“What is it?” I cried, reaching for him. “Out with it, Humphrey!”
- “Two dried up human hands wrapped in old rags,” he shrieked, and rolled away from me onto his back, beating his hands and feet against the floor and howling with merriment.
7
HUMPHREY made a bigger splash in Geneva than he had in Venice or Milan. The SRO audience demanded three encores, and so Humphrey played all three Magyar pieces. Uncomfortable as I was, resentful as I was, I still had room to feel pleased with myself at the impact the pieces made, played all together like that. Their total unpredictability of mood, their eerie indifference to musical common sense created a sensation of utter detachment from human emotions and concerns, as though the driving force behind them was somehow alien to mankind. They really did sound like music from beyond the grave. The lingering dead silence after each piece only made the wild applause that followed seem all the more out of control. Flashbulbs snapped and flowers fell at Humphrey’s feet as he took his final bows. I looked the other way, tensely scanning the audience for a glimpse of the little old man.
Even after this stunning success, neither Bridget nor Luc had anything complimentary to say to me. For the last three days, in fact, we had barely spoken to each other. We had reached an impasse.
Our last real conversation had. occurred the night we had drugged Humphrey. At the unexpected conclusion of our game of twenty questions, Bridget, turning away abruptly from the prostrate hysterical Humphrey, had decreed that it was time for him to go to bed. With a significant glance at her, I prodded him to his feet and then dragged him, stumbling and giggling to himself, down the hall to our room. He docilely allowed me to arrange him at the desk, where he slumped forward peacefully.
But I wasn’t ready to let him go to sleep. “Humphrey! Humphrey, listen to me!” I growled into his ear.
“Mmmfff …” he said comfortably, his eyes closed.
“Humphrey!” I spat at him, and pulled his head roughly back by the hair.
“Yeah? What is it?” he murmured, slowly opening his eyes.
“Humphrey, where did you get that idea about the two hands wrapped in rags?” I demanded. “What made you think of that?”
“The two … oh! The two dead hands!” He began laughing again.
But I was no longer in the mood for games. I slapped him across the face. “Pull yourself together, Humphrey! It’s not funny. Just tell me where you got the idea.”
“But Sammy, don’t you know?”
“Just tell me!”
“From The Other One. Who else?” he said reasonably.
“Who is The Other One?” I bellowed, shaking him by the shoulders.
He swayed in my hands like a rag doll. “You know, Sammy,” he whimpered. “On the island, like my dream. I tol’ you …”
“Who is The Other One?”
There was a sharp rapping on the wall from the next room.
“Don’ worry, Sammy,” he mumbled, barely moving his lips. “He’s our friend on the island, you and me, he’s our …” He slumped forward again, suddenly snoring.
After a couple of further attempts to rouse him quietly, I gave up. But I wasn’t finished for the evening. I dug the Magyar book out of my suitcase and marched back down the hall. From outside their room I could hear Bridget and Luc talking in hushed voices, but I was too riled up to eavesdrop. I banged on the door. “It’s Sam,” I said. “Lemme in.”
There was a long moment of silence and then Bridget’s voice came irritably from just inside. “It’s late, Sam. Can’t it wait until—”
“It’s not about me, it’s about Humphrey,” I said, and banged again.
She opened the door a crack. “Sam, this is not the—”
I pushed past her and stalked into the room. Luc, naked and jellylike, was just heaving himself ponderously into bed. I averted my eyes, and before either of then. had a chance to speak I demanded, “Well? What did you think of that little performance?”
Bridget pushed the door closed. “I suppose by that you mean Humphrey’s behavior tonight?”
“You know that’s what I mean. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice it Something’s wrong with Humphrey; you know it’s not like him to act that way. And he did the same thing the last time you doped him. He was laughing hysterically at this sadistic comic book.”
“And … ?” she said maddeningly.
“But it’s not normal. There’s something funny about him. You’ve got to admit that.”
“Sure, I’ll admit it.” She shrugged. “But he was drugged, Sam, that’s all it is. So it makes him a little bit drunk? That’s part of the effect, it’s perfectly ordinary. Naturally he’s going to act a little peculiar.”
“Does it say on the medicine bottle that it makes people morbid and ghoulish?” I asked her. “And even if it did, there’s more to it than that. There’s this book.” I held it up.
“What about it?” she said, trying to sound casual.
“Two things,” I said, and took a deep breath. “First there’s the bundle wrapped in rags that Magyar carried with him everywhere throughout his life. Just like the bundle Humphrey thought of tonight Except that no one ever found out what was inside it; no one but Magyar ever knew. Got that? And second, when he died his hands and his head were cut off. And they have his head somewhere, but no one ever found his hands. They just disappeared. And because he was such a famous pianist, it was a big mystery for a while. But it was never solved.” I stopped for a moment, to let it sink in. They were both staring at me, their faces rigid and alert. “And now,” I went on slowly, “sweet little Humphrey, out of the blue, comes up with this tremendously humorous concept of two dried-up human hands wrapped in rags. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“But surely you must have said something to him about all that,” Bridget countered. “And so it was already on his mind, that’s all.”
“Except that I never did. I never breathed a word to him about what was in this book I told him nothing.”
“Well then, he just must have read it himself,” Luc put in grumpily from the bed.
I opened the book and flipped the pages at him. “See all this small print? Hundreds of pages of small print. And you’re trying to tell me that Humphrey read this?” I asked him. “You know as well as I do that he has trouble getting through a comic book. And even if he was capable of reading it, I know for a fact that he never did. When would he have had the chance? The only time he’s ever alone is when he’s asleep. One of us is always with him. If he’d ever picked it up, we would have known it. Not to mention the fact that the book has always been with me, either in my hand or in my suitcase. Humphrey has never so much as touched it.”
In the silence a toilet gurgled distantly, and somewhere below us a metal door clanged shut and the elevator began its groaning B flat minor ascent. Luc was pulling at his lower lip, his baffled, confused little eyes staring past me at nothing. Even Bridget was at a loss. She started to speak, but her voice dried up in her throat. For the first time I noticed a slight tic just below her left nostril.
Were they taking me seriously at last? “Now do you get it?” I said, beginning to feel relieved. “Can’t you see why this whole thing makes me nervous?”
That broke the spell. As Bridget moved to the dresser to get a cigarette, I could see her short-lived doubt and indecision dissolve away; her eyes regained their clarity and focus, her lips went taut and her chin lifted. “Coincidence,” she announced, blowing out a thick column of smoke.
“No!” I cried out. “It’s too neat for that. It can’t be coincidence.”
“Then what is it, Sam?” She lifted her eyebrows and smiled nastily at me. “If it isn’t coincidence, then tell me what the hell you think is going on.”
“Well … uh, the little old man knowing about the changes in the music, and Humphrey knowing what’s in the book and being so morbid. Two scary, impossible things; and we’re … using this crazy, dead person’s name to fool people and make money, it’s �
�”
“It’s what, Sam? Just give me your explanation.”
“But I can’t,” I said, nearly in tears. “That’s what scares me. There’s no explanation. We’re doing something wrong, and it makes these … these impossible, scary things …” My voice faltered. “And you can see what a spoiled monster Humphrey’s turning into. He’d be better off too if we just … stopped for a while.”
“Oh, Sam, I know it must be difficult for you,” Bridget said, her voice softening unexpectedly. She moved toward me and rested her hand on the back of my neck. “It must be frustrating not getting any attention for the music you’re composing, I know that. But you must realize that no one would even come to hear it if they knew you were the composer and not Magyar’s ghost.” She squeezed my neck. “It’s tough, Sammy. I know the situation isn’t ideal. But it’s not easy for any of us. All the traveling around, all the hard work we all put into Humphrey’s performances.”
“Then why don’t we just go home,” I said, feeling like a broken record. “We proved we could pull it off; we showed Humphrey could attract audiences again. We’ve been lucky so far: no one’s exposed us yet. Let’s quit now, while we’re ahead.”
“But that wouldn’t be fair to Humphrey—or to you, Sammy.” She moved away from me, pacing as she spoke. “You don’t know what it feels like to have children, Sammy, exceptional, talented children, like you and Humphrey. It’s a kind of privilege—and a responsibility.” She turned to face me, squeezing her hands together almost in an attitude of prayer. “It would be wrong to deny Humphrey this opportunity to practice his art, to deny him his rightful recognition. And isn’t it wonderful to know that you have talent too, Sammy? So what if we have to twist the facts a little? That’s still your music all those people are responding to. It would be wrong to stop it now, wrong to hide such talent from the world. Can’t you see that?”
She wasn’t acting. She really believed what she was telling me. She didn’t see herself as pushing Humphrey. She had never seen it that way. Sure, she wanted the money. Sure, she lapped up the acclaim. But she also believed, with all the fierceness in her, that she was performing an almost sacred duty. She wasn’t exploiting her beloved Humphrey, she was nurturing his talent, in the only way that meant anything to her. It was as though she were giving him a marvelous gift—a gift that I was trying to take from him.
I should have known better than to argue with her about what she believed—she had based her life on it, after all. But, rashly, I plunged ahead. “But I really don’t think it’s good for him,” I said. “He’s changing, can’t you see that? He’s turning nasty … The way he was laughing about those dead hands …”
“So you expect us to cancel this lucrative season, this rebirth of Humphrey’s career, because of some little coincidental events that you can’t even explain?” she demanded, her voice suddenly harsh again.
“But it’s not like that, it’s more than—”
She held up her hand, silencing me. “I don’t want to hear any more. I have had my last word on this ridiculous subject. Did you set up the music under his hands?”
“No, but—”
“Then what are you waiting for? This subject is finished, permanently. And this conversation is over. Leave us alone now, please.”
I can’t analyze her power; I can’t explain what made her so convincing. All I know is that at that moment I felt like an utter fool. All my worries seemed babyish and trivial. It was humiliating. The last place in the world I wanted to be was their bedroom. Without another word I departed. And I had barely said another word to them since.
NOW, as Humphrey’s enraptured audience reluctantly began to leave, I made my way backstage. Not that I really wanted to be there. I had heard my music and would have liked nothing better than to go off and be alone, instead of lacerating myself with the spectacle of Humphrey surrounded by adoring fans. Yet I couldn’t keep away. Though on the one hand I dreaded the little old man, I still couldn’t resist being there at the stage door with Humphrey, just in case the creature should appear again. This time Luc had made no change in my composition. If the old guy did show up, what might he say? I had to know. I also had to be around in case the opportunity arose to point him out to the others. If they saw him too, they might begin taking me seriously.
Humphrey’s dressing room was packed with reporters , taking pictures, asking him questions in French-accented English, lavishing him with praise for the music I had composed, telling him he was a genius. I couldn’t bear listening to it I retreated out of earshot and waited miserably at the far end of the hallway. When I went back about twenty minutes later, I had calmed down a bit. Humphrey, Bridget and Luc were standing outside the dressing room, and there was only one fan left, a tall dark man in a tuxedo, who was deep in conversation with Luc. Naturally they didn’t introduce me to him. As I approached, they all turned away without greeting me and started toward the stage door.
“Who is that guy?” I asked Bridget numbly, trotting behind them down the dim cement corridor.
“I can’t pronounce his name. He’s a big wheel in Vienna. He’s arranging for us to go there.” Triumph glittered in her eyes. “He says he can guarantee we’ll have full houses there for at least a week.”
“Vienna,” I mumbled, aware of a curious foreboding.
“And he insisted on taking us out to dinner tonight,” Bridget went on, sounding girlish. “To one of the most expensive …” Then her smile hardened. “Uh, I think it might be best, Sam, if you kept out of the way this evening.”
“You mean you don’t want me to come?”
“That’s precisely what I mean.”
“But … but that isn’t fair. I’m hungry. And I’m a part of this family, too.”
In the past, Humphrey would have stood up for me, he would have argued with Bridget on my behalf. Tonight Humphrey said, “He only invited the three of us.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something to eat near the hotel,” Bridget said quickly. We had reached the stage door. “Just smile and work your way through them as fast as possible, Humphrey,” she went on, and we pushed open the heavy metal door and stepped outside.
I didn’t see the old man at first I searched the excited group that swarmed around Humphrey, but there was no familiar wizened face. In a moment I was separated from Humphrey and Bridget by a thick wall of people. Then I felt something brush against my arm.
I spun around. The face was shadowy in the dim glow of the bulb over the door, but I recognized the long matted white hair, the sea of deep wrinkles, the thin beak of a nose, the gaps in his teeth as he grinned up at me. “Yeh, yeh, the hands,” he chuckled.
“What?” I said, feeling sick.
“The hands … I, how you say? … Is hands. He has the hands.”
I started after the others. “Bridget, come back!” I shouted. “He’s here, he …”
But they were already half a block away, and there were too many people between us. It was useless. Another wave of faintness and nausea hit me, but I gritted my teeth and turned around again, to force myself to take a good look at the old man’s hands, which I had never bothered to notice before, to see if he had any hands at all …
But there was no one there.
8
IT WAS autumn in Vienna. Rows of stolid buildings sulked under a sodden sky. Rotten leaves smeared the sidewalks, and the dark river lapped and eddied sullenly beneath windy embankments and slimy stone bridges. The atmosphere might have been a refreshing antidote to the sterile whiteness of Geneva, if only I hadn’t been too much of a wreck to notice.
The others, basking in success, did not let my mood interfere with their own ebullience. I was mostly mute, and they seemed to have little trouble ignoring me— though once or twice I was aware of Humphrey’s eyes lingering on me with an unfamiliar appraising expression. I didn’t pay much attention. I was doing my best not to pay attention to any of them.
The agent had found us another terrible hotel. Formerly an ele
gant place, it had been refurbished in dreary institutional style, perhaps by the Russians who had so recently left. Once large rooms were divided by flimsy partitions; they sported warped linoleum floors, a heating system that hissed and rattled dementedly, and peevish medieval plumbing, more often than not too dispirited to flush with adequate conviction. The others joked good-humoredly about our accommodations, struggling to outdo one another in pluck and spunkiness. I couldn’t have cared less about any of it.
We had almost a week before the start of Humphrey’s engagement. A rehearsal studio had been rented near the hotel, and there Humphrey and Luc went to work at resurrecting and polishing sufficient repertoire to fill up the seven scheduled concerts. I, needless to say, was expected to crank out an abundance of new Magyar pieces—enough to keep the audience too excited to notice the way Humphrey played everything else.
I was too demoralized to rebel, though I didn’t really expect to be capable of producing anything. But once I sat down to work in our claustrophobically small room, I was surprised to find myself utterly engrossed. I scribbled for long hours, spurred on by the audible bodily functions that came resounding with crystal clarity from the adjoining chambers. Nothing could have inspired me more. I struggled to translate their piquant timbres and mellow sonorities into the language of music. I aspired to break new ground, to create a keyboard technique so expressive that an audience would recognize these familiar sounds immediately. And after only three days, I solemnly presented Bridget with two charming preludes, their tone colors as liquid as the juiciest upper respiratory infection, as well as a lengthy alimentary divertissement, in which waves of reverse peristalsis gushed and splattered above a rumbling obbligato of the most profound intestinal motility.
I had escaped so thoroughly into my work that I had succeeded in ignoring the others completely. But on the evening that I finished these three pieces, I began to look around again. And the first thing I noticed, when Humphrey and Luc returned from the studio at around eight P.M., was the shocking change in Humphrey’s behavior.
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