by Frank Conroy
"Not now." He touched the cast. "In fact, I played this morning."
"You're kidding."
"A funny feeling with a locked wrist. It reminded me of one of my early teachers, Professor Menti, when I was a kid."
"Well, I'm glad you called me."
"I didn't know what else to do. I hope this doesn't make problems for you."
"It's a piece of cake," the senator said. "I'm glad to help. I felt very bad about what happened up at Larchmont."
"Nobody could have—" Claude began.
"Yes, yes, I know. What's terrible about things like that is the power that gets loose. I mean the destructive power. It's like the Greeks—some god acts on a whim and mortals pay the price. It was too much for her, the poor thing. Although I wish she'd shown a little more salt."
They rode on in silence. When they pulled up in front of the office building the senator glanced at his watch. Henry got out, walked around the front of the car, and opened Claude's door.
"This won't take long, Henry," the senator said, emerging.
"Yes, sir."
Upstairs, in the waiting room of the Luris Corporation, Tom Thorpe lunged up from his chair as Senator Barnes got out of the elevator. "Good afternoon, Senator. Mr. Folsom is —" His smile collapsed as Claude stepped forward. He looked from one face to the other, stunned into silence.
"Take us in," the senator said.
Thorpe moved down the hall, opened a door into a small office, ignored the secretary, tapped lightly on another door, opened it, and stepped aside. The senator entered, followed by Claude. Thorpe closed the door behind them without coming in.
Folsom sat behind a large desk, a skyline of the East Side revealed through the windows behind him. If he was surprised he did not show it, his dark, wet eyes slow and steady. He got up and extended his hand.
"Senator," he said, "this is an honor."
The senator did not take his hand. "Sit down," he said, as he did so himself. Claude took a chair. Folsom, his face still wooden, obeyed.
"I, ah, I'm wondering what—" Folsom began.
"Conversation is not necessary," the old man said. He glanced again at his watch and then removed two slips of paper from his breast pocket. He slipped the first one across the desk. "Call this number and tell them who you are. They're expecting you."
Folsom took the paper and held it with both hands, studying the single phone number as if it were a code to be deciphered. "Whose number is this?"
"The police commissioner," the senator said without expression. "Mr. Witte."
Folsom paused for a minute, reached for the phone, and dialed. As he waited his eyes went to Claude, flicked down to the cast, and then away. "This is Ed Folsom calling," he said. "Yes, I'll hold." He leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling, and gave a barely audible sigh. Then his head came forward. "Yes, this is Folsom." As he listened there was a slight compression of his lips. After perhaps thirty seconds he said, "Yes, I understand," and hung up. "Senator," he said, "there must be some kind of mix-up here. I can assure you I know nothing about—"
"Save it, save it." The old man slid the second piece of paper like a playing card. "The mayor is expecting your call."
Folsom licked his lips nervously and bent over the paper. Claude could see what would soon be a bald spot on the crown of his head. Folsom said, "I assure you this isn't—"
"Make the call."
Folsom did so. It took the mayor somewhat longer to say what he had to say than it had the police commissioner. Folsom replaced the receiver with care. His face was pale.
"Okay." The senator stood up and put both hands on Folsom's desk. "One broken window on that building, one chipped brick, one hot rivet on the roof and you're out of business. One broken fingernail on this young man and you're in jail. You had better pray for his health." He pushed himself up and turned away. Claude followed him out.
Halfway down the elevator the old man said, "I wonder where he got the name Luris? He owns the corporation—sixty percent of the stock, in any case. Big contributor to the Democratic Party." He gave a sudden, hearty belly laugh. "Lot of good it did him."
The cast on his left arm made a convenient paperweight as he scribbled away at the score, most often in the studio but sometimes upstairs at the desk in front of the window. As he got deeper into the piece he seemed to be able to concentrate longer, taking fewer and shorter breaks as the weeks went on. The fundamental line emerged, a kind of weaving in and out between the piano and orchestra, complementing one another and then opposing one another, which created a pattern linking all three movements. Writing the piano solos, he was guided by the fragile, spooky clarity of the bell. Certain sections were technically complex, but only as a development of fairly simple themes. With the orchestra, however, he went for dense textures, a lot of inner movement, tension, and occasionally violence. The two magic chords stood once in the second movement and once in the recapitulating third movement, like two mighty pylons upon which the entire structure was hung.
One day as he was coming back with a bag of groceries, his head full of music, one of the Luris foremen ran up the tunnel to catch him at the door.
"The glass is coming tomorrow," he said. "Is that okay? We can do it another day if you want."
"What glass? What are you talking about?"
"The windows." He gestured to the plywood sheets. "Didn't they tell you? Luris is giving you new display windows. Real thick plate. A lot better than the old ones."
"Are they really," Claude said. "Well, that's a nice gesture. Tomorrow will be fine."
"Okay. Right."
"I hope it won't be too messy. I've cleaned up I don't know how many times."
"Don't worry. We'll be using our best men. Old-timers, real craftsmen."
Toward the end he found himself writing so quickly it almost scared him. When all three movements were complete, he went back and worked bar by bar from the beginning, adding detail, editing, altering a bit of melody or the voicing of a chord. He did this time after time, a dozen or more times.
"Hey, don't you ever answer the phone?" It was Otto Levits. "I've been calling for days."
"I should get an extension down in the studio. I've been working."
"That's good, because I've got an engagement. The New Rochelle Friends of Music. You can do the Schubert program you did at Columbia. They specifically asked for it, so this is easy and it's good money."
"Otto, I can't."
"No, no, no," he exploded. "I didn't hear that! You never said that!"
"I've got a broken arm."
"This is a lie. Stay where you are, I'm getting a cab. I'm practically there already."
Half an hour later he came through the door. "What's going on around here? They're tearing down the whole block."
"Not quite. Not this building." Claude held up his cast. "That's how I got this."
"The cast is a ruse," Otto said. "I know all these neurotic tricks. I've been dealing with crazy artists my whole life."
"Sit," Claude said. "I'll get some coffee from across the street and tell you the whole story. You want a donut?"
"Plain. A plain donut."
When Claude returned they sat on either side of the counter and fussed with the food. "They don't have plain, so I got you a cinnamon."
"Fine. So?"
Claude began at the beginning and told him everything that had happened. Levits sipped his coffee and listened, his white eyebrows lifting as his eyes widened. As Claude described the visit to Folsom's office, Levits nodded, as if old truths were being confirmed.
"You should sue the bastard anyway," Otto said. "You're a pianist with a broken arm. One million dollars. I'd be glad to testify as an expert witness. Exaggerate a little, maybe."
"We can't prove anything," Claude said. "Anyway, I was lucky. A simple fracture. It'll be off soon. In fact, I've been playing with it on."
"I'll tell you what's lucky. It's lucky you knew Senator Barnes."
"That is true." Claude at
e some donut and drank some coffee. "I would've had to sell otherwise. I see that now. A matter of time."
"I wonder who else they fucked over," Otto said. "People who didn't know anybody."
They ate in silence.
"Come downstairs," Claude said when they'd finished. "I want to show you something."
20
SHIRTS ON TOP, collars down. Free-lance musicians knew how to pack, he thought. He closed the suitcase, pleased that he'd managed to get everything into one bag, and went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. He drank it in the front room, sitting on the corner of his desk, glancing out the window at the traffic on Third Avenue. It was a mild, sunny April day, just over a year since he'd moved in. One last time he ran over the checklist in his mind: passport, traveler's checks, address book, scores (in the suitcase), two Simenons to read on the plane, his lucky cross. He rinsed the cup in the kitchen, glanced in the bedroom and the study, and went downstairs. The suitcase bumped against the side of his leg.
Emma sat behind the cash register, making an entry in the ledger. Claude had been amazed at how quickly she'd learned the setup. It was as if she'd been a shopkeeper forever. Technical matters concerning the instruments were beyond her, but there Al had shown a flair. He was an excellent salesman, calm, patient, with never a hint of pressure.
Claude put down his suitcase. "I guess I'm off. Where's Al?"
"Downstairs moving stock."
It had become necessary to use part of the studio for storage. Business had increased dramatically since the old days under the el. Guitars of all varieties were particularly hot. But so were books, sheet music, and, for some reason, timbales. "Are you nervous?" she asked.
"Not yet. I won't be nervous till the day before."
"I meant the airplane," she said. "You couldn't get me to go up in one of those things for all the tea in China."
"It's a lot safer than driving a cab," he said. "Statistically."
"Well, I don't have to do that anymore either. I don't know why Al keeps doing a shift. We've got good people for both cars."
"He likes to move," Claude said. "Get out and around. See the sights."
"I suppose." She tapped her pencil on the counter. "Everything here will be fine. You shouldn't worry. We know how to do it."
"I have every confidence," he said, glancing at his watch. "I'd better get going. Say goodbye to Al for me."
"Will do. Break a leg."
He went out the door and jaywalked across the avenue to catch an uptown cab. As he stood on the sidewalk he looked back at the store. Wrapped on three sides by the soaring whiteness of the sixteen-story apartment building, freshly sandblasted, with newly painted trim and cornices, it looked almost quaint. It could be a tiny church, Claude thought, right there in the exact middle of the block. Even as he watched, two customers went in. He imagined the sound of the silver bell.
The cab dropped him off at the BOAC terminal, where he showed his ticket to an attendant and his bag was whisked away. He went inside, surprised to find so few people, bought a newspaper, browsed for a few moments in a tiny bookstore, and wound up at the BOAC desk.
"Good afternoon, sir." The man glanced at the tickets and returned them. "You can board now if you like. Gate twelve, right through there."
"Thanks. I guess I will. Is the flight crowded?"
A quick glance at his computer. "No, sir. I'd say about fifty percent capacity."
A British stewardess met him at the door to the plane. He felt a little thrill of pleasure at her accent. "Right, then," she said with a smile. "Through there to the first-class compartment. Seat zA, by the window. They'll take care of you."
As indeed they did. A cheerful young woman named Edith fussed over him like a nurse. The seat next to him was apparently going to remain unoccupied, and she brought down a blanket, some pillows, and a pair of slippers. She leaned over him—a whiff of perfume—to adjust the window shade.
"There we are," she said, brushing her hair back over her ear. "What do you say to a glass of champagne while we're waiting?"
"That would be nice. Yes."
"Good," she said, as if he'd pleased her. "I think I can promise you quite a nice dinner tonight. They do lay it on up here. Five courses."
Later, as the plane took off, at the moment of lift, he had a definite feeling of transition, as if he were leaving a known chapter of his life behind him, back on the ground, to enter brand-new territory. It was exhilarating.
The drive into London surprised him. In the confusion he'd gotten a minicab instead of one of the traditional big black diesels he'd been looking forward to. He sat with his knees up and stared out the window. Bad roads and mile after mile of shabby residential housing. As they entered the city he began to notice the double-decker buses, strange advertising signs, and the general bustle of the sidewalks. He saw men with bowlers and umbrellas—although the sun was shining—striding along as they had in practically every British movie he'd ever seen. Everything was different—colors, textures, the light, the very air smelled different. It seemed like an alternate reality, but of course perfectly normal for everyone but him. A wonderful mixture of the exotic and the mundane.
"Here we are, guv."
Claude paid with the large notes he'd gotten at the airport, holding out his hand and suggesting the driver take a twenty percent tip.
The management of the London Symphony Orchestra had reserved a room for him at Brown's Hotel, a sprawling, slightly rundown establishment with a reputation for artistic clientele. The lobby was crowded with people speaking a half-dozen languages, and it took Claude a moment to find the reception desk. The clerk checked him in and a bellboy took him to his room.
Claude unpacked, took a long hot bath in the ancient oversized tub, and fell asleep naked on the bed. An hour later he was awakened by the telephone.
"Mr. Rawlings?"
"Yes."
"Ah, splendid. You've arrived, then. This is Albert Shanks from the LSO."
"Oh." He rubbed his eyes. "Hi."
"We thought if it's convenient you might want to drop over this afternoon. Of course, tomorrow will do if you'd like to rest. Just a chat, you see. Nothing that can't wait."
"No, I'd like that. How about two?"
"Twoish, then. I look forward to meeting you."
Claude spent the next couple of hours walking around the neighborhood, pleasantly bemused by the small scale of everything—the streets, alleys, and arcades laid out every which way, the buildings seeming to lean over the sidewalks. He came upon unexpected little squares, small parks, pubs, shops of every description, theaters, bookstores, all crammed together in the most cunning fashion. He lost any sense of direction, but wandered from one place to another quite happily, since every turn he took led, in a very short time, to some new and interesting nexus.
For lunch, standing up in an open corner shop, he had baked beans on toast and a cup of tea, listening to the language swirling about him—the accents, the speed, the slang. The streets were made for walking. When one of the traditional cabs came to a halt as he flagged it, he wondered how, big as it was, it could possibly negotiate the turns. Somehow it did, pedestrians skipping away with miraculous, insouciant agility.
The hall was a modern free-standing building on the banks of the Thames. Claude found this mildly disappointing. He had imagined something old and grand along the lines of Carnegie Hall. An attendant inside directed him to Albert Shanks's office, which turned out to be a modest-sized room with modern furnishings and a view of the river.
"So good of you to come," said Shanks, a long-haired young man, very pale, wearing black bell-bottom hip-huggers, a white turtleneck, a multicolored vest, and granny glasses. Claude was in a brown suit. Shanks got a large envelope from his desk and moved to the couch. "My congratulations, by the way," he said, sitting down and patting the couch in invitation. "The competition was intense, as I'm sure you can imagine."
"Thank you." Claude sat at the other end.
The
phone rang but Shanks ignored it, and after four rings it stopped. "I can't give you the program because it's still at the printer. We're billing it An Evening of American Music. Trying to pull in the tourists, quite frankly. Our Mr. Dove will conduct the Ives, Copland will conduct Billy the Kid, intermission, and then you, with Mr. Dove again. It should be fun."
Claude gave a little laugh. "I hope so."
Shanks handed him the envelope. "Everything you need is here. The pass gives you ingress and free access to the building, including the practice pianos downstairs. We've also set up a rehearsal schedule which I hope doesn't conflict with anything."
"It won't. I'm not doing anything else."
"I'm sorry it wasn't possible to give you more time with the orchestra. We stretched it as far as we could, but you know how these things are."
"Sure," Claude said. "I hope Mr. Dove can go over the score with me, though. You know, just the two of us."
"I'm sure he's expecting that. His telephone number is in there. Now, how're your digs?"
"I'm sorry?"
"The hotel. Everything satisfactory?"
"Oh, absolutely. It's fine."
"You must take tea there. Charming. Try the Savoy Grille for dinner some night. Hard to get in, but worth it." He got up to shake hands. "Anything you need, just ring me up."
Claude fell into a comfortable routine, going over to the hall every morning to play in the basement, feeling fit, enjoying himself. Something strange had happened the previous year when the cast had come off. His left arm had felt light the first few days, practically insubstantial, and his freed wrist responded with a remarkable fluidity and suppleness, as if it had been packed in oil all that time. His right wrist followed like a dutiful student, and the arm and shoulder tightness that had plagued him disappeared completely. His fingers had never felt stronger nor more responsive to the images of the music in his mind. It was a joy to play.
