Body & Soul

by Frank Conroy

  A tremendous din. People laughing and calling to each other. Some of the women very shrill, excited, almost screaming. It was uncomfortably warm and close. The crowd seemed to part just enough to let Fredericks through. He was still moving fast, up the stairs, past the usher with a wave of his hand. Claude snatched the offered program and followed them into the shadowed calm of the box.

  "Shut the door," Fredericks said, whipping the handkerchief from his sleeve and touching his brow. Claude obeyed.

  There were four chairs. Fredericks took one in the rear. "You two sit in the front."

  Claude sensed an instant of hesitation in Anson Roeg. He waited until she picked a chair, and then sat down in the other. He placed his hands on the red velvet banister and took a deep breath. His heart was beating so hard he could feel the pulse under his chin. Roeg, very close by his side, emanated the scent of lemon and tobacco.

  The stage was empty except for a long, black, highly polished grand piano. In contrast to the darkness of the stage, the orchestra was filled with color and movement, row upon row of women in bright costumes of every hue and texture, the pale blue dazzle of jewelry, the white flash of arms and necks. It was like some huge impressionist painting sprinkled with the black points of the men in their tuxedos, still as ink in the larger swirl of color.

  "Where did you get that suit?" Roeg asked, leaning her head even closer.

  Claude could not remember for a moment. "Bloomingdale's."

  "I like it," she said. "Do you like it?"

  "I guess. I just asked the guy for a suit. It was in the basement and they didn't have very many. He picked it out."

  "I see." She nodded. "Trouve."

  Claude thought of checking the label, but decided not to risk it. "That's it. Trouvé," he said.

  The house lights dimmed and the crowd noises imploded into tense silence. From stage left—opposite the box in which Claude sat—a figure emerged and strode to the piano, making no acknowledgment of the great wave of applause that greeted him. Lank blond hair fell to his shoulders and his eyes glittered with unnatural intensity. He sat, sweeping back the tails of his coat, and regarded the keyboard. A single muted feminine cough from somewhere in the auditorium hung briefly in the air. Victor Wolff swayed gently on the bench for several moments, raised his hands into the air like talons, pounced, and the first great chords of the sonata filled the hall.

  Claude entered the music instantly, hearing its clarity, following each new thread as it was introduced and woven into the ongoing structure, everything dense and lucid. His awareness was split, most of it taken up with the propulsive tension of the music itself—the thrilling emergency of it—but, as well, he was watching the player, watching the hair fly as the head was thrown back, watching the expressions of agony, euphoria, anger, and gentleness flow across Wolff's face with astonishing speed, watching the body slump and the face disappear behind a curtain of hair, watching the swaying, listing, and dipping of his shoulders, hearing the occasional hiss, moan, or grunt forcing itself out. It was frightening.

  During the long slow movement, almost unbearably attenuated, Anson Roeg bent her head again, as if to whisper something in Claude's ear. His hand came up so quickly it nearly struck her. "I'll lose it, I'll lose it!"

  She leaned away.

  When, after forty minutes, the structure was complete and the final celebratory fugue washed over him like sweet rain, he felt in its release a sense of exaltation so strong it was all he could do to remain in his seat. When the applause began he stood up, clapping hard and fast.

  Laughing, he turned to Fredericks, who had moved his chair to the deepest part of the box to sit sideways, without a view of the stage. Fredericks was staring at the ceiling, biting his lower lip. He began to nod as if in assent, and when he became aware of Claude, he smiled and stood up.

  Victor Wolff walked off the stage. Just as he reached the wings he appeared to stumble, and there was a collective gasp from the crowd as he reached out and held on to the curtain for an instant. From the angle of their box, Claude, Fredericks, and Anson Roeg saw Wolff step behind the curtain into the shadows, where he fell, half turning, into the arms of the two men and a woman who stood waiting there. One of the men dropped the glass of water he had been holding out for the maestro.

  "Oh, really," Anson Roeg said. "He's at it again."

  "What's happening?" Claude whispered, and turned to Fredericks.

  "Don't worry," he said, patting Claude's shoulder. "It's nothing. He gets overwrought. I'll just pop backstage and brace him up. Brandy and sugar. Be right back."

  Claude sat down and watched the group recede, Wolff walking now with his arms over the men's shoulders. The box door clicked shut as Fredericks left.

  "Is he sick or something?"

  Anson Roeg moved to a rear seat. "I used to think he did it on purpose, but apparently he can't help it. Something happens to him in performance."

  "His face. His face was..."

  "I know," she said. "Come back here and take off that jacket. I want to see it."

  Claude stepped up to the rear of the box, out of the light. She extended her arm and wiggled her fingers. "Give it to me."

  He slipped off the jacket and handed it to her. She examined the cloth and the lining, and then got up and took off her own jacket, thrusting it into Claude's hands. "That's from Paris, and it's very, very expensive."

  Claude couldn't think what to say. "It feels very nice," he managed.

  "Do you have a tuck?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "A tuxedo. Formal evening wear. No? Well, you're obviously going to need one. I'll give you mine. A trade. But we have to do it right now." She undid her bow tie and began to unbutton her shirt. "The whole works, but right now."

  Claude was bewildered. He thought for a moment that she might be going mad, having some kind of attack brought on by the general excitement, but in fact she was quite calm as she removed her shirt, revealing a broad, pink elastic-looking band that encircled her body at chest level. Claude looked nervously out into the hall.

  "Don't worry," she said, unbuttoning her pants, "nobody can see us. Hurry up."

  He began to take off his shirt.

  She slipped off her shoes, stepped out of her trousers, and stood in her underwear. "Come on." She laughed. "Shake a leg."

  He stripped down, aware of her body bumping against his own as they exchanged articles of clothing. He felt the residual warmth of her as he pulled on her trousers, smelled again the lemon and tobacco as he put on her shirt. Her shoes fit him perfectly.

  "Your tie," she said, and stepped up to tie the soft bow at his neck. She was smiling, close, her cheeks flushed. "Isn't this fun?" she whispered.

  It had happened so fast as to leave him dizzy. "I guess."

  "Let's go." She opened the door and stepped out into the light. As he moved to follow her, he became aware of how comfortable his new clothing felt, snug and yet not restrictive, seemingly without weight, smooth against his skin. She took his arm and they ambled twice around the full curve of the corridor, a promenade through the crowd.

  "People are looking," Claude said.

  "Yes, they are," she said, and he could hear the satisfaction in her voice.

  When they returned to the box Fredericks was there, showing no surprise when he saw them.

  "Quick work," he said to Roeg with a wan smile.

  "How is he?" Claude asked, and just then a great roar filled the hall. Wolff strode to the piano.

  Once again he seemed electric, larger than life. As he began to play it was with such confidence it seemed impossible that anything could go wrong. Nor did it. The B Minor Sonata of Franz Liszt, climbing through the enharmonic modulations like a knife through butter. During a sequence of incredibly fast octaves, Fredericks leaned forward and said, "They say he shakes the octaves out of his sleeves."

  Claude laughed. That was exactly what it looked like. It was fierce, dark music, and Wolff tossed his hair and threw himself into it,
elbows flying. The audience seemed to explode at the end, swirling and shouting.

  As he played Scriabin he looked to be a wild man, lurching in euphoric abandon. Claude kept a cool enough head to notice that the music itself was nevertheless executed with clarity, the lines ringing out in high relief. Wolff took his bows and women streamed down the aisles to cluster at the foot of the stage, throwing flowers, clapping with their hands high over their heads, laughing and calling up to him. He played two quick, dazzling encores, and then, after several minutes in the wings listening to the ovation, wiping his neck with a towel, he came out, walked sideways to the piano with his hands in the air, sat down, and played a bravura arrangement of "Stars and Stripes Forever."

  Pandemonium as Wolff took a long final bow. On his way to the wings—the women flowing with him, below him, following him like some thick, undulating school of fish—he stooped to snatch up a bouquet lying on the floor. With a quick smile he lofted it toward them and slipped away.

  A dozen pairs of arms reached up. Claude's eye followed the flowers as they sailed over the women to the front seats and were snatched out of the air by a figure he recognized, with a delicious shock, as Catherine. It was her standing there, laughing with delight as she displayed her trophy to Dewman Fisk, who leaned back in mock alarm as if the bouquet were a bomb.

  "What is your mood?" Fredericks asked Anson Roeg.

  "Nibbles," she said.

  The waiter stood at the edge of the banquette table, pencil poised over pad.

  "Veuve Cliquot," Fredericks instructed. "Borscht." He made a circling gesture with his finger to indicate the table. "And then a tray of good little things—mushrooms, the grated black radishes, and then blini. A bit of caviar. I leave it to you."

  "Sir." The waiter gave a small bow.

  "Enough to satisfy the appetites of youth."

  "Sir." The waiter moved away.

  The restaurant was crowded and noisy as patrons poured in, still excited from the concert. A long, narrow room, brightly lit. Fredericks's reserved table had the advantage of being set back in a corner, out of traffic, while affording a full view. Anson Roeg's eyes darted as she noted those present, sometimes announcing them to Fredericks.

  "Isn't that Kirsten Flagstad? Ah! There's Rubinstein." Her voice was calm. "Phoebe Saltonstall. Judge Foote."

  "What did you think of the Liszt?" Fredericks asked Claude.

  "It was amazing. Those double thirds, all those leaps, the crossovers—he played it like it was nothing."

  "I mean the music. The sonata."

  "There was so much. I've never heard it before. I'd like to hear it again."

  "You've never heard it?" He was incredulous.

  "Well, the radio. They never played it."

  "You don't have a phonograph?"

  "Henny and Constance," Roeg said, still preoccupied.

  "No. Just the radio."

  Fredericks shook his head as he unfolded his napkin. "I'll tell Weisfeld to speak to Larkin. They have the long-playing records now. Quite remarkable. You should be listening to everything at your age, everything."

  Roeg suddenly looked at Claude. "You know, when I was young I could hear better, understand better, or faster or something. One simply gets it. You should be listening. In an organized fashion."

  "The tuxedo looks good on you," Fredericks said, and turned to Roeg. "Et toi, ma chere. Qu'est-ce que c'est que ca? La nostalgie de la boue? Une gamine de New York? Enfin, tu es adorable."

  "Je m'amuse," she said as the champagne arrived. "Voilà, Monsieur Fisk et sa belle jeune fille."

  Claude did not understand, but he had already spotted them walking down the aisle. Catherine held her bouquet. Fisk nodded, waved, and now and then stopped to shake hands. He seemed to know a great many people.

  Claude caught his breath, hoping they would come all the way down the room, but they took a table near the center. As Catherine sat down she glanced in his direction, but gave no sign of recognizing him.

  "Don't gulp it," Roeg said softly. "This is good wine."

  "Sorry." His mind was spinning. He wanted Catherine to see him in this splendid company, in his new tuxedo with its appropriate matte-black bow tie. He thought about going to the men's room, but it turned out to be in the wrong direction. Could he simply approach the table? No, he didn't know what to say and would only look foolish. He understood her to be someone in whom an attitude of scorn—in her gestures, her words—was practically second nature, and even though he sensed it wasn't very deep (how could it be, when the beauty of her soul lit up her face like that?), he feared it nonetheless. He ate his food without tasting it, and watched her, seeing nothing else.

  When they left after a single drink, he leaned back and sighed inadvertently.

  "Yes," Roeg said, misunderstanding emptiness for satisfaction. "The food is wonderful here."

  In the Rolls, they rode for a long time in comfortable silence.

  "I invited you for two reasons," Fredericks said as they turned from Park Avenue onto Seventy-ninth Street. "Wolff is probably the best pianist alive, and not just technically." He leaned forward in his seat. "But that is despite the theatrics. Despite them. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "He is so good he manages to play better than everyone else even with all the foolishness." He sank back. "Never allow yourself such antics. Never."

  "I won't." Claude felt slightly foolish, since the figure of Wolff, like some kind of mad vampire at the keyboard, had in fact thrilled him to the bone. "I won't."

  8

  "LOOK AT THIS." Claude handed Weisfeld the thick spiral-bound notebook. Its cover was deep, glossy blue with the words THE BENTLEY SCHOOL in small gray letters in the corner.

  "Where'd you get it?" Weisfeld asked, opening it.

  "It was on the floor under my seat at the Grande. He must have dropped it."

  "What's playing?" Weisfeld shifted his weight on the stool.

  "Greta Garbo and Melvyn Douglas in Ninotchka, and an English movie called Green for Danger."

  "Intelligent handwriting," Weisfeld said, turning pages. "A notebook. Ivan Andrews. Nice graphs here."

  "I read it. Stuff about mythology. A long thing in French I couldn't read. A section on Japanese poetry. Biology with drawings and diagrams. It's interesting."

  "It's supposed to be a very good school."

  "Private school. Costs a lot of money, I guess."

  Weisfeld closed the book and drummed his fingers on the cover, watching Claude. "No doubt." He straightened up. "There's a lot of work in here. Why don't you go over there and give it back to him. Take a look around. See what you think."

  Claude took the notebook back. "We need some more ukuleles," he said. "We've only got one left. I don't know why people buy them, they sound so awful."

  "I'll make a note. Thank you." Weisfeld watched for some reaction from the boy, who simply turned away and went to the back of the store.

  But several days later, on an impulse, Claude walked over to Eighty-fourth and the East River, where the phone book indicated the Bentley School was located. It was a wide, four-story building of red brick, one side facing the river. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking up at the gleaming white casements of the windows, at the flags hung from short poles jutting out from the wall on either side of the entrance. The street, a dead end, was quiet and free from traffic. He climbed the steps and went in.

  A man in a quasi-military uniform sat behind a large desk reading a newspaper. He had a white handlebar mustache and thick, disorderly gray eyebrows. He glanced up over the paper and then put it down. "Can I help you?"

  "I'm looking for Ivan Andrews. I think he goes here."

  "May I ask what you want with him?"

  "This notebook. He left it in the movies."

  The man's eyes dropped for a split second, taking in Claude's old tennis shoes and bare ankles. "You can leave it here with me. I'll make sure he gets it." He extended his arm.

  Claude was temp
ted, but something—perhaps the hint of disdain in the man's manner—stopped him. "I think I'd like to give it to him. Myself."

  "I see." The man gave a little nod, as if he understood all about it. "Looking for a tip, I suppose." He got to his feet.

  "You can suppose what you want. Just get him."

  The man recoiled in surprise.

  Claude was hot with anger. He turned away, went to a bench against the wall, and sat down, staring at the marble floor.

  The man came around the table, walked halfway to the bench, stopped, and glared at Claude. "How dare you," he sputtered. "How dare you walk in here and..."

  Claude raised his head and stared into the man's eyes, saying nothing, motionless, his gaze unwavering. After several moments the man spun on his heel, went back past the desk, and around a corner. Claude could hear his footsteps on the stairs.

  As Claude calmed down, he looked around with a certain amount of curiosity. He stood up, crossed the foyer, and took a step down into a paneled room with dark green leather furniture, bookcases on the walls, displays of silver trophies, and a rack of newspapers hanging sideways on slender wooden rods. It did not feel like a school. He went to the tall windows and looked out at the street. An elderly woman, holding the arm of her gray-haired nurse, walked slowly past on the opposite sidewalk and entered a brownstone.

  A discreet cough alerted him. He turned to see a young man in a tweed suit with a round, florid face, curly brown hair cut rather long, and quick blue eyes that seemed unnaturally bright.

  "I'm looking for a student named Ivan Andrews," Claude said.

  "You have found him." The young man smiled. "I know what you're thinking. Too old." He had a slight British accent. "It was the war. Buzz bombs. Shipped to the country and all that. Time out." He looked at the notebook under Claude's arm.

  "Then this is yours." Claude held it out.

  Ivan stepped forward, took it, rifled the pages, and gave a sigh of relief. "Wonderful. I can't thank you enough."