The Prodigy: 2014 Edition - The Ghost Stories of Noel Hynd - Number 4

by Noel Hynd

  A moment passed. Greenstone paused slightly, then set down his coffee.

  “What are we talking about, Brian” Geiger asked.

  “I’m talking about—strictly classical music—a tour to end all tours. The principle is simple. I want you to establish yourself as the greatest concert pianist who ever lived. And I know bloody full well that the same thought has gone through your head. Hasn’t it? Be honest.”

  “Maybe,” Geiger said, being half-honest.

  “It’s attainable, Rolf. It’s attainable now. And the current equation is perfect. The passing of Rabinowitz. The dreadful state of the classical music industry which desperately needs a new hero with some sex appeal. Your age. Your current following. Your immense talent.”

  Geiger thought things through for a moment. Then,

  “I want to hear your own words, Brian. What exactly are we talking about? What music would I play, for example?”

  “All the great works for piano. Every one. The great sonatas and concertos. Beethoven. Prokofiev. Mozart. Schubert. Ravel. Liszt. Rachmaninoff,” Greenstone answered. “God! Why are you asking me, my boy? You’d know better than I!”

  Geiger glanced around as Greenstone spoke. Both women had their eyes set firmly upon him like a pair of terriers.

  “You would circle the world and play the greatest works by the greatest composers in the history of Western civilization,” Greenstone said. “Perhaps three dozen dates. Or four dozen. Whichever is necessary. All the greatest piano concertos. All the finest sonatas. Everything. Different dates all over the world, backed by the greatest orchestras and conductors alive. North America. South America. Europe and Asia. Maybe even a date or two in China and at least one date in Africa. Probably Egypt at the base of the pyramids, right? Maybe that would be the final date. Still with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this making sense?” Greenstone asked. “And we’d do the whole package. Simulcasts. DVD’s in a boxed set. CD’s.” He paused. “I think it could generate two hundred fifty million dollars, conservatively speaking, maybe much more. You’d walk away with maybe forty percent of that.”

  “Money like that is obscene for one person,” Geiger said. “I’d want to set up some charities, some music scholarships. Not just here in the U.S. but, say, in every country where we played. Someday some other kid is going to come along, maybe a kid who isn’t even born yet, and put me to shame. He or she will bury me like I buried the old man yesterday. You know what, I want to help that kid do it.”

  “More power to you, my friend,” Greenstone said. “All of that can be easily set up.”

  “For the sake of argument,” Geiger mused, warming quickly to the concept, “I could play Saint-Saëns’s Egyptian Concerto in Egypt. Or maybe I would want to close that tour with Beethoven. The Emperor Concerto at Luxor with the Valley of the Kings as my backdrop.”

  Rolf paused for a moment and savored the thought. “I’m wondering if we could draw a live audience of half a million people to that one.”

  “Maybe not in Egypt where they get nervous over big crowds. But Michel Polnareff drew a million to the Eiffel Tower a few years ago. You can beat him.”

  “I like Polnareff,” Rolf said. “Didn’t he once have a picture of his bare butt on an album cover?”

  “Yes, he did, and I would strongly advise not going in that direction.”

  “I’m merely invoking an image, Brian. “You’ll forgive me, right, ladies?”

  Sarah and Diana laughed.

  Greenstone shook his head in admiration as well as astonishment.

  “I love this man,” he said to the two women. “The Pyramids. You don’t think on a small scale, do you, Rolf?”

  “Certain pieces lend themselves to certain venues,” Geiger said, thinking the idea further along. “I would play Rachmaninoff and Prokofiev in Russia, Chopin in Warsaw and Paris. I would play Mozart in Vienna. Scarlatti in Milan and Rome. Beethoven in Berlin, Munich, and Tokyo.” He smiled wryly. “Maybe even some Aaron Copland in New York and some Scott Joplin in Kansas City.” He paused. “Am I getting the right idea?” he asked.

  “There you go,” the agent said in admiration. “You have exactly the idea. Not even Isador Rabinowitz would have dared to do something like this.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then you find the idea attractive?”

  “I’m starting to.”

  The two women exchanged a wary glance.

  “Hell, Brian,” Geiger continued, “you read the press I get. You know what people say in the industry: I quote bastardize unquote my quote immense unquote talents. I got ripped like hell the last time I played big venues, and it shut me down for two years.”

  “I dare say, Rolf,” Greenstone said, “that when your encore in London mixed themes from Madonna with themes from Mozart, you may have titillated your audience but you did indeed bloody some snooty noses in the classical music world.”

  “I thought that was brilliant,” Diana said. “Particularly since Madonna was in the audience and the whole repertoire was spontaneous.”

  “I agree,” Sarah Greenstone chipped in.

  Geiger shrugged in self-effacement.

  “Look, I agree also,” Brian said. “But it’s no mystery why Rolf gets the impertinent reviews he gets, even though every woman in the audience seems to want to have his children.”

  “Well, I’m tired of hearing about it too, Brian,” Rolf continued, remaining serious. “Maybe it is time to shut people up. What you’re suggesting is so challenging and so spectacular that it would establish my place forever it the history of the piano.”

  “Sure. Your place as ‘the greatest who ever lived.’ That’s what you mean, right?” Greenstone asked. “You’d be happy with something as humble as that?”

  “That’s correct.” Geiger paused.

  “Would this also indicate that you will agree not to—dare I say?—monkey around on this tour? No mixing Presley with Paderewski?”

  “No mixing,” Geiger said.

  “And no red satin suits with string-ties when you play Rome. I saw a picture of you when you just played San Remo. You may have played the music straight, but you looked like a pimp. You looked as if you were performing at the topless 10 PM revue at the Sahara in Las Vegas.”

  “I’ll dress appropriately on this tour,” Geiger promised.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Greenstone said.

  “The greatest music ever created played by the greatest musician who ever lived,” Geiger said thoughtfully, looking at Diana. “I like this” I’m aboard,” he said.

  For a moment, Geiger glanced at Diana, reading her thoughts, making sure he had her support. When he saw that he did, Geiger pondered further for a moment. Then he asked Greenstone,

  “What do you think old Rabinowitz would have thought of a tour like this?”

  “Why do you ask me that?”

  “You represented him. And you were his friend as much as anyone.”

  “He would have hated it,” Greenstone said.

  “Why?”

  A slight chill held the room.

  “Because Isador always hated the fact that you could eventually supplant him. He was jealous of his position. He didn’t want anyone to be greater. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Is that why you waited until he was dead to proposed this?”

  Greenstone shrugged.

  “Maybe,” the agent said. “The atmosphere wasn’t right while Isador was aging ungraciously.” He paused. “But I’m suggesting this first as a friend, then as a businessman. Long-term, this is what you need to do even if you had no relationship with Isador Rabinowitz. A huge tour makes creative sense, and it makes business sense. And right now is the time.”

  Diana saw a shadow come over her lover’s face. The entire room was eerily silent for several long seconds. Greenstone finally broke it.

  “So tell me your thoughts, Rolf,” the agent asked gently. “If you’re not up to this, it’s not going to
work.”

  Geiger looked away for a moment, then came back.

  “If I did this, I could be ready to play the first date in the fall,” Geiger answered softly. “Maybe spread the performances and travel into the spring.”

  “You feel that you could be ready to make the emotional, physical and intellectual commitment?” Geiger shrugged.

  “What if I were?”

  “Then I would get on the phone Monday,” said Greenstone. “I make the right calls locally here in New York first. Then I call Paris, London, Tokyo, Vienna, and Rome and start talking to people. I’ll try to keep things quiet for a while, but I’m under no illusion. We’ll start seeing things in the press about this within a week.” Geiger grimaced good-naturedly.

  “That’s all right,” he said.

  “So, what do you think?” Greenstone asked. “If we did this right and if you succeeded creatively with your playing, you would be hailed as the greatest pianist who ever lived.”

  “And what if I failed?” Geiger asked.

  “You won’t, Rolf.”

  “But what if I did?”

  “If a tour like this failed,” Greenstone said, speaking cautiously, “if it were a catastrophe, if the critics savaged you and the audiences felt ripped-off, or if it failed to generate the excitement that we’re anticipating…I suppose it could destroy your reputation. It could also wreck you musically, destroy your nerves, and demolish your creativity. But I’m sure you could always find a job playing at bar mitzvahs.”

  “Very funny, Brian.” Greenstone studied his client as he continued.

  “Thinking back upon the unfortunate fact that Mozart died at age thirty-five and was buried in a pauper’s grave, and that Beethoven himself also died a sick, broken, unhappy man, I suppose it could physically kill you too. That’s what happens when immensely talented men overstep their own mortality.” Greenstone paused. “You would leave an enormous estate, however,” he concluded with an irreverent twinkle in his eye. “Many charities would erect tacky plaster statues of you in loving fiduciary memory.”

  Geiger ignored Greenstone’s humor. He looked coldly at his agent for a moment. Then his expression lightened. He smiled and scoffed.

  “This is the tour I’ve always wanted to do someday.” Greenstone smiled.

  “‘Someday’ is now, Rolf.”

  “I know. So let’s do it.”

  “Excellent! You know what? Forget Monday. I’ll start making calls tomorrow,” the agent said. “Never mind that it’s Saturday. If you change your mind, let me know before 10 A.M.”

  For a few moments, a queasy, frightened feeling was upon Rolf Geiger. He credited it to nerves. And excitement. Then, moments later, it was gone.

  “I plan to be asleep tomorrow at ten, Brian,” he said mischievously. “Give me the weekend to brood on it. Then feel free to make your calls Monday if I don’t chicken out.”

  Nine

  After his guests had gone, Geiger sat down again at the Steinway in his library. He felt refreshed. A new and immense challenge was before him, and he loved that feeling.

  He began his warm-up exercises. He had played only a measure or two when he realized something was wrong with his instrument.

  “What the…?”

  Another string was badly out of tune. The coincidence, on top of fixing the first broken string that morning, was startling. He stood and looked into the interior of the piano, wondering if he had damaged the second string while repairing the first.

  Diana stopped by on her way upstairs. She sat down next to him on the bench. Her fingers found the piano chain and pendant that hung from her neck.

  “Where did you find this little guy?” she asked, indicating the pendant.

  “I had it made by one of the finest goldsmiths in Europe,” he said with a straight face. He continued to play. He loved to have her sit next to him as he played. “Okay, a little jeweler in Florence,” he amended.

  “I love it,” she said. “Not as much as I love you, but I love it.”

  He patted her on the knee, a touch that was enough to arouse both of them.

  “You’re precious,” he said. She kissed him.

  “Does this tour scare you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said thoughtfully. Six bars of Chopin blended together nicely. The music was immense when he played. Or, if he wished, soft as a lover’s promise whispered on a spring breeze. “What scares me now is not doing something like this. I need to show what I can really do with great music. Then, my lady, I can do anything I wish with my life.”

  “And what would that be?” she asked.

  His fingers shifted to a melody from Andrew Lloyd Webber. Just for fun.

  “Don’t know yet,” he said. “But I was hoping you’d help me decide.”

  She smiled and leaned on him.

  “Deal?” he asked

  “Deal,” she said.

  He played the theme from Dragnet and made her laugh.

  “Was anyone in here today?” Geiger asked next.

  “I was,” she said. I put out some fan mail for you.”

  “At the piano, I mean,” he said.

  “No one that I know of. Why?”

  “I have two busted wires in one day. I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”

  He tapped at the key with the out-of-tune string. The string hadn’t broken like the other. It has been stretched to the point where it had lost all its tension. That was so unusual, it defied ready explanation.

  “One of those things,” Geiger eventually said. “Like two light bulbs that flash and disintegrate within minutes of each other. It happens. But it’s a remarkable coincidence.”

  Something made him think of the lightning on the Air France jet that had brought him home. The lightning and the woman next to him who had been struck by lightning twice.

  A scary, uncanny coincidence, once again.

  “You coming upstairs soon?” Diana asked.

  “Not for an hour. Maybe two.”

  “Good night then,” she said.

  He held her and kissed her. Then she went upstairs.

  He repaired the second string and made a mental note to call the professional tuner in the morning. The Steinway Company always sent their best man right away, even on weekends. Geiger was, obviously, an esteemed customer. He wanted the piano tuned perfectly by noon.

  Later, he read for a while in the quiet sanctity of his library. But he found his mind drifting. First, it tiptoed to the late Rabinowitz and then it gave itself to his world tour. That’s how he now conceived of it. His World Tour.

  What would the old man have said, he wondered. What would the old tyrant have thought? They had never perfectly agreed on the interpretations of many composers. They had once nearly come to physical blows over Beethoven, particularly the Hammerklavier and the Pathetique.

  Well, Geiger concluded, who cared about Rabinowitz’s opinion any longer?

  A disquieting notion followed: Why did he keep asking himself who cared?

  Rolf turned the lights off in his study and sat for a moment in the darkness. He had always found the darkness consoling, not frightening. Darkness reminded him of a perfectly blank sheet of music, before the written notes created a new composition. He sometimes thought of a quiet keyboard as a sort of darkness, too, a black-and-white evenness out of which a new reality could be carved.

  Geiger stood.

  He functioned well in darkness. He liked to take the stage in darkness during a concert, seat himself at the piano, and let the lights slowly rise as he played, creating a unique world, a one-time-only experience. At no two times did he ever dress alike, feel alike, or play alike. Every appearance was unique. And every appearance was redefined out of that same darkness.

  Come critics called it showbiz. Pizzazz. Showing off.

  The critics like to beat him up in this area. He conceded that they had a point. Yet Geiger felt a philosophical bond to it, also. Out of blankness, he created a new musical reality.

&nb
sp; A line always came back to him. Victor Hugo. “D’avoir été Lutèce et d’être Paris.”

  To have been mud, and to have become Paris.

  He walked through the den and entered the front hall. He went to the stairs, found and climbed them. He walked to the bedroom.

  Still no lights. But a window shade was slightly askew.

  He went to the shade. As he began to adjust it, he looked down onto the street. Something caught his eye. A pair of lovers, it appeared, were leaning against a parked car. The young man was kissing a woman, who was reciprocating the kiss with equal passion.

  Geiger stood at the unlit window for several seconds watching them, almost envying the newness and freshness of their ardor. He wondered sometimes how people married and made a life together and somehow kept the passion going. A little dismal feeling overtook him, wondering whether over the years, his love for Diana, or hers for him would run its course.

  Or would they even have years together? Would it be only months? He believed in the future but was old enough to know that there were never any assurances.

  Where, he wondered, were self-destructive thoughts like that coming from? He shook his head and tuned out the young couple who were still smooching down below. He reached to the window shade to pull it down for the night.

  Then something remarkable and memorable happened.

  As Geiger watched from above, a clown suddenly appeared on the block. Geiger couldn’t tell if he were watching a male or a female, as the figure had a graceful feline glide to its gait.

  There was something else strange about this clown, too, something intensely surreal. There was something out of sync for this time and place.

  It didn’t look like an American clown, for example.

  Geiger studied the figure carefully. The clown increasingly reminded him of pictures of European circuses from the middle part of the century, or something from a Fellini movie. The clown’s outfit was dark, either black or navy, pattered with large white dots all over the baggy, sack-shaped outfit. The individual had grossly oversized shoes, a floppy hat that matched the suit and carried a violin. It was in white face, which was part of what held Geiger’s attention. The individual’s whole appearance had been in stark black-and-white and almost seemed to be illuminated unnaturally, like a winter landscape of dead trees, snow, and moonlight.