Body & Soul (44 page)

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 in 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.

They had been at the table for more than an hour. The big man ordered fruit, cheese, and grappa, folded his great hands before him and said, "Music, food, and women. These are the great pleasures, the lasting pleasures. You will learn this, my young monk."

"I would add books," Claude said, feeling somewhat self-conscious. "You know, good books."

"Of course! You are a reader. That is good."

"They don't let you down."

Frescobaldi's big face was capable of astonishingly quick changes of expression—all the more remarkable because when he played it might as well have been made of stone—and it now became somber. He seemed to be considering Claude's words. After a moment the fruit and cheese arrived and the solemnity vanished.

"You were very quick to understand the way I like to play."

"I've got your records," Claude said.

"Yes, but I never recorded those encores. Your time is very good—you play with the front edge of the beat, not just the back edge. You know how to lean, and you pick the right places to do it."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. About music I never say anything to be polite. I say what I think, good or bad. Life is too short."

"Okay."

They took another cab back to the music store. In the basement studio Frescobaldi went directly to the old couch against the wall and lay down, his huge belly as high as the backrest. "Call me in one hour," he said, spreading his handkerchief over his face.

Claude went back upstairs. Weisfeld was ringing up a sale. "He's taking a nap."

"Good," Weisfeld said. "So it's going well?"

"I think so. Yes, yes it is."

"I listened at the door a couple of times. It sounded good to me. The Stravinsky was terrific, by the way. Like you'd been playing it all your life."

"It moves so fast," Claude said. "Swoosh! A jet plane."

"I'd like to see that violin of his," Weisfeld said wistfully.

Claude was too excited to sit still, so he went outside, drifted up to Eighty-sixth Street to look at movie posters, walked around aimlessly, replaying the morning's music in his mind, feeling the emotions for a second time, reliving his few errors and trying to figure out why he'd made them. He came back early and walked twice around the block to eat up time.

Frescobaldi was awake when Claude descended. He handed over four folios. "I wanted to do the Franck, but it would take too much time. We will play these. Easily, without formality. Stop anytime you want to."

Claude read the titles. Sonatas op. 24 in F Major and op. 47 in A Major, nicknamed the
Spring
and the
Kreutzer,
by Beethoven; Debussy's Sonata for Violin and Piano in G Minor; and Prokofiev's Sonata no. 1 in F Minor, op. 80. He knew the first two well, was familiar with the third, but had never even heard a recording of the Prokofiev, which he instantly opened. At first glance it did not seem impossible.

"You would like some time to look them over?"

"Yes," Claude said, "if that's okay."

"I will go upstairs and make some phone calls."

Claude heard the creak of the stairs and the floor above as Frescobaldi crossed it. Without wasting a moment Claude went to one of the desks, pulled up a stool, and began to read. The Beethoven and the Debussy were clean, unmarked, but luckily the violin part of the Prokofiev was sprinkled with the big man's notes to himself, which helped Claude to get a handle on the piece. He put his elbow on the desk, his head in his palm, and concentrated, slowly turning pages.

"I can't," he said. He was lying on Obromowitz's bed, holding Obromowitz's old-fashioned telephone to his head. The sky was dark, turning from purple to black outside his window. "I have to work."

"Well then, I'll stay too," Lady said. "I'll beg off the dinner."

"Sugar pot, you don't understand. I wouldn't be able to see you. It's going to be night and day for me until we leave."

"Well, you have to eat," she said.

"When I eat I have a score in my hand. This is a tremendously lucky break for me. I can't blow it."

"You won't blow it," she said, as if it were completely impossible, which he found both irritating and reassuring.

"It's a lot of music. A
lot
of music. And there isn't much time. We're rehearsing at the store four hours a day."

"In your studio?"

"I have to analyze the scores, practice, get it all in my hands. Mr. Weisfeld has me on a schedule again, making me sleep eight hours, checking my food." He laughed. Despite Weisfeld's calm, methodical coaching, Claude knew how much pleasure the situation afforded him. The man fairly percolated with good cheer, which in turn gratified Claude at a fundamental level. It was rare, this ebullience. He seemed less pale, even.

"I might as well go, you're saying," she said.

"I'd be bad company. I wouldn't be able to help myself."

The line hummed for a moment. "God, I hate being with them all by myself. I hate this house and I hate that house. Maybe I'll just move out and go to graduate school."

"That's a thought," he said.

"I don't know what Mummy would do, though. You know what happened to Aunt Millie when Catherine eloped."

"Aunt Millie?" he said, rattled, stalling for time.

"Yes. Mildred Fisk. Aunt Millie."

"Mrs. Fisk?"

"What on earth is the matter with you?"

"Nothing," he said. "So what happened to her?"

"Three hours after they told her, she went blind, totally blind."

"Oh, come on."

"No kidding. It's called hysterical blindness. Nothing anatomically wrong, but she can't see."

"You mean she still..."

"Blind as a bat. They can't tell if she'll get better, but of course it's been years now."

"Jesus." He thought about it. "Do you think she could be faking? I mean, she always struck me as strange."

"There are tests, empirical tests," she said.

"How incredibly weird. I didn't know such a thing was possible. It's like something out of legend."

"My whole family is crazy, except for Grandpa." She made a clucking sound with her tongue. "Well, I guess I'll go. At least I've got my own car. Riding out with them is excruciating, I can tell you."

"I'll call you," he said. "You call me."

As tired as he was, he did not find it easy to go to sleep. Frescobaldi's voice spun in his head: "Phrase it like this, pull it out a little bit." Or: "
Ma, no no no!
It's the middle voice. Bring up the middle voice!" Or: "Wait for me. Wait for me there. Write in a retard if you have to." Or: "Again from fifty-nine. Again. Again. Again." Phrases of music rose and sank in his consciousness like the backs of whales breaching in some dark sea. He saw Mrs. Fisk, clothed in a toga like Catherine at the soiree but bent over, skinny arms stretched out before her, feeling her way through a forest of notes, stave lines, and accidentals. He saw Catherine, as a girl, in her velvet coat with the silver buttons, sitting on top of the treble clef, the heels of her patent-leather shoes hooked over a full-bar rest, glaring with an evil smile, tearing the petals from a daisy one by one.

After a long morning with the Prokofiev, Frescobaldi was about to put away his instrument when he happened to look down at some scores on the worktable. He bent over, reading, separating pages with his finger. "What's this?" he asked, picking up the loose sheets and bringing them to the piano.

"My song cycle," Claude said. "Just an experiment."

"It looks interesting. Let's try it." He put the music on the stand. "Your notation is very clear, at least. An old-fashioned hand."

"Mr. Weisfeld and I used to copy together. After a while people couldn't tell who was who."

"Very convenient. All right, give me the tempo."

The literary material was Blake—pairs of poems, one from
Songs of Innocence
followed by its counterpart in
Songs of Experience,
six in all. Frescobaldi said nothing after the first, or the second, so they played them straight through. Claude felt something close to rapture to hear his lines played so beautifully. He had not actually realized how much music was in them.

"Brother Rawlings!" Frescobaldi clapped him hard on the back,
enough to move him an inch forward on the bench. "You surprise me! You delight me! These are very good. These did not come from the monastery."

"Thank you," Claude said, deeply pleased. "I don't know what you mean about the monastery."

"I mean it has blood! It has emotion! Sweetness, freshness, sadness. So much music today is mathematical.
Intellectual.
" This last with special scorn. "These little pieces are at least alive. You should prepare a violin transcription." He raised his violin to his neck. "Number three. I will show you."