by Frank Conroy
His thought was to drop in on Albert Shanks to thank him for the table at the Savoy Grille. He knocked lightly and entered the office. Shanks was not there. A tall, thin man with gray hair stood with his hands behind his back staring out at the river, bending slightly at the waist.
"Sorry," Claude mumbled, and then froze when the man turned. It was Aaron Copland.
"Please come in," Copland said. "He'll be back soon. He went to get something."
"I just wanted, he did me a favor, I thought I'd ..."
"I'm Aaron Copland," he said, coming forward.
"Claude Rawlings." They shook hands.
"Oh, I'm glad you came in. Have you got a minute?"
"Of course, sir. It's an honor to meet you."
"Let's sit, then."
He was lanky and seemed awkward, like some tall, slow-moving bird. They went to the couch.
"Are you at Claridges? The best hotel in the world, if you ask me."
"Brown's," Claude said.
"Oh yes, where the writers stay. I hope you're comfortable."
"Very. Although I haven't spent much time there. I've been staying with a friend."
"I was impressed by your concerto."
"You've seen it?"
"I've read it. Played the piano part. I was one of the judges." Suddenly he covered his mouth. "Oops. Wasn't supposed to say that. All very secret. But I don't suppose it matters that much now. Just don't tell anybody."
"I won't."
"It was strong, and fresh. I liked the way you drew from all directions. It was good to see that."
"Thank you, sir." Claude looked down to conceal the euphoric impact of this praise. "My teacher, Aaron Weisfeld—"
"There were many submissions, but an odd sameness to a lot of them, I thought. You know, school A, school B, and so on. Only two or three were really original." He paused. "You've played with Frescobaldi, I understand."
"My first big break."
"Good. Well, don't ever give up performing. We all need to make a living." He gave a wan smile. "I'm no conductor, for instance. Mr. Dove prepares the orchestra and I just put in an appearance. I perform. Luckily it's fun."
Claude was mildly shocked and his face showed it.
"There's very little money in composing, Mr. Rawlings. But we're not unique. Robert Frost once told me he'd never been able to support himself from his royalties alone. Can you imagine that? The most popular poet in the richest country in the world?"
"It's crazy," Claude said, and meant it.
"It's a nuisance. Money is a nuisance."
Albert Shanks came in, wearing a white Nehru suit and carrying some papers which he put on his desk. "So you've met," he said. "The last special reserve seats are now gone. A total sellout. The bloody Queen herself couldn't get in at this point." He rubbed his hands in satisfaction. "Bloody marvelous."
Copland gave Claude a quick, wry look.
The building was beginning to quicken now, as Claude strolled aimlessly from place to place. People moving purposefully in the backstage corridors, carrying instruments, clothing bags, or small suitcases. He saw a man with an open bottle of Guinness, another carrying a thin seat pad. Chairs and music stands were being set up onstage. The house lights went on and off mysteriously. As he paced the runway behind the back seats he glanced up through a glass wall to see people being turned away at the box office. He walked past the last-row aisle seat which was soon to be occupied by Lord Lightning, that seat being the rough equivalent of, and for the same purpose (quick exit) as, the one his mother had occupied in Carnegie Hall. (But he would not have the chance to appreciate the irony. The four people who knew the secret of his patrimony—Reggie Phillips, Lord Lightning, Emma, and Al, with whom Emma had discussed the wisdom of her withholding the truth, and the possible impact on Claude of her false story of promiscuity—these four would take the secret to their graves.) Claude walked around and around, listening to his body.
He stood in the wings for a few minutes during Billy the Kid, curious to see how Copland would conduct the gunfight sequence, a challenge for the tympani and a test of tempo for the conductor. Copland's baton technique was right out of the book, and he allowed himself very little body movement. Occasionally he would make a small one-legged hop for rhythmic emphasis, or jut out his elbow like a square dancer. Claude would not have picked Billy the Kid for this concert. It was ballet music, after all, and Claude was something of a stuffed shirt about such matters at the time. Pure symphony was his ideal. But the orchestra was playing beautifully, and the gunshot effects, when they came, were crisp and electrifying. Copland gave a nod of appreciation, and even smiled a bit as he moved on.
The music receding behind him, Claude went to his dressing room. He washed his hands, put on his tuxedo, and sat down. After a few minutes he lowered his chin and began deep breathing. He closed his eyes and silently counted each exhalation. When he reached twenty he visualized the descending escalator before him, so long it disappeared into the distant depths. In his mind he stepped on and began the effortless downward glide. Now he could see the first of the markers coming up on his right. The word ONE spelled out in green letters. Slowly he was carried past. He was moving down, TWO rose up, got larger, and vanished behind him. THREE. His breathing was now automatically deep and regular. He was aware of his relaxed body, and aware of the world around him. FOUR. He knew of the slow, steady, crystalline drip of the faucet into the washbasin, he knew of his breath, of the distant sound of an automobile horn, the closer murmur of conversation as a man and a woman passed by in the corridor, but he did not hear the sounds in the usual sense. They were small interruptions of a profound silence. It was the silence he heard.
A knock. "Five minutes, Mr. Rawlings."
Now he could see the end of the escalator and the brilliance of the green garden to which it carried him. A green of magic intensity. The green of Eden. He was enfolded.
"Two minutes, Mr. Rawlings."
After some moments he opened his eyes and got up. He walked to the door, turned the handle, and stepped out into the corridor. A young man of perhaps sixteen in a gray cloth jacket stood waiting. "Right, then, sir. If you'll just follow me."
The boy had long brown hair falling to his shoulders. Claude watched the gentle bounce of the hair as they moved through the halls to the wings at stage left.
"Good luck, sir." The boy left.
Claude saw the orchestra. Mr. Dove came up behind him. Together, they waited a moment. Then, briskly, Claude stepped forward into the light.
* * *
Author's Note
Body & Soul is to some extent a historical novel. Certainly the New York City described in its pages is long gone, replaced by another city of the same name. I've played fast and loose with dates, choosing to bend things a bit for the sake of structure. Chronology is preserved, I hope, but exact dates for various historical events—Eisler's escape on the Batory, the dismantling of the Third Avenue el, and so on—have been avoided.
Several years of reading about music and musicians cannot be adequately covered here, but certain books stand out in my memory: Hindemith's Elementary Training for Musicians; The Great Pianists, The Virtuosi, and other works of Harold C. Schönberg; Mr. Perle on twelve-tone (although had I to choose between reading his books again and spending a week in a Siberian salt mine, it would not be an easy choice); and various writings of Leonard Bernstein.
My thanks to my colleagues at the Iowa Writers' Workshop for their support and help, especially Margot Livesey for her close reading of Part One, Jorie Graham for idiomatic Italian, Marilynne Robinson for liking Emma, Deb West for her careful work and her enthusiasm, and Connie Brothers for covering for me. Ned Rorem and Jim Holmes for good musical talk on Nantucket. Also the University of Iowa for encouraging the creative writers in its employ, no less than it does the scholars and scientific researchers, to do new work, and for giving us the time in which to do it.
I am deeply indebted to Peter Serkin, a man with extens
ive responsibilities to his public, his students, his art, and his young family, who nevertheless took the time to help me as an act of faith. He walked me through the Mozart Double Piano Concerto (which he had played as a boy with his father, Rudolf) at his piano in his studio. Over the years he made many invaluable suggestions, both large and small, which helped and encouraged me. All this despite the fact that we are not in total agreement about the twelve-tone system. Serkin is a champion of new music (which sometimes includes twelve-tone), an inspired interpreter of Arnold Schönberg among others, and a hard, courageous worker in the often difficult business of getting new music to larger audiences. He has not ceased in his attempts to educate me, and for that I am eternally grateful. The mistakes in Body & Soul are of course my own and in no way redound to him.
Candida Donadio for keeping the faith for more than thirty years. Sam Lawrence for taking the chance. My wife, Margaret, for more than I can say.
Special thanks to Camille Hykes and Larry Cooper, who helped me so much in the final stages. And also my thanks to the Guggenheim Foundation for their timely support.
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