by Noel Hynd
The maestro thought further. Then he pronounced further.
“It is apparent that he will soon master his piano. We will eventually learn if he can know how to make music.” This was said after Geiger had won the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow. And these were the first words of praise that Rabinowitz had been known to utter for anyone other than himself for several decades.
Rabinowitz would spend weekly two-hour master class with Geiger at Rabinowitz’s place in Connecticut. He would stand behind the young man, his powerful hands on Rolf’s shoulders. If Geiger made a critical mistake, the hands would move roughly toward Geiger’s neck in a gesture of potential strangulation—Rabinowitz’s way of saying that Geiger had profaned something holy. This technique persisted for a year until Geiger threatened to stop coming unless the hands-on-neck technique ceased. Nonetheless, Rabinowitz was part of the younger man’s life for seven years as an instructor, professor, and on-the-spot tormentor.
Seven years. There even seemed to be something Biblical about that number. Eventually, the relationship between Rabinowitz and Geiger became more than mentor-protégé. It was also love-hate. Over the last years, the men had parted company. Rabinowitz criticized Geiger relentlessly in the press. He said he was turning into a latter day Liberace, not serious about his work. His art. His craft. His music. His life. His gift. Not taking what talent he had—and Rabinowitz began to question whether Geiger had any—seriously.
The old man and the young man had encountered each other at the Kennedy Center in October 2005.
Unsolicited, Rabinowitz had approached Geiger.
“It’s all right, these things you’re doing,” Rabinowitz had said to Geiger before a dozen witnesses. “I wouldn’t want you to be as great as I. Not that you ever would be. Not that you ever could be, the way you remorselessly destroy great music. On the best day in your life you will never approach the artistry I could command on the worst day in mine.”
The old man had snorted and walked off. Geiger had held his tongue. The young man had performed live before close to three million people on his latest tour. He had made two theatrical simulcasts of concerts and three television specials, loved by audiences and reviled by critics, and commanded more than five million dollars to make a single compact disc. There were those who suggested that the aging Rabinowitz was jealous.
Thus had concluded their last in-person meeting. Since then, Rabinowitz had been Geiger’s harshest and most savage critic. Geiger had never understood if these were the master’s true final sentiments. Or were these his methods, his way of goading him onward to more celestial things?
Geiger would never know. But he—and the rest of the classical music world—would endlessly hypothesize.
“If being like Rabinowitz—old, angry, and alone—afraid to play in public, is what it takes for greatness, then maybe I question whether I do want it,” an unusually irritated Geiger told Gramophone magazine in a celebrated interview before Christmas 2005.
The statement was not meant as a counterattack. But it was received as one. Rabinowitz read the article and filed a ten-million-dollar lawsuit for defamation of character, a suit that he had no chance of winning, and which still remained unsettled at the time of his death.
The men never spoke again. When Rabinowitz died suddenly and the instructions for his funeral were read, there were gasps. The old man had never changed his instructions from five years earlier, before the rift, even though Rabinowitz had updated his will monthly. He had many ways of always having the last word.
So the burden—one of many—then fell to Rolf Geiger. What to do? Avoid the funeral? Or participate?
Geiger felt he should honor Rabinowitz’s written request. Perhaps the young virtuoso could use this final association with Rabinowitz to make peace. So, Rolf Geiger stood on the hard earth of Upper Manhattan on a raw March day, freezing as the wind tore into him, clutching his long navy topcoat to himself as tightly as possible.
Geiger was dazzling handsome. Tall, lean, athletic with dark blond, shaggy hair and gorgeous blue eyes. His all-American looks made him stand out like a mannequin among the rumpled, middle-aged and old European men who were the other five pallbearers. Geiger wondered if Rabinowitz had orchestrated that, too, and decided that he had.
Geiger’s gaze involuntarily drifted back to the pine casket time and time again. The rabbi whom Geiger had never met spoke briefly about the artistry of Rabinowitz, the “hidden humanity” of Rabinowitz. The wind off the Hudson increased and the one thing Geiger could be glad about was that he could barely hear. The ferocity of the wind made the occasion even colder, darker, and more unpleasant. There were brief snow flurries. The sun went behind the clouds at the moment the mourners assembled at the cemetery. It was as if, from somewhere, Rabinowitz was suggesting that the world would be a diminished place without his music.
Geiger scanned the other mourners and found the face in which he could always find solace: Diana’s. On this cold, dismal day, Geiger found comfort in her eyes for several seconds. His thoughts drifted. Suddenly the wind subsided and Geiger realized that the rabbi finished the burial service.
Geiger shifted his feet and moved slightly to get warm. He was increasingly uncomfortable. He felt too many eyes were on him. A few moments later, the pine coffin was on its final journey, and so was Rabinowitz. The great one’s remains were lowered into a small dirt chamber. Four walls without windows, down, down, down, contained by a simple wooden box until it rested.
Geiger heard the sobbing of Rabinowitz’s sister, the last human who could muster a tear for him. At the appropriate moment, Geiger moved forward to throw a flower into the open grave. Other members of the party stepped to the graveside to throw a shovelful of dirt upon the deceased. With reservations, and understanding the heavy irony of his act, Geiger also took a shovel and gently threw dirt to his onetime mentor’s grave.
Moments later, everyone stepped in different directions. There were condolences exchanged and handshakes. Solemn looks and words of support. There were dozens of renowned conductors and orchestra members present. Some of them were of Rabinowitz’s generation and had come to the United States at about the same time. Geiger sensed hostility from this quarter of the music world, but ignored it. He was used to it from them.
Phrases floated everywhere. One stayed with Geiger.
“The torch is passed, Rolf,” said William Baumann, the arts editor from the New York Times. “Now you’re the greatest alive.”
The critic spoke softly, but his words were tinged with a whiff of breakfast gin.
“You’re very kind,” Geiger answered.
“Rabinowitz would have said so himself,” Baumann continued.
“He also would have said that I ‘need to be more serious.’ ‘Not prostitute my talent for popularity.’ Not only would he have said that, but he did say that on several occasions.”
Baumann shrugged. “He wasn’t alone in that notion.”
“I know. I’m quoting your reviews in the Times, Bill.”
“He would also say that you should start playing again. Real concerts without all the show business claptrap. In big halls. Before demanding audiences. Instead of sneaking off to Europe to play a date or two in some remote music hall.”
“San Remo is hardly remote.”
“You know what I mean,” Baumann said.
“Yes, I suppose I do. Are you looking for a quote?” Geiger finally asked.
“Have one?”
“Rabinowitz hated me,” Geiger said. “He wanted me to fail.”
“If he hated you and wanted you to fail,” Baumann proposed, “why would Rabinowitz have had you hear today as a pall…?”
“I’m not at ease with this conversation,” Geiger said softly. “Not here. Not now.” He walked away. He moved through the crowd. Unlike the deceased, and notwithstanding the coterie of Rabinowitz’s remaining peers, Geiger was personally well-liked, even if he drove the music establishment batty. He felt many hands of comfort upon h
is shoulders as he moved among scores of people he knew from concerts all over the world.
He nodded to several. He heard many kind words. None negative. The eyes and face of strangers followed him as he walked. But that was nothing new.
More words floating on the wind. Thoughts. Snippets of overheard conversations.
“Do you think the old man was secretly gay?”
“I heard he was into whips and chains.”
“He cross-dressed privately, you know.”
Rolf ignored it. Then there was a discussion of the massive emerald ring that the old man used to wear. The mourners had heard that Rabinowitz had been buried with the ring on his finger. There was also a rumor that a pair of biographies of Rabinowitz had been commissioned this year by competing London publishers. Again, Geiger kept his eyes low, the better not to catch anyone’s eye. Then another phrase came to him.
A thought. Or a particularly intrusive overheard line. Amidst all the voices, he really didn’t know which it had been—a thought or something someone had said—though it was male in origin and tinged with a mitteleuropa accent strangely suggestive of Rabinowitz’s.
“…the greatest pianist in the world. And now, it’s Rolf Geiger. If he wants to be.”
The same old mantra. The same old suggestions, over and over. The legend to live up to. The talent to never live down. The apparent obligation to be “serious” about great music rather than to have fun with it. Unhappily, the old man had been correct about a lot of things. Among them, genius was a blessing and a curse.
“…if only he would start doing serious recitals again…”
“…if only he would concentrate on the classics….”
Geiger spotted his agent in the crowd: Brian Greenstone, an affable Englishman in his fifties. Greenstone had also represented Rabinowitz. Geiger’s eyes found Diana next. He went to her and took her hand. He paused to say the right things to Lena Rabinowitz, the one attending daughter. Lena embraced him. Rabinowitz’s son Jonathan, who lived with a clothing designer and scored art films in San Francisco, had not seen fit to attend. Nor had the others.
Geiger felt a gentle hand take his elbow. He turned.
“Hello, Rolf.” It was Brian Greenstone.
“Hello, Brian.”
“I know you’re uncomfortable here, but you were wise to come,” Greenstone said.
“I’m here because I thought I should be,” Rolf answered.
“You thought correctly. Hello, Diana.”
Greenstone gave Diana an embrace and a kiss on the cheek.
Rolf’s agent was a heavyset man with dark hair, graying only at the temples. He was gracefully navigating his mid-fifties with slightly rounded shoulders, some extra pounds and an extra chin. A good hairstylist and an excellent tailor hid many of the unfortunate signs of aging.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Greenstone said. “We need to talk soon.” He spoke in the faded cadences and tones of South London. “How was San Remo? It went as planned?”
“Yes, I guess.” Geiger said. “I didn’t plan anything, so I guess it went as planned.”
“I read a press clipping from Corrierre della Sera. Or at least I read the English-language clipping that my London office sent me. You behaved yourself and played Mozart. Only Mozart. Bravo.”
Rolf nodded. He enjoyed banter with Brian. Brian was a trusted friend and advisor.
“You felt good with it?” Brian asked.
“Yes, I did. Why wouldn’t I? Mozart wrote some good music, you know.”
“So did Billy Joel.”
“I like Billy Joel,” Rolf said. “But he’s alive and can play his own music.”
“Will you have dinner with Sarah and me sometime? Soon. How about tomorrow?”
“Perfect. I might be hungry tomorrow,” Rolf said. “Come over to my place. I owe you a few dinners and we need to talk, anyway.”
“We could go out, you know,” Greenstone said.
“We could also not do it at all,” Rolf said. “Come over at seven thirty. I’ll put an extra cup of water in the soup for you. Bring your wife. In fact, you can’t come unless she brings you,” Rolf said. “How’s that, you doddering old Englishman?”
“As charming as always. Take care of him, Diana,” Greenstone said, turning to her. “God knows he’s demented and can’t take care of himself. By the way, you’re looking beautiful.”
“Thank you, Brian.”
Then Rolf Geiger found his limousine and driver. Across the street, a group of fans spotted Geiger and screamed. They yelled to him, seeking autographs. Geiger normally would have obliged. This time he shook his head.
“No. Sorry,” he called back. “Any day except today.”
His fans, moments ago so expectant, looked at him with disappointment. Geiger felt bad. There were only a few dozen of them, and they had waited for him specifically in this dismal cold weather. So he darted across the street and walked to them.
Diana stood outside the car and waited.
The legion of Geiger fans were mostly young, a multi-culti mix; a heavy concentration of college students. They handed Rolf programs and pictures and magazine covers. He patiently signed them all. .The crowd slowly thinned as the autograph seekers reverentially stepped back. Then an uneasy feeling overtook him. Rolf felt a presence. Something strange. Something not quite right.
“Rolf Geiger?” a male, raspy voice asked, startling him.
Amid all the teenagers was a much older man. At first he looked as if he were aging and homeless. Geiger was taken aback. He felt as if he were about to be accosted for a few dollars. He prepared quickly to fish into his picket for a five-dollar bill to buy his escape. Then he realized that he wasn’t confronting a homeless individual at all. Rather, just a strange man, in his sixties or even older.
“You’re the best now, aren’t you?” the man said.
“That depends on who you ask. And that’s not for me to determine.”
“Oh, yes it is,” the old man affirmed. “I’ve spent my life in concerts and music halls. Seen all the great ones. You’re the best alive today.”
“You’re very generous” Geiger said, signing the last item pushed toward him.
“No, I’m not.”
Geiger turned fully toward him. The man gave him the creeps. He smelled bad. An offensive mixture of tobacco, alcohol and poor hygiene. He wore a rumpled brown coat and looked like he lived in it. Very slightly, Geiger recoiled.
“Did you want me to sign something?” Geiger asked.
“No,” the man said, as if thinking it over. “No. What would I do with an autograph?”
“Sell it, maybe,” Geiger said.
Some of the kids smirked. There were a few twitters of laughter. The man didn’t answer for several seconds. Then,
“I’m going to follow your career,” he said. “Carefully.”
His old eyes were upon Geiger like those of a terrier. Geiger had difficulty pulling his eyes away and breaking contact. But he managed.
“Thank you,” he said. “That’s very nice of you.”
The man grunted and said something unintelligible. Geiger thought he caught part of it.
“…not nice. It’s an obligation…”
It sounded half-crazy. Geiger left his admirers with a short wave and crossed the street again. He could feel the strange man’s gaze upon him. Then Geiger heard footsteps. A handful of late arrivals, spotting Geiger, had fallen into stride with him and pursued him for signatures.
Geiger hastily accepted programs and pictures as he walked. He arrived at his limousine and the driver held the rear door open.
“It’s all right,” Geiger said to the driver. “I’ll sign, then we go.” He nodded to the chauffeur to go back to the driver’s seat. The driver did, leaving the rear door open for him.
Geiger signed for his fans. He was now trying to leave. He had been in situations like this so many times before and knew how they could get out of control. Sometimes he could feel a hand brush against him.
A caress. A touch. A little shove. Fans liked live contact.
The crowd pushed in on him. He steadied himself with his free hand by resting it in the doorframe. He felt a surge in the crowd. Then two of his female fans screamed. The limo door slammed so violently that the entire vehicle shuddered. It just missed Geiger’s right hand, which had been in the doorframe.
Rolf was so stunned that he said nothing. But when he searched the faces of those near him, all expressed shock and terror. No one had seen who had pushed the door. But the bizarre gnarled man in the brown coat had a piercing look in his eyes as he stared at Geiger.
Their eyes locked upon one another. And there was something there that bothered Geiger anew. Something familiar? Hatred? Or just intensity?
Had the man pushed it? Or had he not even understood what had happened? Geiger didn’t wish to stay long enough to find out.
“Rolf! Rolf!” Diana’s voice beckoned him from within the car. She reached across the backseat, unlatched the door, and pushed it open. Geiger slid to safety into the backseat.
“Good God!” he gasped. “Did you see what nearly happened? Did you see how close that came to my hand?”
“I saw,” she said. “Did someone do that intentionally?”
“I don’t know!” he answered, calming slightly. “I thought someone slammed the door at me but I don’t know.” He nodded to his driver. His fans continued to wave from across the street. Even the police who were maintaining the traffic line glanced for a final look. Then his vehicle moved and was safely away from the crowd within seconds.
Geiger flexed his hands and fingers before him and shook his head.
“What a world when your fans just about to maim you.” He leaned back into the leather seat and slowly gathered himself.
“Who was that?” she asked. “The man who looked like an aging degenerate. “Did you see that rumpled old coat? I thought he was going to flash us.” Rolf allowed himself the thinnest of smiles.
“I have no idea,” Geiger said.
“Creepy fans scare me,” she said. “Ever since John Lennon. And Selena. And that soap-opera star who got killed by a fan.” Diana leaned against him in the back of the limousine. Her once-frigid hand, now warming, came to rest on his knee.
