by Frank Conroy
"Yes," Weisfeld said. "I think I understand."
"You do? Well, what is it?"
"The parents don't want to see you, they don't want to look. If they don't look, then you're not there." He took a bite of his sandwich and watched Claude struggle with the implications. And it was a struggle. Down deep, Claude was aware that he didn't know very much about people—nor, for that matter, about himself—and often couldn't understand their actions. At college people had repeatedly surprised him by taking extreme positions, getting into fights, goofing off in their studies, getting drunk for days, all for no apparent reason. Between his sophomore and junior years one of his classmates—an interesting fellow with an impressive knowledge of art, music, opera, and modern poetry—had killed himself in his parents' garage. Claude had heard the rumor that the boy was homosexual, but he still could not fathom why he would take his own life. From his earliest years Claude had been alert to danger on the outside—the threat of circumstances— and had developed, in his vulnerability and weakness, a protective screen of pride, tenacity, and self-absorption. He had never been able to afford thinking about danger from the inside, from within one's self, and as a result was prone to take people at face value, to assume they were what they presented themselves to be. He was naive. (Lady was perhaps the obverse. At college she had been impressive in her ability to read between the lines with all sorts of people. "Professor Albert-son is aggressive because he's short," for instance. "He resents people for being taller than he is." It would never have occurred to Claude, although he recognized its truth the moment she told him.)
"But what have they got against me?" Claude asked. "I didn't do anything."
Weisfeld sighed. "You're seeing their daughter."
"What's so terrible about that?"
Weisfeld ate for a while and seemed to be thinking about what he was going to say. He drank some cream soda and put the bottle down with exaggerated care. "Maybe," he said, "people in that social circle, it's possible they want their daughter to marry let's say a nice boy who happens to be a Roosevelt, a Harriman, a Rockefeller, or the Duke of Kent or something fancy like that. You know, it's possible."
Claude was suddenly nervous. He did not want to entertain the suggestion. "Oh, that was the old days." And then it popped out of his mouth before he could stop himself: "This is America."
Weisfeld nodded. "Absolutely."
"I just mean the class system is supposed to be more fluid. I hated sociology, but I remember a whole chapter about the effect of the war on the class system," he babbled, trying to cover up. "Everything's different now."
"Sure," Weisfeld said. "And in some cases different but the same. Like you redecorate a room, but it's the same room. You put a mute in a trumpet, but it's the same horn. People don't talk about class and social background the way they used to, but that doesn't mean they've forgotten about it."
Claude drummed his fingers on his knees, a sour expression on his face. He remembered Catherine's words in the car years ago, after the mixer: You come from nowhere. They had virtually paralyzed him. He had not thought of those words for a very long time. His face flushed with heat.
"It's ridiculous, of course," Weisfeld went on. "These are small things they spend time worrying about. But you have to remember, it's possible."
"I'm an artist!" Claude protested.
"Yes, yes!" Weisfeld cried. "We know what that means. We know, but not everybody knows. Even some people who talk like—" He interrupted himself. "You remember when you used to play for Mrs. Fisk? For her little boy?"
Claude was stunned. Could Weisfeld read his mind?
"You remember Dewman Fisk," Weisfeld continued, raising his voice, "the famous ballet enthusiast and culture maven for the mayor? And the pretentious Mrs. Fisk, one of our best customers? You think they knew anything about it? About what it means to be an artist?"
Claude was doubly speechless—first the talk of the Fisks, and second the controlled anger in Weisfeld.
"They know practically nothing." He stroked his mustache as if to calm himself down. "Music is a decoration. A diversion to take their minds off their troubles. Maybe a hobby. To them, the artist is a high-class entertainer. They don't even know they don't know anything, those people. It can drive you crazy." He crushed the waxed paper from lunch into a ball and threw it in the trash. "So don't expect anything. Be careful with those kind of people."
16
OTTO LEVITS'S OFFICE was on Fifty-seventh Street, a few doors down from the Steinway building. It was small, its walls covered with signed photographs of musical artists of every description—Toscanini, Lily Pons, Geiseking, Ezio Pinza, Aaron Copland, Pablo Casals, Victor Borge, Fritz Kreisler, Fredericks.
"Did you get the check?" Otto asked.
"Yes. Thank you."
"Good." He moved some papers on his desk. "I thought it was time for a talk. You've done extremely well over the last few years, according to all reports. All kinds of bookings and everybody's been more than satisfied. They've usually wanted you back and I've had to explain about your special scheduling."
"Even the Swedish tenor? Svenvold?" Claude kept a straight face.
"Aiy yi-yi," Otto moaned. "A cuckoo. A complete crazy-head. He never did the tour, you know. Got lost for a couple of days, and when they found him he was trying to join the Salvation Army. The embassy took care of it. Shot him up and shipped him back to Stockholm."
"Well, he was something different. He wanted to sing with his clothes off, and said I should take my clothes off too and play naked."
"I know, I'm sorry, my apologies," Otto said quickly. "Ah, this business."
"A good singer, though."
Otto looked at him suspiciously for an instant, and then realized Claude meant it. "Of course!" he said. "He was my client." He paused. "You handled it well."
"Hey. I just got up and left."
"Yes, but you did it nice. You were polite, he said, and respectful. He wrote me a note from the academy of laughter to apologize. He can't help himself sometimes."
"It's okay."
"And Fredericks sends his best. He called from Rome. We talked about this and that. Wants to know what you're doing."
"Playing and writing," Claude said. "Nothing's changed."
"Good. So now maybe we can pick up the pace a bit. Can you do an audition Thursday morning?"
"Sure. For what?"
"A short tour, but it could be important for you. Aldo Frescobaldi's permanent accompanist fell off his chair in a café in San Remo and broke his arm. Aldo needs somebody for three concerts—Philadelphia, New York, and Boston—coming up soon. It's an emergency."
After a moment of lightheadedness Claude crossed his legs and tried to appear casual. He had a dozen of Frescobaldi's RCA recordings and was aware of the man's reputation as one of the finest violinists in Europe. "I like that sound he gets. Deep, almost gritty sometimes, as if he's not afraid to let the violin sound like a violin."
"This could be good for you," Otto said, "but remember, he's listening to some other people. Plus he's sort of unpredictable."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing like Svenvold. But he's a flamboyant character. Very dramatic. Given to grand gestures. An egomaniac, I suppose you could say, but nothing you can't handle. And the money will be very good. More than that, the word will get around."
"I'll do my best," Claude said. "Where and what time?"
"He'll come to you. Ten o'clock at the store."
On the appointed day Claude woke at five, ate a bowl of cornflakes in his room, and walked around the corner to let himself into the store before six. Weisfeld was still upstairs. Claude unlocked the register, neatened up the counters, swept the aisles, and unrolled the awning. When there was nothing left to do he went down to the studio and commenced his regular routine at the Bechstein. Very soon, he slipped out of time.
"Claude!" Weisfeld called from the door. "Come up, please."
As if startled from a complicated dream, Cl
aude pulled his hands abruptly from the keys. Weisfeld seldom interrupted him, and so, fearing some mishap, he quickly climbed the stairs. As he emerged he heard the tinkle of the bell and saw an obese man, puffing and sweating, shirttail half out of his pants, pushing the door with his elbow. He had a violin case in one hand and a bulging briefcase in the other. The wooden floor seemed to bend under his weight as he approached the counter.
"I am Aldo Frescobaldi," he said.
"Good morning, maestro." Weisfeld cleared some space. "You can put your things here. I am Aaron Weisfeld, and this"—he extended his arm with a flourish—"is Claude Rawlings."
Claude understood why there were no photographs on the man's records. A veritable mountain of fat, his huge liquid neck as wide as his head. Even his eyes bulged, under black eyebrows so thick and wild they looked like exotic caterpillars. His hand covered Claude's like a pillow. He looked around. "Where do we play? I can't play here."
"Downstairs, maestro." Weisfeld came around the counter and reached for the briefcase. "May I help you with this?"
Frescobaldi descended, the stairs creaking ominously, carrying his violin. Claude took the briefcase and followed.
"If you need anything at all," Weisfeld said from above, "just let me know." He closed the door.
The big man went to the center of the room and turned slowly to survey it. "It is like the cell of a scholarly monk," he said. "Fredericks said you were a serious young man. Are you a monk? A monk of music?" He moved to the wall of bookcases. Over the years Claude had built up an impressive collection of scores—thirty or forty feet of shelves jammed with folios, in alphabetical order by composer—and more than a hundred books on theory, composition, orchestration, musical biographies, criticism, analysis, and various reference works. Frescobaldi tilted his large head to read the spines of the folios.
"No," Claude said, "but I try to keep things neat down here."
"Commendable." He extracted a book. "I myself am not a well-organized person. I thrive on chaos." He flipped through pages. Claude went to the piano. The big man came over and placed the open book on the music stand. "Scriabin."
Claude nodded, instantly nervous. Scriabin's music often made great demands, and he had not played the etudes in a long time.
"If you would start with the 'Mosquito,' please. Opus 42, number 3." Frescobaldi went and leaned against the wall, his hands clasped under his chin.
There was a long silence as Claude read through the bagatelle with his eye, listening to the music in his mind. It was a study in trills, and as soon as he had decided how to shape them, he raised his hands from his lap and played the piece through.
"Now opus 8, number 10, please," Frescobaldi directed calmly.
Claude flipped back until he found it. This one he remembered better, having used it to work on his thirds when he was young. It seemed Frescobaldi was starting out by testing his technique. Again Claude read the piece, listened to it mentally, and thought about it for several minutes before he played. It was difficult, but its mood was essentially playful, and as he finished he believed he had captured that.
"He was a great pianist," Frescobaldi said, "and he wrote for the piano. This is why I ask to hear it. Now something a bit longer. Opus 42, number 5—affannato."
Claude studied the piece, slowing down for a close look at the fiery passages, speeding up for the melody which linked them. As he read it a second time, Frescobaldi came and stood by him. "I will turn pages for you."
"Thank you." Claude accepted the fact that there would be errors this time—the piece was simply too difficult to bring off without preparation—but he vowed to himself he would not be thrown by them. And so he plunged in, for three minutes on the edge, missing some notes but preserving the inner line of the piece.
"Santo cielo!" the big man said when the last notes died away. "What imagination, that man."
"I haven't played it for years," Claude said.
"Don't worry. When you play a wrong note at least you play it firmly. That's good." He opened his briefcase and spilled half the contents on top of the piano. He searched through the pile, selecting a couple of scores, and then dipped into the bag for a few more. Finally he handed Claude a folio with a bold red and black cover. Manuel de Falla. Siete Canciones Populares Españolas. "We will do the third. 'Asturania.' " He opened his violin case while Claude looked at the music.
From a technical point of view the piece was so simple it could have come from an early John Thompson lesson book. He noted the pedal markings and the double pianissimo. The melody had a brooding, melancholy quality, and Claude tried to get it in his bones while Frescobaldi checked his tuning by plucking his strings with his thumb. He flipped the violin into the soft folds of his neck and waved his bow.
"Begin."
Claude got to the second bar before the big man interrupted. "Good, good. The dynamics are very nice, but a little bit faster. Andante tranquillo. Keep it smooth when I enter on bar eight." He waved the bow in tempo.
Claude played with concentration, bringing out the melody in the bass softly and with expression, as marked. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck as Frescobaldi released his first chain of quarter notes. The sound was soft but full, very full, with a kind of tangy, electrical quality, like warm honey and lemon, and terrifically alive, almost painfully alive. It seemed impossible that this rich, textured sound—soft, but filling the studio completely, seeming to gently press against the boundaries of its walls—had anything to do with the fat man with the small wooden box held between the twin orbs of his fist and his neck. As if in some magic trick or illusion, the sound transcended its means of production. Claude was so entranced he barely heard the piano until a Debussy-like half-tone movement of parallel fifths in his left hand brought him back. He listened to the mix as they played the simple refrain through to the double ppp morendo, and the end.
Claude looked up. "That's beautiful," he said. "I've never heard it before."
"Bittersweet," said Frescobaldi. "Dio mio, che acustica! It is like playing in the bathroom. In the shower!" He riffled the music on the piano, selecting several pieces. One after the other, with very little talk and few interruptions, they played Bartók's Romanian Folk Dance no. 3; Debussy's "The Girl with the Flaxen Hair"; numbers 3, 4, and 5 from Prokofiev's Five Melodies (op. 35). Stravinsky's incredibly tricky and exciting Tarantella from the Suite Italienne, and a dozen other assorted miniatures.
Claude had been unable to read Frescobaldi's mood. There was not a clue what judgments the big man was making about the piano, but Claude was reassured by the fact that Frescobaldi had seemed to be very involved in playing the violin, which suggested at least that Claude wasn't getting in his way. The man had appeared to play freely.
"Enough." Frescobaldi put down his instrument and dabbed at his huge brow with a handkerchief. "It is time to eat. Will you join me for lunch?"
"Thank you, sir."
"You have the afternoon free? No pressing appointments?"
"Correct," Claude said, flushing with pleasure.
"Good." He closed the violin case. "We go."
On the way out the big man said to Weisfeld, "My instrument will be safe down there?"
"Absolutely." Weisfeld saw the smile on Claude's face and managed a discreet wink. "I'll lock the door, even."
Claude gave a thumbs-up sign behind his back as he left.
The restaurant was only four blocks away, down the avenue, but Frescobaldi hailed a cab. Claude thought it was almost as much work for the man to get in and out of the cab as it would have been to walk. Somehow or other his shirttail had once again worked its way out of his pants, his tie was askew, and his handkerchief spilled from his pocket like a torn lining. He rolled through the front door of the restaurant as if coming in from a storm.
"Maestro!" A thin, balding man rushed forward. "To see you again so soon! What an honor!" He moved with Frescobaldi, who had not broken stride. The thin man waved his arms, signaling, as Frescobaldi nodded i
n response to the bows of the waiters as he made for the rear. "The same table, of course," the thin man said as he rushed ahead to pull it out from the banquette. There were perhaps a dozen patrons eating lunch, all of them watching as Frescobaldi collapsed with a sigh of anticipation.
"Mamma, che fame," he murmured, oblivious of the attention. "Sit, sit," he urged Claude. Claude slipped into the narrow space opposite him. Waiters fussed over the table while Frescobaldi threw back his enormous head and studied the ceiling.
"Vorrei una mozzarella in carrozza et una bruschetta," he said thoughtfully.
"Sì, maestro," the thin man scribbled on his pad.
"Vorrei delle fettuccine ai funghi e porcini. "
"Sì, maestro." More scribbling.
"Stracotto di manzo al Sagrantino con contorno di spinaci." He lowered his head. "And the same for my friend, here."
"Sì, maestro. Assolutamente."
"I leave the wine to you." He pulled at his tie and opened his collar. "I hope you're hungry," he said to Claude.
As the dishes arrived Frescobaldi fell to, giving the food his undivided attention. He did not talk, but occasionally looked up with a placid smile. Claude, who was full by the end of the pasta, watched with growing awe. The man ate slowly and steadily, putting away an enormous amount of food. When it became clear that Claude could manage no more than a taste of the meat, Frescobaldi looked concerned.
"No good?"
"It's delicious. I just can't eat this much at lunch."
Frescobaldi nodded, commiserating, and reached across for the plate. He cleaned it at a leisurely pace, sweeping up the gravy with small bits of bread.
