav never touched me there. He never touched me anywhere, really.”
I kissed both of her breasts and she stroked my hair.
“Am I allowed to touch your willy?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
She very lightly took hold of my penis.
“My—it’s not what I imagined,” she said. “I like touching it.”
I touched what she called her private part.
“Oh goodness . . . Oh goodness . . . Please don’t stop. I was always so dry when Gustave pumped me. Please don’t stop.”
I gently put my penis into her vagina. When I did, she let out a loud moan, and then pulled my neck down to her chest so that she could kiss me. When our lips touched, her tears flowed like gentle raindrops, her body went limp, and she fell asleep in my arms.
Well? . . . This is what you’ve been planning and flirting for, isn’t it? Are you happy? No attachments—just a lovely girl who’s going to die, so there’s nothing to worry about. You’ll make a nice excuse: “I have to leave town for a while, dear . . . please take care of yourself . . . think of me . . . I’ll write.”
Look at her sleeping like a child. What’s wrong with giving her a small taste of sexual happiness for the first time in her life? Wouldn’t that be a good thing? . . . A small blessing? . . . Something that she would wish for, even ask me for, which she did, even though she knew she was dying? Or am I just rationalizing my cheap, sexual desire? I’m tired of all these battles with myself. I still think I’m a good person.
When she woke, I said, “I think you’d better cover up, Clara. I don’t want to be responsible for your catching a cold. What would Dr. Gross say?”
“He’d say, ‘Are you happy, Clara, dear?’ And I’d say, ‘Yes I am, Karl.’”
“Well, cover up anyway—the deer in this neighborhood are starting to talk.”
Clara stood up and kissed me; then she got dressed.
THAT NIGHT, Clara and I had a wonderful dinner together. She looked more exultant than ever, and the dress she wore was another one I hadn’t seen. Usually, Clara was a slow, very deliberate talker, but tonight she jabbered away like one of the cow birds in the trees above us. At one point she talked so fast that she almost choked on her words. She put her napkin to her mouth, coughed for several seconds, wiped her mouth, and then went on with her story, but I saw the red drops of blood on her napkin.
TWENTY-TWO
I WENT TO SEE DR. GROSS THE NEXT MORNING.
“The blood you saw was coming from the cancer in her stomach, and I’m afraid it’s going to get worse.”
“May I ask if Clara has told you anything about our relationship, Karl?”
“She tells me little things, Jeremy, but she doesn’t tell me every little thing. I do know that she seems to be happier now than she has been since I met her. But I think, perhaps, you know more about that than I do.”
“Karl, I love being with Clara, but I think she feels more for me than I anticipated. When I met her I thought she was a strong, cool, haughty, even aloof woman. Now I see how fragile she is, and I’m terribly afraid of hurting her.”
“My dear young man, Clara has been hurt so much by life before she ever met you, and I’m afraid she’s going to be hurt again, no matter what you do and no matter when you leave—which I’m sure is what you’re asking me. But you’ve already made her happy, Jeremy. . . . by the attention you pay to her, and your tenderness . . . and making her feel like a woman. You don’t need to feel guilty.”
“I mean no disrespect, Karl . . . but do you ever consult with other doctors?”
“Yes, of course. I’m taking her to Geneva tomorrow to see my friend, Dr. Joseph Hartmann, who is a specialist in her kind of cancer. He is a younger man. . . . Maybe he’ll see something that I don’t see. Anyway, I always have hopes.”
TWENTY-THREE
THE NEXT MORNING, MR. KREISS—THE SAME driver who picked up Patrick and me in Freiberg and drove us to Badenweiler—arrived at exactly seven-thirty A.M. Now he was taking Clara and Dr. Gross to Freiberg to catch the train to Geneva. I shook hands with Mr. Kreiss when he got out of his auto. “Are you going with us, Mr. Webb?” he asked.
“No, I just want to say good-bye to my friends.” What I didn’t say to Mr. Kreiss was that I might never see Clara again.
Clara was wearing a jacket over her dress and Karl Gross was in a lightweight tan suit. Mr. Kreiss took both their bags and put them in the trunk. I shook hands with Karl, who even gave me a hug. Then I moved close to Clara—who was crying, of course.
“No, no, no,” I said, as I wiped some tears from her face. “You’re the woman who wouldn’t even talk to me when we met, remember? . . . Except for saying, ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ every time I asked you a sweet, endearing little question.”
“You were flirting with me,” she said, and then she let out a girlish giggle.
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
She looked up at me without a smile. It was a frightened look. I took her face in my hands and kissed her. Then I kissed her again.
“We’d better go now or we miss the train,” Mr. Kreiss said politely but quite authoritatively.
“Yes,” Dr. Gross said. “In we go, Clara.”
He helped Clara into the car and put a blanket over her lap. She looked out at me. I put on a big smile.
Hold on . . . Hold on . . . You’ll be free in two minutes. No more fighting with yourself. No more guilt. Write to her often at first and then keep in touch with Karl, to find out how she’s doing. You couldn’t go through what she’s going through—not as courageously, that’s for sure. Well, keep a smile on your face, Jeremy. . . . Make her think it’s just a few days before we’ll have another picnic. Wave good-bye when the car pulls away. . . . Throw her a happy kiss. . . . Hold on . . .
Karl was about to get into the car, when I suddenly pulled him back and jumped onto the seat beside Clara.
“You don’t mind if I go along, do you, Clara?”
Tears and laughter. Karl got into the car and joined in with the laughter.
“You can leave now, Mr. Kreiss,” I said.
“Are you sure, Jeremy?” Clara asked.
“Yes, I’m sure—but I need to buy a toothbrush somewhere.”
TWENTY-FOUR
GENEVA WAS A BEAUTIFUL CITY, SO CLEAN ANDwhite that you’d think a crew had just scrubbed it down with soap and brushes for our arrival. The hotel that Mr. Kreiss drove us to—the Grand Excelsior—was a beautiful structure with classical columns near the entrance and sculptured moldings around each window. The Excelsior was only a few hundred feet from Lake Geneva.
I was afraid the hotel might not have a room for me, because of my last-minute impulse, but when the registrar saw Dr. Gross, he came out from behind his desk, almost bouncing and
making a little humming sound as he walked up to him. They shook hands like old friends. Clara and the registrar spoke in French for half a minute and then the registrar shook hands with me.
I was given a nice room on the third floor, just a few doors away from Clara’s room on one side and Dr. Gross’s on the other. It had a soft bed and a terrace that overlooked Lake Geneva.
Clara had an appointment at three-thirty that afternoon, at the University Hospital, with Dr. Hartmann, the specialist. I asked Karl if I could come along, but he thought it would be better if I waited. He wanted to keep Clara as calm as possible.
I felt a terrible anxiety after Clara left for her appointment. My body felt warm and my forehead and palms were cold. After all the talk of hospitals and doctors and medications, and some kind of a scope that would be pushed down Clara’s throat and into her stomach, I began to fully realize the complications of my attachment to Clara.
I decided to take a stroll along the walkway that bordered the lake. It was still light outside, and although the weather was cool, it was very pleasant.
As I walked, Chekhov’s voice shoved itself into my thoughts. “I was always careful to keep my ladies at a distance. If it got too heated, I would break things off.”
Yes, Anton. Easier said than done.
The blue water of Lake Geneva looked clean enough to drink, and I wanted to drink it. I had the urge to run into the lake with my clothes on and splash around, as if I didn’t have a care in the world. Fortunately, it dawned on me that that would be crazy.
I thought it was very civilized that most of the shops in Geneva remained open till seven in the evening. After cashing a few of my Thomas Cook travelers checks—which I had packed into my wallet before leaving Ohio—I bought a white shirt, a tie, two pair of socks, two pair of undershorts, a razor, and a toothbrush. And, just in case I didn’t like the taste of the toothpaste that was provided in my bathroom, I bought a tube of toothpaste called Menthe poivrée, which I hoped meant peppermint. I put the items in a large cloth bag that cost three francs.
