by Noel Hynd
Laura’s lifeless head was turned and inclined to her shoulder at an impossible angle, like a frail bird whose neck had been wrung. Rabinowitz’s powerful brilliant hands slowly released her and her body slumped to the floor.
“There,” Rabinowitz said softly and with great satisfaction. “There. Let that be a lesson for women who cheat and who interfere with a man’s art.”
Rabinowitz’s expression was grave, but confident. He turned toward Geiger. The woman on the floor looked like a slain angel. Rolf turned away. He heard Rabinowitz calling after him, but he did not stop. He departed the flat and walked down the front steps. When he left the building, he was confused as to which direction he had come. Everything seemed different, and he realized that this was because he had now passed back to the current day.
Aimlessly, Rolf wandered around the small backstreets of Mayfair for many minutes. When he found Oxford Street, he regained his bearings. He found South Molton from Oxford.
He looked at his watch. It was 5:20 A.M. and a dark blue was in the sky. He walked slowly on South Molton, his head down, his gaze lowered, and the monstrosity of all he had seen replaying in his mind.
Halfway down the block, minutes from his hotel, he found himself in front of the window of a shop that sold antique jewelry.
Geiger looked at the display. Then, gradually, he realized that he was not alone. His eyes focused slowly on the window and he saw the reflection of Laura again. She was back in her clown role and carried her violin. He wondered if she was now blessed to wander for eternity in the life form that had made her happiest.
She smiled to him.
“I’m so sorry,” Rolf said. “I understand what happened. I know he was a murderer.”
She didn’t say yes or no. Instead, the ghost looked toward the shop window, seeming to indicate something. There was a metal security lattice across the plate glass to avoid a smash-in. But a great deal of small jewelry was visible beyond the glass.
“What? What is it?” Geiger asked.
Laura’s eyes were peaceful now and deep blue. They were intensely romantic eyes, though with something vulnerable in them. Geiger held the notion that the ghost’s expression now fit the poignant violin serenade that she had played earlier.
The ghost carried her violin under her left arm. She reached out with her right. She extended an arm through the metal and through the window.
Her index finger came to a gold ring. It was a woman’s diamond ring, the main stone in a classic Tiffany setting with red rubies surrounding it.
Geiger’s eyes set upon it. He looked hard at the ring.
“What?” Rolf asked again. “What about it? I don’t understand.”
The eyes of the ghost sparkled. Rolf glanced back to the shop window. Laura withdrew her hand. Geiger blinked. The ghost did not exactly speak. But she conveyed a thought.
“Do you believe in guardian angels?” she asked.
Almost involuntarily, Geiger answered. “If I believe in ghosts, if I believe in an afterlife, I should then believe in all spirits. Including angels. Shouldn’t I?”
The thin lips smiled. Another thought passed from her to him.
“Yes. You should. Sometimes great evil can be undone before it happens.”
The clown raised a finger to her mouth to indicate Geiger should hush. The blue eyes glanced toward the ring again. Geiger’s gaze followed the lead of his companion. He looked at the ring for several seconds. The benign spirit conveyed another thought.
“You love someone, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” he answered aloud. He heard his words echo down South Molton Street.
“Then act upon your love,” Laura said.
He looked back to the jewelry shop. His eyes settled upon the ring. Then he raised his eyes and could no longer find Laura’s reflection in the shop window.
So he turned back to her and started to speak. But he stopped in mid-sentence, stunned.
Rolf was alone at the advent of a London dawn. It was six thirty A.M. And not another soul was anywhere near.
Thirty-nine
In New York City at the same hour, Detective Solderstrom had prowled through the labyrinth of Manhattan records on Grand Street until she had exactly what she wanted. A death certificate she wanted. She drove back uptown to her precinct.
“These rich people on the East Side,” she said to her commander. “I can’t believe the crap they put us through just for a little publicity.”
Her boss, a sergeant of detectives, was familiar with the case of the break-in at the home of Rolf Geiger. When the sergeant saw what Janet had found, he cursed right along with her. Their ‘watcher,” the man whom Geiger had insisted he had been seeing all summer, was identified as an old man named Felix Liebling who had followed the classical music scene in New York for six decades. The problem with Geiger’s story, however, the problem with his identification of the photograph that Solderstrom had shown, was that old Liebling had died in his sleep the previous February.
“Tell me,” the sergeant said. “Do you think Felix’s ghost is walking around? Or, maybe it’s just old Leibling’s corpse that’s been walking around, and some other evil spirit has been inhabiting it. We got to make distinctions here. Is it a ghost or a zombie?”
“Very funny,” said Janet Solderstrom without the smile. “Very funny,” she growled a second time. “But I don’t rule out anything in this city and with these music people.”
“Maybe your pianist just doesn’t know how to make a positive ID,” the sergeant said.
“Know what I’m going to do?” Janet Solderstrom concluded. “I’m going to wait at the airport when Geiger comes back. I’m going to give that punk kid an earful.”
“Sure, Janet. Do what you want,” the sergeant said. “Tell him he’s been getting stalked by a ghost. See if he believes that. Or, you know what? If you want to drop it completely, who’s gonna complain?”
Forty
Rolf Geiger walked onstage to play in the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. The audience greeted him warmly. The handsome old theater, with its plush red interior and dark wooden railings and facades, was alive with excitement. Rolf was ready when Heinrich von Sauer raised his baton that evening at Covent Garden.
Geiger played the Choral Fantasy with depth and emotion. He could hear the ripples of appreciation flow through the audience. He felt good playing that night, and was convinced that his own feelings were reflected in the music. The orchestra and chorus were excellent, too.
At one point in the second movement, Geiger raised his eyes and saw the ghost. Rabinowitz, ever the stern master and instructor, stood not far from the conductor. Geiger lowered his eyes again and tried to remain focused on what he was playing. From the ghost of Beethoven himself, nearly two hundred years earlier, Geiger adopted the manner of holding down particular notes and combining these with a soft gliding touch that imparted a vivid tender feeling to the fantasy, a last minute tweak to his technique.
“It’s good. It’s good.” Rabinowitz spoke toward the end.
It was better than good. The audience roared its enthusiasm after Geiger brought the piece to a close. When he stood, he was witness to more applause than he had heard for the last two years. He glanced to the critics in the stalls, however, and noted that all of them were still writing. “Ready to rip me to shreds the next day?” He wondered. He would find out when it was too late. “And for that matter, who really cares?” Tonight he would play to please himself, and let the world follow if it wished.
Diana sat in a private box this evening, guest of some air-headed duke who was a patron of the Royal Opera. Geiger didn’t mind. Diana was off to the right of the hall, and his eyes settled upon her whenever he pleased. If he felt he was playing for her, he could put more passion in the music.
Geiger went downstairs to his dressing room after the applause that marked the first intermission. Diana came down, too, and a few of the members of the orchestra were invited in, also. They stood around for s
everal minutes, sipping soft drinks and munching pretzels.
Then the stage manager came by and gave the five-minute warning. Members of the orchestra evacuated the dressing room first. Diana was left alone with Rolf.
“Come back down at the next intermission,” he said to her. “I have something for you.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
The scarf was in his pocket, unwrapped and ready to be slipped firmly around her neck.
“What a surprise it will be, this necktie party!” Rabinowitz gleamed from across the dressing room.
“Just be here,” Rolf teased. “Just you and me. That’s how I want it.”
She gave him a kiss and said that sounded great.
Bombastic and fulsome as the Emperor might sometimes be, Geiger brilliantly played the second Beethoven offering. He accentuated the romantic elements, and created an Emperor in a beautifully expressive style. He colored the work exquisitely and resisted the temptation, which Beethoven himself often could not resist, to tinker with the changing tempo.
Rabinowitz stood by silently, appearing here on stage, then there, constantly moving around the orchestra. Only Rolf Geiger knew he was there.
But with the concerto, Geiger succeeded again. The audience was on its feet after the second work of the evening and sent the young virtuoso offstage feeling as if he were two-thirds of the way to conquering the world, or at least London.
At the second intermission, Rolf again walked down the steps toward the dressing room, intent on what he was about to do. Several stagehands watched him as he passed. Some said words of congratulations. A few applauded. All of them bore witness to the fact that when he entered his dressing room, the chamber was empty.
He went in and closed the door.
“Now?” asked a voice.
Geiger’s eyes rose. Rabinowitz was present. The spirit was by the near wall, clad in white tie and tails.
“Yes,” Geiger said. “Now.”
“Oh, lovely,” said the ghost. “Murder as a prelude for the Dance of Death. Tell me, what will you do for an encore? Theme from Die Gotterdammerung, I would hope.”
“You’ll know soon,” Geiger answered.
Rolf sat for a moment at his dressing table. He would have liked to pour himself a brandy but he never permitted himself alcohol before playing. And he wouldn’t tonight. So far, it was a triumph. He had played magnificently. The third and most demanding piece was last.
There was a knock on the door. He recognized the hand.
“Come on in!” he said aloud.
Diana opened the door and peered in.
“Tiger?” she asked.
“Enter,” he said. “And lock the door.”
His hand dipped into his pocket for the scarf.
She closed the door behind her and locked it. She looked particularly beautiful. And her neck was bare.
“What’s going on?” she smiled.
“Death is what’s going on,” said Rabinowitz. “Yours, you compromising whore.”
Rolf grinned strangely,
“Memorable night isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She paused. “Are you all right? You’re acting loco.”
“Well, I’m fine,” he said. The ghost hovered nearby. “See, the thing is, this is a big night. A triumph, I hope. I want to make it memorable for you, too.”
“It already is, Tiger,” she said.
“Even more.” He stood. “Come kiss me,” he said.
“Perfect,” said the ghost.
She came over to him as he stood. Diana closed her eyes.
“Eyes closed till I tell you to open,” he said. “This is a surprise.”
“You have talent as a murderer,” Rabinowitz said. “My hat is off to you. Now…”
Rolf pulled the scarf up around Diana’s bare neck.
“…pull it tight and strangle her!”
“You’re very beautiful, my darling,” Geiger whispered. He moved the scarf in place around her throat. Then he began to tighten it.
“Rolf?” she asked with a lilt in her voice. “What are you doing?”
“NOW!” thundered the ghost.
“It’s a present,” he said. “I bought it at Liberty’s. Look. Piano prints.”
He tightened it until it lay the way he wanted it, safely and delicately around her neck.
He stepped away from her. She looked in his mirror and admired the silk garment he had so tenderly placed upon her bare neck and shoulders. He held her protectively from behind and kissed her on the back of the neck.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“So are you. Don’t ever forget that.” From behind, he held her, his hands raised up near her neck. Rabinowitz raged impatiently. Geiger ignored him.
There was a rap on the door from the stage manager. Five minutes till the next drop of the baton.
He turned her and faced her.
“I wanted you to know,” he said, “over the last couple of months I was picturing you with other men. With Maurice. With Phillip. I was incredibly jealous. It made me realize how much I loved you and wanted you with me.”
“Rolf, honey…?”
“So I wanted to tell you that here. Tonight. When it’s important. At a time you’ll always remember.”
“You can tell me that anytime you want,” she said. “And you have to know that there is no other man in my life. It’s just you.”
“Of course I know. That’s the way I want it.”
There was a crash behind them as a lamp slid from an end table.
It caused Diana to jump. Geiger looked back and saw the glowering visage of Rabinowitz. “What was that?” she asked.
“See anything?”
“No.”
“That’s Rabinowitz spinning in his grave,” Rolf said. “Can’t stand a bit of tenderness. Can’t stand the fact that whether I succeed or fail on this trip, whether you’re still with me is the most important thing. I want you to know that. I’ve done a lot of thinking.”
She embraced him again. Long and tightly.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs. Time to play some tunes.”
He took her hand and led her to the door. At first the knob wouldn’t give. The door opened and the fearsome shimmering form of Rabinowitz stood in Rolf’s way.
Diana walked through the form first. Then Geiger passed through it. Rolf heard a tremendous wail of pity and terror. But Rolf was more anxious to get to the piano than ever before in his life. He jogged up the steps to the stage, carrying himself like an athlete who couldn’t wait to start a great game. He walked boldly out onto the stage almost before the lights were able to follow him.
The audience rose. Diana worked her way back to her private box. London gave Rolf Geiger a standing ovation as he stood near his piano. He raised his hands in appreciation and savored the applause for several seconds. When he turned to the piano, Rabinowitz was on the bench.
Geiger sat down anyway. Rabinowitz remained on the edge of the bench, or at least Geiger still saw him there, a snarling unhappy presence.
“You’ll fail with this,” Rabinowitz screamed. “Just like you’ll fail with every other major work. You’re an amateur, Rolf.”
Geiger looked at von Sauer who was eyeing him and sensed something odd. Without warning, Geiger turned to the audience and held up a hand. He indicated that he wanted complete quiet.
“We all have some ghosts to exorcise,” he said. “And ghosts can take some strange forms. I’m going to exorcise one of mine tonight. Maybe I’ll chase some others for you, also.”
There was some chuckling, but Geiger’s expression showed he was serious.
“You all right?” the conductor asked.
“Hey! I’m pumped, man,” Geiger said to his conductor. Then he turned to the audience. “I am way pumped. So let’s go!”
The audience whooped.
“Fool!” exclaimed Rabinowitz. “Fraud!”
Geiger nodded to the conductor. “Let’s do it,�
� he said.
Then, as the baton of Heinrich von Sauer came down, a solemn hush took over Covent Garden. The audience knew that a torch had been passed to a new generation of recitalists.
“Bloody lunatics!” Rabinowitz roared in Geiger’s ear. But the younger man could hear only his own playing. That, and the vision of Franz Liszt, who had written Totentanz more than a hundred years earlier.
Geiger played it the way he wished to interpret it.
He sat at the piano as a young master, dazzlingly handsome once again, his dark blond hair just appropriately askew, his fingers dancing along the keys like little euphoric angels. And all the time, Rabinowitz, coming from somewhere, ranted and howled at him in fury.
Geiger was prim one moment, and boiling with sensuality the next. His fingering demonstrated a degree of velocity rarely seen before, and he played the andante and presto sections with a power and mastery that sent waves of electricity through the old hall.
At one time, though only Rolf could see it, as he came to the most demanding sections of the Totentanz, the ghost tried to take charge. As Rolf looked at the hands before him on the keyboard, the skin on the backs of his hands started to wither.
Age spots appeared.
The emerald ring manifested itself and, for a few measures, the old man was back.
He had won. Rabinowitz had wrested control.
Geiger’s eyes rose to his right. They drifted to the box where Diana sat. A slight smile crept upon Rolf’s lips. “I’m playing for her,” he said. “I will play my whole life for her.”
He drew a breath as he played and with more power, with more muscle, and with intense precision and passion than even he had felt he had within him.
He tore into the final passages of the Dance of Death.
Words formed on his slips. They were not audible beyond the stage, for the orchestral accompaniment buried them. But Diana could read them. She pressed her own fingers to her face in dread. All of a sudden, she knew exactly what was transpiring.
“Go,” Rolf said to Rabinowitz. “Go now back to your grave. And stay there.”
