I looked at my watch,
"I have to get to my lesson," I said. standing. "I'll talk to you later." I whispered to Cinnamon.
"Knock him dead," Steven called after me.
Knock him dead? Right now, I thought, I was afraid I might not have the strength to hold my violin, much less play it. I was terrified of being too nervous and having Mr. Bergman march me down to the street to play for pedestrians again, so I sucked in my breath, counted to ten, and when I began to perform for him. I concentrated as hard as I could on my work. He listened with those critical eves so fixed on me. I was sure he was going to rant and raze the moment I lifted the bow. Instead, he nodded softly.
"You're getting there," he said. "You're riding the music well. Now, I want you to think of it as a wild horse you have just trained. It needs direction: it needs authority. Impose yourself upon those notes. Don't play exactly what you see, but how you see it. In short., this is what we mean when we speak of interpretation. I want your personal stamp on this now. I want you to be more than simply a musician playing someone else's creative work. I want you to become part of the process.
"This is a freedom and a task I don't assign to my students until I feel they have the talent and the skill to handle it," he added.
He stopped short of hammering home a compliment and left it hanging in the air for me to pluck and complete instead. I nodded, studied the music for a few moments, and then began again, closing my eves and thinking of my Uncle Peter, his smile, his words of encouragement. I thought of the farm. Mommy and Daddy and Uncle Simon, and imagined them sitting there listening to me play. I did bring myself and who I was to the melody. I couldn't describe exactly what I had done and I wasn't sure I could ever do it again the same way, but when I was finished. Mr. Bergman was smiling and nodding.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, you will do fine."
With a heart full of hope and excitement. I left my lesson and prepared for the remainder of our day. Unfortunately, Rose wasn't as happy with her work. She said she missed steps, lost rhythm, and just looked clumsy, but Mr. Demetrius assured her she wasn't. Ice said Mr. Littleton gave her unusually enthusiastic compliments, and Cinnamon reported that Howard, squashed a bit by Madame Senetsky at breakfast, was less pretentious on the stage. She admitted she even liked his performance herself and thought it helped her do better. Steven was very happy, too. claiming I had left Mr. Bergman in so good a mood he tolerated his small improvisations.
"No," I told him. "Improvisation, interpretation, that's what he's after now. He wants you to impose yourself on the music, be a part of the creation."
"Listen to her." Steven cried with some surprise. "Our little Honey Child is becoming a sophisticated New York musician."
I blushed with embarrassment,
"That's generally the idea, isn't it?" Cinnamon snapped, stepping up to defend me immediately.
"If you got serious for a minute, you might have the same sort of success," Rose added.
"If you shut off your wise talk, you might," Ice asserted. "but I doubt you can do that,"
He looked at the four of us and shook his head, raising his hands as if to surrender.
"Please don't castrate me," he begged. "I'm sorry. girls. I'm sorry" he mocked and walked away.
The four of us looked at each other and laughed. We were truly becoming sisters, looking after each other. We were really becoming a team. Each of us lent something to the others. I thought. Cinnamon was our wit. Ice our muscle. Rose our beautiful face. And me? I was our conscience.
On Thursday Uncle Simon had a bouquet of fresh flowers delivered for each of us with a card wishing us all good luck on our first Performance Night. I had told him how much the girls loved the arrangement he had sent to me. We called him immediately and everyone took a turn thanking him. He was too shy to say much more than. "Don't think anything of it. Living in a city, you need as many flowers as you can get."
Daddy got on and apologized again and again for their not being here my first Performance Night. I tried to make him feel better by telling him it was really just little more than a dress rehearsal.
"The next one will be more important,'" I said. Mommy was frill of questions about our daily life and how I was adjusting to New York City. I could never lie to Mommy, at least not well enough for her to not see it was a lie. She heard some of my unhappiness in my voice, unhappiness I couldn't yet verbalize or explain.
"Maybe I don't belong in big cities. Mommy." "Give it time," she advised. "Your wonderful talent will take you to many more cities. Honey, beautiful places. Think of what you would deny those hungry ears if you came home and played only for your Uncle Simon and us."
I laughed and assured her I would be fine, but I missed them all so much that it made me wonder if I ever could become a world-class musician, or actually. if I really wanted the fame and the opportunities as much as the others. At times Rose looked like she had just as many doubts about herself as I did about myself.
Rose's half-brother Evan arrived on Friday. Madame Senetsky granted her permission to meet him at his hotel when he arrived. Since we were
performing on Saturday night, we were not given any assignments for Friday night or Saturday. but Ms. Fairchild warned us that time off meant time to relax and prepare ourselves mentally for our big night.
"No wandering about the city," she cautioned. "And no late hours! Pay strict attention to your curfew."
Chandler wasn't arriving until late Friday night and coming to visit late Saturday morning, I had gotten permission for him to join us at lunch. Rose was having Barry as well as Evan. Cinnamon and Ice decided against inviting Larry and Reuben. Neither was special enough to them, certainly not as special as Chandler was to me. I was so excited about seeing him again. I almost forgot about the bizarre scene we had all witnessed through the window the Sunday before, and the taking of my clothing. All of us discussed it Friday afternoon before Rose went to meet her brother. Cinnamon was worried I would say something to Chandler and Rose would tell Barry.
"Until we really know what's going on, ifs better we keep it all to ourselves," she strongly suggested.
All agreed.
Shortly after we had our dinner. Rose called Cinnamon from her brother's hotel room. He had arrived and taken the trip well. The hotel had provided him their best room for a disabled person, but she wasn't calling simply to report that.
"I think you should all come here," she told her. "And as quickly as you can."
The three of us started out. Howard and Steven were in the den watching a video of an old American Playhouse production Mr. Marlowe had
recommended. Because we didn't want either them or Laura Fairchild to hear or see us leave, we tiptoed to the front door and snuck out, like people escaping. Once down the steps, we all stuck to the shadows and ran to the gate, hurrying to the nearest street corner to see if we could flag a taxicab. We had to make our way to Third Avenue before getting one, but once we did it was only a little more than twenty minutes later that we arrived at Evan's hotel.
When we called from the, lobby. Rose came out to meet us and bring us to her brother.
"He's putting on a brave act, but he's
exhausted,'" she explained as we walked down the corridor. "I put him to bed. He's embarrassed, so act like it's nothing unusual."
"Maybe we should have waited until tomorrow then," I said.
"No, he insisted, and after what he told me and what we've experienced. I thought you should come."
Evan looked small and very vulnerable in the king-size bed. Rose introduced us all to him quickly.
"From all she's told me," he said. "I feel like I've known each of you for years."
"Same for us about vou, Evan." Cinnamon said.
Knowing how proud Rose was of him brought a glow to his face. He had a soft, round face with long flaxen-blond hair streaming down the sides of his temples and cheeks. Although his eyes confessed his fatigue, they were also bright with excitement at meeting us. I thoug
ht he was a good-looking boy, with a slightly cleft chin and beautiful almond-brown eyes.
Rose fixed the pillow behind him so he could sit up, and then he reached over and pulled some notes out of a leather-bound, letter-size folio.
"Rose filled me in on what you guys saw through that window on the third floor of your school building. I don't know if this will help explain it. I don't know if anything could."
We gathered around him. Cinnamon sitting on the bed. Ice at his left shoulder, and me sitting opposite Cinnamon. Rose remained at the foot of the bed. watching. I glanced at her and saw how she was anticipating our reaction. That had Evan found?
"This was one of the hardest, most difficult searches I've undertaken through the Internet." Evan began. "Roadways into places I had to get to were blocked with passwords I didn't have time to break. I had to figure out ways to get around and come in back doors. But," he added with a smile, "it became a real challenge, and I love a challenge."
"Just tell him he can't do something and he deliberately does it." Rose explained.
"Sounds like me," Cinnamon said. "Go on. Evan," she urged, now impatient. "Please."
"Okay. First, a little history about Madame Senetsky. As you 'mow, she has had a great career. By my last count, she had major roles in over two hundred different theater productions and made nearly forty films in Europe. Apparently, she speaks both French and Italian fluently enough to make foreign films. She was never very big in Hollywood, although she has done close to ten films, some independent productions, a few studio films. Usually, a foreign director cast her. The point is, she spent most of her career in Europe, and that was also why it was difficult getting answers.
"Anyway, she married Marshall Senetsky when she was in her early thirties. The Senetsky family emigrated from Poland to France in the early twenties, where they became successful importers of products from North Africa and some things from the Far East. They invested in commercial property and built a sizeable fortune, Marshall Senetsky enjoyed the theater and invested not only in plays but also in theaters themselves. It seems that he built a theater just for his wife,
"For a long time their principal residence was Paris, but they also had a summer home in
Switzerland. She didn't become pregnant until she was nearly forty years old."
"Why did she wait so long?" I asked.
"Probably her career came first," Evan said.
"You'd think her husband would have something to say about that," Ice muttered.
"Well, they had a strange relationship. They were apart for long periods of time every year. If you look at her schedule and his, you'd think they were lucky to have been together a week or more sometimes."
"Get to what they have to know. Evan," Rose gently urged. "We don't want to keep you long and we've got to get back to the school before we're missed. too. We weren't supposed to be out late."
"Right. She gave birth both times in
Switzerland. There was contradictory information about this, almost as if someone was tying to erase the past. but I finally discovered that she gave birth to a boy first. The boy, as you all know, was named Edmond Coma Senetsky. Coma being Madame Senetsky's maiden name. Two years afterward, she gave birth again, this time to a girl. The girl's name was Gerta Louise Senetsky. Louise was Madame Senetsky's mother's name. Gerta was Marshall Senetsky's mother's name."
"We know about her daughter," I said. -"She told me herself. remember? She said I reminded her of her daughter, but she had died.'
"She told you that?" Evan asked.
"Yes, but she didn't tell me her name or anything else about her. Why are you surprised?'"
"There is little history of Gerta. It's like Madame Senetsky would rather forget she ever existed. All the articles I could find that quote her mention only Edmond. They were both brought up in Switzerland, where they attended English schools. Madame Senetsky was traveling often, to make films or to perform in a play. As I said, sometimes she was away from her husband for months and months, but she was also away from her children that long. too."
He paused and looked up at us.
"From what I can tell so far, at the age of fourteen. Gerta disappears, but that's not when she died."
"Disappears?" Ice asked quickly.
"No school records, medical records. nothing. It took a while, but I finally traced her to a clinic in Switzerland."
"What sort of clinic?" Cinnamon questioned, her eyes electric with what I imagined were her memories of her mother's problems.
"A special clinic for disturbed children, mentally disturbed."
"So that's who we saw," Ice muttered. "It had to be. That was surely one disturbed person."
"The resemblance to Edmond would strongly suggest it," Evan said.
"But Madame Senetsky told me she was dead." I reminded them. "Why would she lie about that and why is she being kept hidden?" I asked.
Evan shook his head.
"That's why I said this might not help you understand what's happening in the house. That's all I could find about her so far. It's a very strange story, and after what Rose told me. I thought I should bring it all here to show you."
He handed out some of the articles and pictures he had downloaded from search engines on the Internet. We passed them to each other and read in silence.
"You said she was placed in psychiatric care when she was about fourteen?" Cinnamon asked, looking up from one article in particular.
"It would seem that way from what I could piece together," Evan replied.
Cinnamon thought a moment.
"If I'm correct about the time line, it's not too long after that when Madame Senetslw's husband committed suicide for mysterious reasons. Right?" she asked Evan. "You sent those pages to Rose."
"Yes, that's correct," he said. "They already were living in New York part of the year."
He checked his notes and nodded.
"According to what this says. Marshall Senetsky died a little more than a year after Gerta was committed."
"Wow," I said. "It sounds like there is more drama in Madame Senetsky's real life than there was in any play or movie she acted in."
"Somehow," Cinnamon said. nodding. "I don't think the curtain has come dawn on it all either."
No one spoke, but it was easy to see drama unfolding in all our faces.
"Let's leave Evan get some rest." Rose said. "He's coming to the house for lunch tomorrow. Madame Senetsky approved of it."
"Good." Cinnamon said. "But let's not talk about any of this in front of anyone else just yet."
"Especially Howard and Steven," Ice pointed out.
"You've taken care of all your travel
arrangements. Evan? You can get yourself to the school okay?" Rose confirmed.
He nodded.
"The van will be here about ten. Don't worry about it," he said, obviously proud at how he had managed to handle everything for himself.
Independence for someone like him was far more important than it was for any of us. I thought.
"Is there anything else you need before we go?"
"No, I'm fine here. As you see," he said, gesturing toward the bathroom, where we could see railings. "it's all designed for the disabled.-
"You're far less disabled than most of the boys I know." Cinnamon told him, which brought a nice smile back to his tired face.
"Thanks," he said.
"There's one other thing you should know, Evan," she continued. "We're practically sisters now. That makes you brother to all of us."
His smile widened.
Each of us kissed him good night.
The beams of happiness in his eyes warmed our hearts. After we left his room. Rose couldn't stop her thank you's.
"Forget it." Cinnamon said. "He's the one who deserves the thanks.
"What is going on in that mansion?" she pondered. "Who was that upstairs? Was it her daughter, and if it was, why did she tell you her daughter was dead?"
"And when will we know?" Ice fo
llowed,
We hailed a cab and returned, all of us lost in her own thoughts until we pulled up at the gate and got out.
The house loomed above us, the windows on the third floor dimly lit.
All of it resembling a stage waiting for its next performance.
And with us, strangely enough, participating as an audience trapped in the theater.
Before I went to sleep. I had a call from Chandler to tell me he had arrived and how much he looked forward to seeing me.
"It's been too long," he said. "When you care as much for someone as I care for you. Honey, a week apart is more like a month; a month, more like a year."
"I know. Chandler. I feel the same way," I said. "I'll be there about eleven," he said.
Knowing he was close by helped me relax and finally get a good night's sleep.
At breakfast. Laura Fairchild told us to report to the parlor as soon as we were finished. where once again Madame Senetsky held court. When I looked at her now. I couldn't help thinking about the revelations Evan had brought to us. How did she keep the turns and twists of her real life from interfering with her performances, her career? A daughter in a mental clinic, a husband who committed suicide? Would I be able to have such control and power over my own emotions?
"When your performances have concluded this evening, you will all report promptly to the ballroom," she began. "The guests will already be there. The reception will begin with champagne and some hors d'oeuvres. I don't want to see any of you gorging yourself on food or gulping champagne. One glass should last each of you the whole evening. Too many young people drink their champagne too quickly and begin to babble ridiculously," she warned, "And I certainly don't want to see anyone with a mouthful of food when he or she is being introduced.
"Gather near me. and I will properly introduce each of you to my guests. No one introduces him or herself, and none of you." she added. eyeing Howard the most. I thought. "assert yourself to anyone.
"Power in the arts comes from being in demand... in every sense... everywhere. When you go to someone instead of him or her coming to you, you weaken your image. Even you, neophytes at the very beginning of your careers, must not give up too much. When you let them know how much you want what they can give, they have the power over you and not vice versa."
Falling Stars Page 18
