by Frank Conroy
"Shh." She stroked his face. "Shh. Let's just lie here for a while."
"What a monstrous hypocrite."
"Shh. Hush now."
But hours later, when they made love, he felt it all falling away from him. As her soul welcomed him, his own was cleansed. As they ascended together into the blue beyond blue, all else was trivial. Life itself was trivial. They flew out of the world. Out of its present, and out of its past.
On Monday morning they went for a walk in a nearby park, which seemed to Claude not so much a park as a large chunk of unspoiled countryside. Rolling meadows, some mowed and some wild, great stands of trees, buttercups, even a brook. He was glad to walk. His body felt wonderful, glowing from within, loose, oiled, but his legs were not altogether dependable and he had a rehearsal to do in the afternoon. It was as if he were too light, too buoyant, and had to bring his body down a bit. After half an hour of wandering over the low hills, with Catherine beside him periodically holding his arm and pressing his side, he seemed to reach a perfect balance. They found an immense boulder, already warm from the sun. and sat with their backs against it.
"I feel like I've been asleep all my life," he said.
"Good morning, then."
"Sex is so powerful it's always blinded me. I've never really known what I was doing, in a way. You know, so eager, and maybe scared a bit, it seems like now."
"Well, there are an awful lot of women who don't particularly like sex, if the truth were known," she said. "Most women, I think."
"You're kidding." Although he was learning fast, he was not entirely free of his romantic miseducation from movies and books.
"For some it's a kind of social thing, no more important than that. Some see it as a sign that they're needed. A kind of reassurance. And then it can be an exercise in power over another person. None of these things means you have to like it."
"A tool, you mean."
"Sometimes. Sometimes just a gift to the man."
"Nobody talks about it like that."
"Of course not," she said. "But don't forget, there are women for whom it's just as important as it is to men."
"Forget!" he protested. "How could I ever possibly forget? Where we've been?"
"That's good." She smiled and gave him a soft kiss, surprising him. "Because it goes away, you know."
"Never."
"The passion does. It's too intense for us. It fades. Think of colors, colors gradually changing hue. It's like that."
"I don't want to think that."
"I know."
"It's like you're warning me."
She took his hand. "It's good I know these things. I'm not warning you. I'm not going to back off when the colors change."
"But you won't marry me."
"I'm not going to marry anyone. I have Jennie, my work, and my life. That's more than enough."
"Suppose your work took you to America? Some incredible job at Princeton or Harvard, say?"
"I wouldn't go."
She released his hand and they sat in silence for some time. Suddenly a large black dog ran out from behind the boulder and stood ten feet away, looking at them. Collarless, Claude thought, immediately thinking of his hands. The dog lowered its head.
"You," Catherine said firmly, "are a big, ugly, slobbering mess of a dog. We have nothing for you."
After a moment the dog pivoted on its rear legs and sprang away. They watched it cross the meadow, running full-out, its spine folding and unfolding like a hinge.
"The British worship animals, you know," she said. "It's ridiculous." She stood up and smoothed her skirt.
"Will you come to the rehearsal?" he asked.
"That'll be bits and pieces, won't it? I'd rather hear the whole thing in one go."
Claude entered the auditorium through a side door and paused. They were playing his music, the first tutti from the second movement, Mr. Dove conducting from the piano. Claude stood with his back to the wall.
For the first few minutes he was too thrilled to think. The sound was there, alive in the air, and it made the hair stand up on the backs of his hands. He had heard it in his mind numberless times, an idealized version, but now it was real and what surprised him most was the grittiness, the textures. Rosiny strings, the wide, edgy sound of the brass, the ever so slightly fuzzy, plush depth of the woodwinds. Dove was not playing the full piano part, but only the cues and a reduction to the top and bottom lines. The orchestra dominated with its powerful, organic, almost funky sound. Claude bathed in it, simply drank it in through the pores of his skin, a huge, unconscious smile on his face. It worked on him like some euphoric drug, and it was quite a while before he could force himself to listen analytically.
Eventually the first violinist spotted him and pointed him out to Mr. Dove, who waved for silence. "There you are, sir," he called, glancing at his watch. "Well, we've done what we can by way of preparation." He got up from the piano. "Please join us."
Claude walked down the aisle, mounted the stage, and approached the nine-foot Bosendorfer grand.
"Anything you'd like to tell us before we begin?" Mr. Dove asked as he picked up his baton.
Claude faced the orchestra—so many people, old, young, a few women, a tall, thin black man in the contrabass section—and for a moment he was nervous. "It's an honor to be able to play with you people. I've got an awful lot of your records." A few smiles, a few nods of recognition. "About the music. Well, you'll hear it anyway, but I don't play the old way, louder going up, softer going down. Breathing, or whatever they call it. The dynamics should be as marked, so when we're playing a line together that's the way I'll be doing it. I guess that's it." He sat down at the piano. The score was in front of him. He looked up at Mr. Dove, who was turning pages at the podium.
"Right," said Dove. "First movement, second tutti. That figure. How do you want those sixteenths?"
Claude looked down at the keys, imagined the phrase in his mind, and played it with his right hand.
"Aha!" Dove leaned forward to address the players. "Distinct, but making a smooth curve. Right, then." He raised his arms. "Let's get it the first time."
They hopped around the concerto in this manner for almost an hour and then took a break. As the others got up, Claude remained at the piano and, very softly, played Art Tatum's version of "Tea for Two" just to stretch his fingers. One of the violinists, an older man with bags under his eyes, paused to watch. "Wonderful stuff," he said when Claude had finished. "Tatum was a master."
"Where can I go for jazz?" Claude asked.
"You mean clubs? There isn't much, I'm afraid. Ronnie Scott's in Soho. And one of our people works nights at the Castle, also in Soho. Let me get him, he'll know more." He moved away.
Mr. Dove came over with a couple of questions. "I take it you want a feeling of wildness in here, the free bars in B major, and D major scales for these horns?"
"Yes. Random sounds. A little pocket of chaos, like a building being demolished."
"Good. That's what we thought."
The older violinist returned with the black bass player, a man in his thirties with extremely long hands and a worried look on his face. Creases stood out on his forehead.
"This is Reggie Phillips. He knows all about it."
Claude stood up and shook the man's hand. "Hi. You play jazz at the Castle? I'd like to come."
"Just a trio. But Ronnie Scott's has a big band. Good musicians." He had a soft voice, barely above a whisper, and an accent that sounded Jamaican. "You'll have a good time at Ronnie Scott's."
Claude didn't know what to make of the man's manner. Reggie looked down at the floor, off to the side, his face averted, almost as if he were afraid.
"Well, thanks very much," Claude said.
Reggie started away, but then paused and said, "Your concerto is very good, very strong, and it has a freshness. Everybody is saying this." Then he walked off, threading his way through the folding chairs.
21
LORD LIGHTNING was a stocky,
prematurely bald forty-eight-year-old jazz pianist whose cafe-au-lait complexion was the only obvious indicator of his Negro blood—one quarter, he had been told by his half-white mother before she died. His stage name had emerged because his right hand was thought to be faster than Oscar Peterson's, and because Light, as his fellow musicians called him, was, in fact, light-skinned, maintained a particularly dignified demeanor, dressed well (just short of dandyism), and had an almost obsessive interest in the royal family. He lived in a tastefully furnished Edwardian house in Hampstead (eight years to go on the mortgage, when they would throw the party to end all parties) with Reggie Phillips, bassist with the LSO, bassist with Lord Lightning's trio at the Castle jazz club, and companion of ten years. They sat in matching wing chairs in the front room drinking tea.
"I think you're overreacting," Reggie said.
"The whole thing scares me to death." Light regarded the bone china service for a moment and reached for a lump of sugar. "We've got to be very, very careful."
"You don't know it's him. A single telegram, what was it, twenty-five years ago? Nothing since."
"That's the way she wanted it." Light sighed. "I was relieved at the time."
"Understandable." Reggie gave a soft laugh. "Considering."
"Don't be stupid about this, Reggie. It was more than that. The child never had to know, quite possibly. There was every chance it could grow up white, and in America that's..." He waved his hand and left the rest unspoken.
"Well, if it is him, he certainly wouldn't have any trouble passing."
Light made an impatient clucking sound with his tongue. "Passing is despicable. We thought we'd save him that, if it turned out to be possible. She was a remarkable woman."
"She was the only woman," Reggie said. "Unless you've lied to me."
"My dear, I do not lie about such matters, as you well know."
"Look, it's not my fault. What could I do?"
"The time is right, the name is right, and furthermore he's a musician. It's got to be him."
"We've been through this a dozen times," Reggie said. "I just want you to know it isn't my fault if he comes. He already knew about the club. I told him to go to Ronnie's, and he did, but now he's done that."
"What'd he think of the band?"
"He liked Tubby."
"Well, that shows good taste. How was he at yesterday's rehearsal?"
Reggie stared out the window. "Very serious. Intense. We played the whole concerto straight through for the first time. He seemed, he seemed..."
"What."
"He isn't a showy player, there's no theatrical stuff, but you could tell he was really out there, on another planet. A whole lot of energy coming from him, and the orchestra responded. He thanked us after, and he meant it."
"You like him," Light said simply.
"I don't even know him. He seems like a nice young man, he writes good music, and he plays beautifully. That's all I know."
"Is he ... ?" Light let his voice fall off.
"No." Reggie understood instantly. "I think not."
Light nodded to himself. "Don't be insulted if I say I'm glad about that."
"Of course not," Reggie said. "I'm sure I'd feel the same."
"The dues—when you're young, that is—are simply too heavy." Light sighed. "When I think back ..."
"I don't want you getting upset about this." Reggie placed his cup and saucer on the table. "He probably won't even show up, and if he does, you can handle it."
"I suppose," Light said. "But it's scary all the same. Who knows? He might take one look at me and know. He might feel it. Sense it."
"That's a lot of romantic nonsense," Reggie said impatiently, and stood up. "Start getting sentimental and you'll fuck it up."
"Where're you going?"
"I'm not going anywhere. I'll just put this stuff in the kitchen."
"No, wait. Sit down for a second," Light said. "Please."
"Christ," Reggie said, and sat back down.
"Tell me the truth, now. Don't just be nice."
"The truth about what?"
"About what I did. About what Emma and I did. You think it was right?"
Reggie shook his head. "What difference does it make? It was a hundred years ago."
"Reggie. Please." Light was a man who very rarely said please. He prided himself on his toughness, and Reggie, who had often counted on it, knew the toughness was real. Mental toughness, but also unambiguous physical courage. Four years ago they'd been accosted by three young thugs in an alley in Soho. Light had kicked one of them in the nuts, picked up the knife, stuck it in the boy's thigh, and watched the others run. "You picked the wrong poof this time, ladies!" he'd shouted, and then burst into laughter.
"How can I answer?" Reggie said. "I've never been to America. If I'd been born white in Jamaica, I would've tried to pass the other way."
"He's not passing. That's the whole point."
"I get that," Reggie said. "I see that. But the thing is, he'll never know. Suppose he turns out to be a great composer?"
"Yes. So?"
"He'll be a great white composer."
"Well, shit, he's more white than anything else. What was the word they used to ... an octoroon! That's what he is. That's as far as they had a word. It's the edge. What would they say after that, a sixteenthatoon? The very faintest, slightest touch of the tar. Let's face it, he's white."
"You don't think he got the music from you?"
Light pondered the question. "It would be nice to think so," he said. "But really, if you start getting too deep into that mystical blood stuff, it starts sounding like the Nazis. You know what I mean?"
"Well, man, you were the one who said it was important he was a musician," Reggie protested.
"I know, I know. This thing has got me going around in circles."
"I just hope he doesn't show," Reggie said. "I got you a seat in the back for the concert. You can see him, hear him, and then come on back here and everything's back to normal."
"That's what I'll do," Light said. "You're right."
When Claude got back to the hotel after the final rehearsal the concierge handed him two letters. He sat down on one of the lobby couches and opened them immediately. The first was on Cambridge University stationery.
Dear Claude,
Hello old friend. I'm up here doing physics with the famous Dr. Macintyre. Crusty old sod, but he's brilliant. We are about to unlock the mysteries of the universe, perhaps as early as Friday.
It was thrilling to see your name in the paper and to imagine what must have been happening to you all these years to lead to such brilliant success. World premiere with the London Symphony Orchestra! The Weisfeld Concerto. I remember him well. Will he be with you, I hope?
My teaching duties prevent me from getting down to London before the concert, but I will most certainly be there. A friend has gotten tickets. Do you think you could give my name to the powers that be so I can come backstage afterwards?
All best,
Ivan
Claude felt a rush of affection. His sense of Ivan was suddenly so strong the man might just as well have been sitting next to him. Physics, of course! Ivan would have changed, certainly, but Claude somehow knew they would be able to pick up their friendship as if they'd never been apart. Claude folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his breast pocket. It was a wonderful surprise, like some unexpected perfect gift, and he took it as an auspicious sign at exactly the right moment. He was strengthened by it, all the more since it had come out of the blue.
The second letter was in Lady's round hand. It had been forwarded from the offices of the orchestra.
Dear Claude,
Should I admit to you I cried when I signed the final papers? Silly, I guess, because we did the right thing, but there it is. Mourning the past. It's lucky the present is so interesting. We sold the gallery in a really sweet deal, and I'm thinking of getting a real estate license. It should be fun, there's so much action in this town.
>
We get the Sunday Times a day late but I did see the little squib in the music section. I'm so happy for you, really truly happy because I know how much music means to you.
Grandpa told me that my cousin Catherine is living in London now, going to school or something. Look her up in the phone book and tell her hello from me. She'll remember you, I bet. She never used to forget anything, or anybody, that girl.
Anyway, good luck on the opening, and lots of love,
Lady
He held the letter in his hand for some time after finishing it. The reference to Catherine had caused a brief moment of uncomfortableness, like a chill, but it passed very quickly as he considered the ironies of life. There was an innocent, childlike quality to the letter, and it seemed impossible to him that he had spent so many years with its author without sensing the sadness in her. The plucky sadness of someone who had missed the boat. A kind of bravely cheerful stoicism masking a private sadness. Marriage, to him or to anyone else, would never cure it. It was a much bigger boat she had missed, and now he felt a vague fear for her. He closed it off immediately. In the complicated equation of her life, he was no longer a factor. Against his guilt, he could only, quite sincerely, wish her well in his heart. The divorce papers, which he had yet to sign, could not carry as much finality as the letter he held in his hand. It was that brutally simple.
When Claude telephoned the Savoy Grille to book a table he was told, with excruciating politeness and profuse apologies, that the first available reservation was two weeks hence. On an impulse Claude called Albert Shanks and explained the situation. "I'd really like to take her someplace special." Shanks called back twenty minutes later. From his splendid office overlooking the Thames he had been able to arrange everything. "They always keep two tables for unexpected VIPs," Shanks explained. "Bon appétit."
The degree of Catherine's excitement took him by surprise. She'd actually said "Oh, goody" and clapped her hands like a child. She'd taken a good deal of time deciding what to wear while Claude had watched her from the bed. He again reminded himself that she was no longer the girl who lived in the mansion on Fifth Avenue, who went to splendid parties, or to the Russian Tea Room in pearls and a velvet dress. She lived in a tiny flat, had an extremely limited social life within a small circle of academics, dressed like a student, and made things like split-pea soup for dinner, saying with satisfaction, "A bit of bread and butter and this will do us for two days." Yet she had retained a real enthusiasm for the high life, and the capacity to enjoy it in the most natural way, commanding instant respect from the Savoy's staff, for instance.
