And After the Fire

by Lauren Belfer

  “How does she find the inspiration to continue with her composing?”

  “She is compelled from inside herself. She seems to hope that somehow, someday, she’ll create a piece that her brother admires so much that he’ll allow her to publish it under her own name. Oh, Tante, I should have done something years ago, to separate them.”

  Sara took her niece’s hand. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  Sara thought, I, too, have been remiss. I should have found a way to do more to help Fanny.

  The melancholy strains of music continued.

  “I despair for her,” Lea said.

  “Would it be all right if I spoke with her?”

  “Of course.” Lea’s mood shifted, to concern for Sara. “You don’t need my permission to speak to my children. You must always seek them out.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sara walked across the terrace to Fanny’s study. With Fanny concentrating, Sara was able to slip silently into the room and sit on a chair near the windows. She wouldn’t interrupt; she’d wait for Fanny to notice her. Fanny was still hollow-eyed from her illness and her grief following her baby’s death a few months before. Nonetheless, her expression held a fierce focus, as if she composed out of anger, or out of a desperation to prove her worth.

  To prove her worth to whom?

  The situation between the siblings was difficult to make sense of. It wasn’t Felix’s prerogative to exercise societal authority over his married sister. And in any event, even if the publication of Fanny’s work under her own name did indeed cause any scandal in society—well, the Mendelssohn bank wouldn’t collapse, the family wouldn’t lose its home, Felix’s concert commitments across Europe wouldn’t be canceled.

  Fanny reached the end of the section. She lifted her hands from the keyboard. “Hello, Tante,” she said with her usual warmth.

  “Hello, Fanny. Sebastian is looking well.”

  “Isn’t he marvelous?” She glanced downward for an instant, as if caught expressing an opinion that, as Sebastian’s mother, she should properly keep to herself.

  “Hensel, too. They’re very much alike, aren’t they?”

  “I think so. Thank you for noticing. I’m very glad to see you, Tante—but tell me the truth, did my mother send you to talk to me?”

  “No. I sent myself. After she told me about your disagreement this morning. I want you to know that I join your mother and your husband in supporting your endeavors.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  “Then why is Felix’s opinion the one that counts above all for you?”

  “We are close,” she said with an open sincerity. “We always have been.”

  “When you were children. You were close when you were children. You’re adults now. You’re both married. Felix lives far away.”

  “We are united in spirit.”

  “You are not united in spirit.”

  Fanny appeared to flinch, hearing these words.

  “You must forgive me for speaking bluntly,” Sara said. “I’m your elderly aunt who loves you, so I can say things other people might not feel able to say. I will say it again: you and your brother are not united in spirit.”

  “He wants the best for me, as I do for him. We are honest with each other.”

  “He may think he wants the best for you, but that doesn’t mean what he wants actually is best for you.”

  “We’ve always looked after each other.”

  “When you were children.”

  They were talking in circles. Hadn’t Fanny ever grown up? Was she still, despite her husband, son, and the deaths of two babies, metaphorically as well as literally living in the enchanted garden of her childhood? And what about Felix . . . might he have fled his family home struggling to escape what may have felt to him like the suffocation of Fanny’s love or obsession, or whatever the right word was to describe the intensity of her regard for him? Did her constant pleading for approval make him, in the midst of his many professional achievements and commitments, impatient and annoyed?

  These possibilities didn’t excuse his cruelty, but they might reveal a facet of the fraught emotions between them.

  “I don’t want to discuss this anymore,” Fanny said, but she said it lightheartedly, putting on a shield of amusement. “Shall I play for you the piece as I have it so far, from the beginning?”

  They’d reach no resolution today. “Thank you, Fanny. I’d like that very much.”

  And so Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel, composer, performed for Sara an exquisitely beautiful piano solo, filled with yearning.

  Would anyone outside this private garden ever hear it?

  Chapter 31

  As they took their seats for the concert, Scott was at a loss: he was the one who’d secured the house tickets for this performance of the Bach Collegium Japan at Zankel Hall, on the lower level of Carnegie Hall; he was the one who’d invited them, first Dan, who was in town for something or other and staying with him, and then Susanna, thinking this would be a low-stress way to spend time with her—and now Susanna had ended up sitting on the far side of him, with Dan in the middle. Dan and Susanna were chatting, and Scott was left to admire the woodwork of Zankel Hall, the perfection of it . . . yes, he’d respond if anyone asked him, the design of the hall was exceptional, such that audience members weren’t even disturbed by the subway running nearby.

  Had his sin been so egregious, that evening at the Met? He didn’t think so. Susanna should be sitting next to him.

  This evening she wore a black, remarkably feminine suit. She sat with her legs crossed, and her skirt had hiked its way up her thighs. Her high heels seemed to elongate her already long legs.

  Had Dan noticed this? Apparently not. Dan was reviewing the program with uncalled-for seriousness and filling Susanna in on the details. “ . . . And the second piece is the Concerto in D Minor for two violins.”

  “Isn’t that the piece Balanchine choreographed as Concerto Barocco?” Susanna asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I love that ballet, especially when the two principal dancers take the solo violin lines and create a kind of love duet.”

  Scott wondered whether something was going on between these two behind his back. No, the idea was absurd, he reassured himself. Dan wasn’t the type. Judging from Julie, Dan liked farm girls from Iowa. Or was it Wisconsin?

  “And next is the Fifth Brandenburg,” Dan was saying. “In that piece Bach includes a wild harpsichord solo at the end of the first movement.”

  Dan couldn’t handle a woman like Susanna. The worlds they came from were too different. Dan was the genius from the farmland, the brilliant hick. He was not the one who was supposed to get the city girl.

  “With the gut strings and the one-and-two-keyed wooden flutes and oboes, these early music groups have really transformed the way we hear the music of Bach . . .”

  Could she really be falling for this? Most likely she was just being polite. Scott still had a chance.

  The orchestra walked onto the stage, which happily forced Dan and Susanna to stop talking.

  During the intermission, Japanese women in kimonos circulated through the lobby.

  “Do the Japanese have a special interest in Bach?” Susanna asked.

  “Not only Bach, but all Western classical music,” Scott said. He could play the scholarly game, too. “In Japan . . .” and he continued with an exposition on the adoration of not simply Bach but also Beethoven, particularly Beethoven, among the Japanese, proven by the fact that several orchestras in Japan existed solely to tour the country performing one piece of music, Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

  Even though Dan and Susanna stood apart from each other and appeared riveted by his explanation of Japanese veneration of Beethoven’s Ninth, Scott sensed that they weren’t quite present with him. Where their thoughts were instead, he didn’t want to contemplate.

  “Scott, Dan, there you are,” said Jeremy Meyers, frowning as usual behind thick glasses. Jeremy, a musicolog
ist at Cornell University, was short in stature, tall in brains (to borrow a quip of his older sister’s). “What do you think they’re going to do in the Suite in B Minor? Will they double-dot the rhythm during the first movement?”

  Oh, boy . . . with friends like these, Susanna was going to think he was a complete geek. Worse than a geek. A total bore. The double-dotting issue was what passed for an earth-shattering controversy in some early-music circles. What made Jeremy’s question worse was that Scott himself had been wondering about this.

  Luckily Scott didn’t have to reply, because all at once colleagues were approaching them from every direction, eager to discuss this or that aspect of the performance, this or that piece of gossip, share details of the upcoming Bach conference in Leipzig as well as the recent news about Dietrich Bauer, the name whispered everywhere. Drawn into these discussions, Scott turned away from Dan and Susanna. He spotted Frederic Fournier in the distance with his wife, but the crowd was tight and Freddy appeared not to notice him.

  As they returned to their seats at the end of the intermission, Scott observed that Dan didn’t touch Susanna, didn’t position himself closer to her, didn’t brush her hand with his, or touch his knee to her leg, even accidentally on purpose. If anything was going on, it was beyond his understanding.

  “Shall we go out for a drink?” Scott said as they stood on Seventh Avenue after the concert.

  “I need to get home,” Susanna said. “I have an important meeting in the morning.”

  “I’ll accompany Susanna home,” Dan said.

  “Thank you,” Susanna said. “That’s kind of you.”

  Even their diction was trying his patience. Scott had expected they’d go out as a threesome for a drink, with himself as top dog. But he could see he wasn’t wanted. Dan had his own key to the apartment. They didn’t have to stick together.

  Scott reconsidered his activities for the evening. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling like the odd man out. To hell with it, he decided angrily. The bar at Trattoria Dell’Arte was always lively after a concert. Or he could attend the cast party, so to speak, for the orchestra. He could attach himself to someone who was going to the party and slip in despite his lack of an invitation. He glanced around. Where, where were his colleagues when he needed them?

  “See you later,” Scott said. He turned away. Ah, there was Jeremy Meyers, walking with a purpose, maybe to the party. Scott hurried to catch up with him.

  Chapter 32

  Dan said, “You can see the stars from here. I never thought I’d be able to see the stars from Manhattan.”

  What an inane remark, he thought. But they couldn’t sit here in silence. And anyway, he was surprised. His preconceptions of the city were being overturned one by one. When they’d arrived at the gates of the Peabody Seminary, she’d invited him inside to see the close. She did not include her apartment in the invitation, which was a disappointment and also a relief; one less possibility to worry about. Entering the seminary gardens, he found himself in a haven of greenery and quiet. Episcopalians always seemed to place a high value on gracious tranquillity. Even the air was different, sweeter than the world outside the gates. They sat in the Adirondack chairs on the lawn. They’d pulled the chairs side by side but not touching, and that’s how they sat, side by side but not touching.

  “A few years ago,” she said, “I attended a stargazing event in Central Park. I saw the rings of Saturn.”

  He sensed a shyness in her, a reluctance similar to his own, which simultaneously drew them together and kept them apart.

  “I loved the concert,” she said.

  “I did, too.” The air cooled as the night deepened. He sensed wildlife around them, an owl cooing.

  “I wish I could figure out the right words to describe how, or why, the music is so affecting. What words would you use? Describe to me what makes it so beautiful.”

  He paused, thinking. “The fact is, the music exists outside words. It’s like asking, why do you love someone? You just love them. When a man describes a woman as having, say, a spark in her eyes and a warm smile, he notices those things because he loves her. Those things don’t explain why he loves her. The why—that can’t be explained.”

  Where had this disquisition come from? He believed what he’d said, but was surprised to hear himself express it.

  “I understand,” Susanna said.

  He felt compelled to step back from such . . . intimacy, was that the right word? To return to the arena of practicalities. “I’m looking ahead to my trip to Germany, for the conference in Leipzig in early July. I’ll try to go to Weimar, to get some leads on the family that owned the cantata.”

  He wanted to say, You should come with me.

  “I’ll make a photocopy of my uncle’s map for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  No, he couldn’t bring himself to suggest that she join him. With luck she’d come to the idea on her own. He hoped so.

  She rested her head against the back of the chair. She closed her eyes. Her body was at ease. How easily he could reach over and caress her hand, and open a different type of conversation between them. He longed for this, but didn’t know how to approach it. He’d married young. The courtship scenes in movies had always passed him by. Now he wished he’d paid attention, so he’d know what to do. Shall I take her hand? he asked himself. Better not. Maybe simply put his hand over hers. But he didn’t want to jeopardize their friendship.

  He pushed himself to the edge of his chair. “It’s late. I should get going.”

  She opened her eyes. “Yes, that’s right.” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. She stood when he did.

  “My building is over there.”

  He followed her to the mansion where she lived. She walked up the five steps that led to the front door. He stayed at the bottom of the stairs. She unlocked the door into the dimly lit vestibule. She turned. She waited. For what? He wasn’t certain. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t risk making the wrong guess. “Good night, then,” he said from the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I hope so.”

  And she was gone. The heavy wooden door shut behind her. Dan walked away from the house and turned to gaze at the building, hoping to see her lights go on, even though he hadn’t asked if her apartment faced the garden. There—lights did go on, and she came to the window. With the light behind her, he couldn’t see her face, but he saw her silhouette, and her silhouetted hand waved to him. He waved in return.

  Now that she was safe, he turned and walked toward the gate, feeling or at least imagining that he felt—he willed himself not to turn around to check—her gaze upon his back.

  When he reached Ninth Avenue, the sidewalks were crowded, as if the time were noon instead of midnight. New York City . . . always alive, its energy flowing and never ending, drawing him into its stream.

  Dan decided to do something he’d never done before. This felt, in its own small way, more daring than anything he’d ever contemplated, a precursor to even more daring acts he might commit in the future. It was something he had observed in movies and on TV shows, and something he’d watched Susanna do after the concert this evening.

  He stepped off the curb, raised his arm, and hailed a taxi.

  Chapter 33

  Susanna arrived at the office early. The foundation board would meet at 10:00 a.m. Last week, she’d distributed her summary report of the foundation’s activities in the past six months, along with her recommendations for future grants. She’d come in early today in case any board members wanted to speak with her before the meeting. And she had come in early to prepare herself to resign.

  Still holding his briefcase, Rob stopped at her office door. “Susanna, good morning. Join me in five minutes, would you?”

  “Of course.”

  She changed into her high heels. She checked her watch. As she went to Rob’s office, she felt an unexpected sense of peace.

  Rob motioned her to sit, and she
did.

  “Before we go into the meeting, I felt I owed it to you to let you know what’s been going on. I’ve been holding discussions with the board privately, to avoid any awkwardness for you. Yesterday I put the issue to a vote. The board has rejected the Gilbert and Sullivan Center. In addition, the board has made clear that they consider you indispensible.”

  Susanna said nothing. She experienced a realization that she didn’t have to stay with the Barstow Foundation. If she wanted to, she could find another position. The job-hunting process would be difficult, but she did have a choice in the matter.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you that the board has threatened to fire me.”

  He was trying to make her laugh, but she didn’t find him funny. Instead she recalled the gap between them. He could talk about being fired as if it were a joke.

  “Unlike you, I’m at the mercy of the board’s demands: Cornelia refuses to have me at home all day, and my beloved mother feels the same.”

  His game was meaningless. Almost insulting, from her perspective. Whether or not he served on the foundation board, he’d still be the head of the family, he’d still control a large and ever-increasing fortune. He waited for her to reply, ostensibly assuming or hoping that they could resume their usual repartee.

  “So the burden is on me,” he said, “to get things back on track between us.”

  Her silence seemed to make him nervous. Make him squirm, even. She was glad of it.

  “What . . . what can I do,” he said, spreading his arms, “to achieve our reconciliation?”