Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  Franz had been very good for me, I decided. I felt stronger, much better able to cope, no longer the emotionally vulnerable creature that I was when Anthony deserted me. Elena Lopez had finally come into her own. The fanciful girl had grown up at last, with just the right amount of light cynicism to enable her to survive. I no longer expected too much, and that was an achievement. When the affair with Franz ended—and the signs were already present—I would suffer no pain, no remorse.

  He was at the piano when I entered the sitting room, his tawny gold mane a long, gleaming cap on the head bent forward, in concentration as he studied a sheet of foolscap, pen poised to make a correction. He was a beautiful male creature, and he was the most gifted man I was ever likely to know. Our affair would end, but “Elena’s Song” would live forever, immortalizing our months together. To have inspired that piece of music was something of which I would always be proud. Franz made a notation and then looked up. He slowly arched one brow.

  “You look stunning, my love.”

  “Thank you, Franz.”

  “If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were on your way to an assignation.”

  “Madame Schroeder is meeting me downstairs in the lobby. She’s taking me on a tour of the university.”

  Franz grimaced. “You have my sympathy. She’s a thoroughly detestable type.”

  “She’s been very kind and helpful.”

  “She’s fussy, foolish, talks incessantly, and is inordinately obsessed with culture. Why are these matrons always the ones who arrange the receptions and set things up? Why must they always be plump, have girlish ringlets and stuff themselves into outlandish satin gowns?”

  “You do her an injustice. She’s very dedicated.”

  “God spare me from her like,” he said wearily. “I’m surprised you’d give her the time of day, my love.”

  “She’s arranging a benefit,” I told him.

  Franz grew wary. “Oh?”

  “It’s to be held next Friday. Several local musicians are going to perform and—it’s for a very good cause. They’re trying to raise money to build a new orphanage, and—”

  “She hoped I’d volunteer my services,” he interrupted.

  “Tickets go on sale tomorrow afternoon. Your appearance would insure a sell-out, Franz, and they could ask twice as much for the tickets. You would only have to play one piece. I promised Madame Schroeder I’d ask you.”

  “The answer is no. I have work to finish.”

  “It wouldn’t take that much time, Franz, and, as I said, it’s for a very good cause.”

  “My music is more important than any number of orphans. Madame Schroeder will have to make do without me.”

  He turned back to the sheet of foolscap. I stared at him, fighting to control my anger.

  “Sometimes,” I said, “you really are a bastard.”

  “There’s never been any question about that,” he said amiably. “Have a nice afternoon, my love.”

  I was seething as I went downstairs, and I found it difficult to hide my anger as Madame Schroeder hurried over to me. Fussy and foolish she was, and she did talk incessantly about culture. Girlish blonde ringlets bounced about her exceedingly plump shoulders, and her body was stuffed not into satin this afternoon but into a tight black bombazine asparkle with jet bead embroidery. But her blue eyes were warm and friendly, her small pink mouth forming a merry smile. Though Franz might despise her kind, she was well-meaning, and it was the Madame Schroeders of the world who helped keep culture alive and flourishing.

  She chatted constantly, in heavily accented French, as we drove to the university and as we strolled over the grounds. Realizing that she was nervous and a little in awe of me, I doubled my efforts to be gracious and charming, showing far more interest than I felt as she pointed out architectural features and elaborated on them. Word spread quickly among the students that Elena Lopez was visiting the university, and soon we had an audience of strapping, robust young men following us about.

  Inside the former palace we paused in the great hall before a huge painting in an ornate gold frame. It was a life-sized full-length portrait of a youngish man in a striking white and gold military uniform holding his plumed golden helmet under one arm and standing against a dramatic background of mountains. He was slightly overweight with long, sensitive hands and a melancholy expression. His light brown hair was clipped short, and his deep blue eyes seemed to reflect on a lifetime of sadness. He smiled the pensive smile of a man resigned to perpetual loneliness. Although he was by no means handsome, he had a compelling quality that was immediately touching. One wanted to comfort him as one might a lost child—to take his hand and speak quiet words. Rarely had I been so moved by a painting.

  “King Karl of Barivna,” Madame Schroeder informed me. “He attended the university twenty years ago, then went back to Barivna to found a university of his own, second only to Heidelberg.”

  “What expressive eyes he has,” I remarked.

  “He’s much older now, in his mid-forties. A gentle man, dedicated to the arts and, alas, caught up in a touchy political situation. Barivna is a tiny kingdom, unfortunately hemmed in on either side by large states, each of which wants to annex Karl’s country.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” I said. “Barivna is supposed to be the Athens of Germany.”

  “King Karl has devoted his life to art and beauty. He’s spent several fortunes turning Barivna into a wonderland of palaces, gardens, museums. The neighboring states are quite alarmed by his expenditures. He’s never married, you know.”

  I gazed up at those sad blue eyes that were so full of silent yearning. Madame Schroeder glanced at the students standing a discreet distance away and lowered her voice.

  “He’s been in Italy buying marble,” she confided, “and rumor has it that he’ll stop in Bonn next Friday on his way back to Barivna. He might even attend our benefit! He’d never miss an opportunity to hear the celebrated Liszt play.”

  We had not yet discussed the benefit, and I dreaded telling her the bad news. Madame Schroeder looked at me, a little alarmed by my silence.

  “You did speak to him?” she inquired.

  I nodded. “I—I’m afraid Franz won’t be able to perform,” I said hesitantly.

  Madame Schroeder’s face seemed to collapse, her eyes filling with disbelief. I thought she might actually burst into tears, and I damned Franz for putting me in such an awkward position. The corners of her lips quivered in a brave smile as she sought to conceal her disappointment. She might be a silly woman with silly ringlets, but the benefit was of paramount importance to her, and I knew what hopes she must have cherished.

  “He’s terribly busy, you see,” I explained. “He’s working on a new composition, and he desperately needs to finish it before we leave for Dresden.”

  Madame Schroeder managed a tremulous smile. “I understand, of course,” she said. Her voice quavered. “It was foolish of me to think I could get someone of his stature for my benefit. It’s just a local thing, very unimportant. Of course he’s too busy. Dear me, and I went ahead and rented the theater for Friday night, thinking there’d be a vast crowd. Oh well, that can be mended. I feel sure I can—”

  She broke off, unable to go on, actively fighting the tears now. I took her hand and squeezed it.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said quietly. “I—I wish there were something I could—” I paused. “Madame Schroeder, would it help if I performed? I haven’t been on stage in over three months, and I have no costumes here, but—” Again I paused. “I’d be glad to help in any I could.”

  Madame Schroeder looked at me as though unable to believe what she had just heard. “Would you?” she asked.

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “But—that’s marvelous!” she exclaimed. “You’d be an even greater attraction. Half of Bonn heard Liszt play last night, but no one’s seen you perform! We’ll sell out immediately. Oh, Miss Lopez, you’re an angel. An angel! This will be my greatest triumph
. I just know it!”

  Several of the students had overheard our exchange. They began to talk excitedly in German. “Elena’s going to dance!” I heard. “Elena’s going to dance!” Three of the youths rushed over to ask Madame Schroeder about tickets, and at once she became very dignified, very efficient. Soon we were surrounded, and the previously reserved youths, smiling and laughing, made a merry racket as they followed us out to the carriage. They cheered noisily as we drove away. I waved. Madame Schroeder did, too, dignity deserting her in her excitement.

  I said nothing to Franz about my decision to perform. He was immersed in his music, and if he saw the announcement in the newspapers the next morning, he made no mention of it. I left the hotel early, for there was much to do. Madame Schroeder was in her element arranging for rehearsals and musicians and music. We were able to use the theater to rehearse in, and though she could only locate one copy of my Spanish music, she had several young men make copies for each of the musicians. After rehearsal schedules were set up, she bustled me off to a dressmaker she knew and I sketched a costume for her. The dressmaker said it would be impossible to have such a costume ready in time, but Madame Schroeder threw her hands in the air and said that was nonsense, sheer nonsense, we must all accomplish miracles, think of those poor little orphans. Finally, the dressmaker said she would try, and Madame Schroeder hugged her and whirled me away in search of castanets.

  As Madame Schroeder had predicted, tickets for the benefit sold out immediately, and for double the price that she had originally set. The newspapers were filled with stories. In order to keep the journalists away from the hotel, I gave an interview at the theater after one of the rehearsals. Madame Schroeder took charge, acting as translator for those journalists who spoke no French. With rehearsals, costume fittings and conferences, I spent very little time at the hotel during the days that followed, but Franz appeared not to notice. At least he did not comment on my frequent and lengthy absences. Caught up in the throes of creation, he wanted only to work. His meals were sent up to the suite and, generally, he worked late into the night, retiring to his own bedroom when he finished.

  The dress rehearsal lasted until four on Friday afternoon, and I was apprehensive as I returned to the hotel. I knew Franz wouldn’t approve of my performing, and I had been expecting a scene ever since the announcement first appeared. Even though he might be too busy to squander time on anything as mundane as newspapers while in the midst of composing, he knew full well that something was afoot. During the past week, though I had been away from the hotel a great deal, it was never in the evening, and I wondered what his reaction would be when I told him I was going out again and wouldn’t be in until very late. He might merely have shrugged his shoulders. We hadn’t slept together since the afternoon I toured the university, and had exchanged hardly a dozen words.

  Madame Schroeder would be waiting for me in the lobby at six thirty, ready to whisk me off to the theater, and I knew I should try to get some rest, but I was much too tense. Finally, I sat down at the gilt rosewood secretary and wrote the long overdue letters to Millie and George Sand, and when I finished it was time to dress. Franz was still in the study at six fifteen, sitting at the piano and staring gloomily at the sheets of music on the music rack in front of him. He looked up as I entered, raising his eyebrows as he noted my formal gown.

  “Going out?” he inquired.

  I nodded. “I won’t be in until—quite late.”

  “I see,” he said.

  He knew. I could tell that.

  “It’s just as well, Franz. You’ll probably spend the evening at the piano, as you’ve done every evening this past week.”

  “As a matter of fact, I won’t. I’ve just finished the sonata. I thought I’d play it for you tonight, after we’d gone out to dine. I thought we might celebrate.”

  “I’m sorry, Franz.”

  My voice was cool. I knew he was playing a game with me, but I refused to be put on the defensive. There was absolutely no reason for me to feel guilty. I was going to dance, and if he was unhappy about it, that was just too bad.

  “I’ve missed you, my love,” he said tenderly. “Now that this piece is finished, I promise to be more attentive. Starting tonight,” he added.

  “I have other plans tonight,” I told him.

  He watched me, one brow arched caustically, as I pulled on a glove, flexed my fingers to get a proper fit, and calmly told him goodbye, pulling on the other glove as I left. He could sulk and brood all he liked, I told myself. At least there hadn’t been an angry scene. That might well come later, but I intended to waste no more time thinking about it. I had to devote all my energy and concentration to my performance.

  Madame Schroeder was wearing a pale blue satin gown and a glittering diamond necklace. She was a bundle of nerves as we drove to the theater. There were thousands of things to do before the curtain went up at eight, literally thousands, she informed me. A solo violinist had taken ill, at the last moment, of course, it always happened that way, and she would have to put someone in his place—who, she had no earthly idea—and the programs had already been printed up and the audience would be confused and thank God the dressmaker had delivered my costume that afternoon and she only hoped it would fit properly. No woman in her right mind would take on all this responsibility, she declared. This was her last benefit, positively the last, and it would take her a good two months in bed to recuperate.

  Backstage was in chaos, everyone rushing to and fro, it seemed, and nothing going the way it should. There was trouble with the lamp, trouble with the pulleys, and an overweight soprano was threatening to walk out because she was scheduled to appear after the choir when it had been firmly understood that she would appear before. Little girls from the ballet school, prancing about in their tutus, giggled noisily, having the time of their lives. The programs hadn’t been delivered yet. One of the ushers had sprained an ankle. Three of the men in the choir, having spent the afternoon in a beer garden, were decidedly tipsy. Madame Schroeder shouted for attention and turned into a harsh drill sergeant, barking orders left and right. If anyone could make order out of this wild confusion, it was she.

  I retired to my dressing room, the same one Franz had used the week before, when he gave his concert. Located in the rear of the building, it was removed from all the noise and confusion. I closed the door and tried to compose myself. I was tense and nervous, worried about my performance. I hadn’t been on stage since Bath, where I ended my English tour. Three months without dancing was a long time, and there hadn’t been sufficient rehearsals. Could I still achieve that fluid movement and sinuous grace? Madame Schroeder’s benefit might be a “local” affair, but every seat in the theater had been sold, and I owed it to the audience and to myself to do my very best.

  I undressed and slipped into a thin silk robe, tying the sash at my waist. I had well over an hour to get ready, but as I had to make up and do my own hair, that was none too long. At the dressing table, I sat reveling in the smells of grease paint and dust and damp that seemed to permeate every dressing room. Although nervous, I was pleased to be back in a theater, excited at the prospect of performing again. I opened various pots and jars, took out brushes and hair pins, feeling peculiarly at home. I spent almost half an hour doing my hair, trying to perfect the curls that curved over each temple. How I missed Millie! I applied my makeup next, darkening brows and lashes, shadowing lids a smoky blue-gray, painting my lips the desired shade of scarlet, creating the exotic, seductive Elena the public paid to see.

  I felt anything but exotic and seductive until I slipped into my costume. A bright red silk, it was entirely covered with glittering red spangles that shimmered like crimson fire as I moved. The low bodice was trimmed with red ostrich feather, which also adorned the off-the-shoulder sleeves. It was a bit snug at the waist, but I was pleased with the way the skirt fell over the underskirts of ruffled red gauze. The costume was bold and dramatic, certain to dazzle the eye. If my dancing wasn’t all i
t should be, at least they could enjoy the dress, I thought ruefully, turning around and looking over my shoulder to check the back in the mirror. As I did, there was a knock on the door.

  Madame Schroeder entered breathlessly. Her satin gown was slightly rumpled, her blonde ringlets askew, but she wore a look of radiant triumph.

  “At last, it’s all under control!” she informed me. “Everything’s running smoothly. The theater is packed to the rafters, my dear, and people are standing in back! You couldn’t squeeze another soul inside if your life depended on it, and they all paid a fortune to come tonight!”

  “I’m so pleased.”

  “My dear, you haven’t heard the most exciting part yet. He’s here!”

  “Who?”

  “King Karl! He slipped into the Royal Box just as the lights began to dim. He doesn’t like fuss and didn’t want anyone to know. He’s sitting well back, half concealed by the curtains. Just think, tonight you’ll be dancing for a king!”

  Madame Schroeder paused to catch her breath, hand clutched to her bosom. Fastening a curl of red ostrich feather over my right temple, I thought about the man in the painting, remembering those sad, expressive eyes. Knowing he would be out front was strangely disconcerting. Suddenly, I wished that I had had more time to rehearse.

  “Are you ready?” Madame Schroeder asked. “The show’s already begun, of course, but you’re scheduled to appear last. Who could follow Elena Lopez? Nedda’s singing her aria right now. The audience is being most patient. I thought you’d like to watch from the wings until it’s time for you to go on.”

  I was not terribly enthusiastic about the idea, but I smiled nevertheless and followed her out of the dressing room and down the long, dimly lit hall. Nedda, whose voice was less than lilting, was indeed singing. She hit her last note as Madame Schroeder and I found a place to stand in the shadows. The audience applauded tepidly, and then the choir marched onstage in gold and green uniforms, three of its members sadly out of step. Nedda stalked past us in a fury as the choir began to sing a rousing number which, mercifully, I was able to tune out.