Page Turner Pa (15 page)

In such a posture Alden discovered him, when he came home from work half an hour later. Paul's face on the floor, and the carpet wet with tears.

"Paul, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Never mine," Paul answered.

"Never mind?"

"Never mind." And he cried like a baby.

O
NCE AGAIN
, Paul was the page turner. At Josephs piano, he sat to the left of Thang, eyes on the score, which he handled flawlessly. Kirchenwald was there, looking proud, as were Thang's parents; Izzy Gerstler (he didn't seem to recognize Paul); even Oona, who to Paul's mild surprise had arrived with Thang himself. As for Kennington, he never showed up, having apparently decided to stop off a few days in Kyoto before flying home.

A reception followed the recital. In the living room the assembled guests grouped themselves naturally into little aggregates of four and five, while white-gloved waiters moved in and out of the swinging kitchen door, bearing shrimp and canapés and glasses of cold white wine on silver trays. Only Paul had no one to talk to. Instead, feeling rather conspicuous in his dark suit, he looked at the photographs on the walls and bookshelves, many of which featured Kennington. In one he was a boy, shaking hands with Richard Nixon. In another he was sharing an ice cream cone with a dachshund. In a third he was a young man, throwing a coin into the Trevi Fountain. Then there were the photographs of Kennington
with
Mansourian, who from what Paul could see had been handsome as a younger man. In various concert halls, against arrangements of flowers and pianos, they smiled forth, foreheads shiny. Or they lay side by side on a beach, Kennington lean and boyish in a blue-checked bathing suit. (The dachshund was in this one too.) Or Kennington sat at the very piano where Thang had just played, holding an argyle sweater up to his chest, a Christmas tree winking behind him.

Soon a voice interrupted this reverie. "Hello, Paul," Joseph said. "Enjoying my little gallery?"

"Yes, I am. And so many of Mr. Kennington!"

"He and I go back a lot of years." A waiter neared with a trayful of wineglasses, one of which Joseph handed to Paul. "Let's drink a toast, then. To our well-dressed page turner."

The glasses crashed. "By the way," Paul added, pointing to the picture of the Trevi Fountain, "this photograph—when was it taken?"

"That one?" Joseph put on his reading glasses. "Oh yes. As you can see, Richard was doing his Jean Peters imitation."

"Jean Peters?"

"Haven't you seen
Three Coins in a Fountain
? Really, Paul, you'll lose your card for that."

"My card—"

"As for when it was taken"—Joseph held the picture at a distance—"some time in the late seventies, judging from the lapels." He smiled. "I must get back to Rome. I used to go with Richard all the time. But then it was so hard to travel, on account of my dog. She died this summer."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Thank you." Joseph took a sip of wine. "Most people, they think the death of a dog doesn't mean much. But Sophie was like a child to me."

"Have you thought of getting another dog?"

"Oh, I couldn't. Not yet. You have to respect the grieving process, it seems to me. On the other hand, some people think that as soon as one thing's over, the best thing to do is move on to another. But here I go, off on a sidetrack, when what we were talking about was dogs."

Looking away from the photographs, toward the little nucleus of attention that had formed around Thang, Paul said, "It's true, what you said about grieving. For instance, I know someone whose friend died, and the first thing he did was go out and look for a replacement."

"They're afraid of being alone. Terrified of being alone." Joseph edged nearer. "By the way, do you have any plans for dinner tonight?"

"No."

"Why don't you stay, then? I'll order something in."

Paul looked Joseph steadily in the eye for a moment. "Sure," he said.

"Wonderful, wonderful. Well, listen, I'd better be getting back to my hostly duties. After all, good-bye is the most important part of the job, they say. You'll excuse me, won't you? And in the meantime feel free to do whatever you need to keep yourself, you know, amused."

"Oh, I've always been good at amusing myself."

"Good. Well, till later." And he headed off to say his professional farewells: first to Tushi and her young man, then to Kirchenwald, then to Thang's parents. As for Thang himself, he and Oona Ford were on the couch now, engaged in a surprisingly intimate tête-à-tête.

Soon they left as well. Paul, sensing that he ought to keep a low profile, had by this time ensconced himself in the alcove with the CD and record collection, where he was looking at another photograph. It was one of those contract-signing shots that are such a staple of the classical music world. In it Kennington, still boyish, stood with a pen poised over the sheets, while men in dark suits watched him hungrily.

After a moment, Joseph joined him. "Alone at last," he said.

"I was just looking at your records," Paul said. "I've never seen such a big collection."

"Goes with the job." Joseph loosened his tie. "So what would you like to drink, Paul?"

"Nothing, thanks. By the way, I couldn't help but notice how many recordings you've got of Mahler's Fifth."

"A particular favorite of mine."

"Oh, and here's
Richter in Italy!
" Paul pulled an old LP from the shelf. "I've been looking for that for years. Wow, it's even autographed."

"Take it."

"No, no. I didn't mean—"

"Go on, take it," Joseph repeated, pressing the record into Paul's hands. "I never listen to it anyway."

"Really? Thank you."

They were quiet for a few seconds, their eyes on the spines of the CDs. Soon Paul felt a tingling on his scalp that gradually deepened into a caress.

"You have nice hair," Joseph said, pressing his fingers into Paul's temples.

"Mmm."

"You sure you're not thirsty?"

"I'm fine.

"Say, I know. How would you like to hear a tape of Richard's new Chopin recording? Harry Moore gave me an advance copy."

"I'd love to."

Removing his hand from Paul's head, Joseph extracted a cassette from one of the drawers below the CD shelves. "You're going to be one of the first people in the world to hear this," he said, inserting the cassette into the stereo.

The music began. "The
Barcarolle,
" Paul said distantly.

Again Joseph ran his fingers through Paul's hair.

Paul closed his eyes. Joseph turned him around and kissed him.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?" he asked when the kiss was over.

"Nothing."

"Would you like to hear the Berlin Philharmonic?"

"But it's sold out."

"I have tickets."

"I'd love to, if you're sure it won't be a problem."

"Of course it won't be a problem. We'll make an evening of it, how about that? First drinks here, then dinner at Café Luxembourg, then the concert."

"Sounds great."

Moving back into the living room, Joseph sat down on the sofa. "Come sit by me," he said, patting the spot to his left.

Paul sat. Almost immediately Joseph's arm went around his shoulders.

For the second time, they kissed.

After a minute Paul pulled away. "I'm sorry, but would you mind changing the music?"

"Sure."

"It's not that I don't like it... it's just—"

"You don't have to explain," Joseph said, bouncing up and removing the cassette from the stereo. "Just tell me what you'd like to hear instead."

"Anything. Scarlatti."

"Scarlatti, Scarlatti..." With his fingernail he scanned the CDs. "Ah, here we are. And whose Scarlatti would you prefer? I've got Horowitz, Landowska, Pletnev, Pogorelich, Charles Rosen on the Siena Pianoforte, Schiff, Maria Tipo, Alexis Weissenberg, Christian Zacharias—"

"Horowitz."

"Horowitz it is." Pulling the gem case from the shelf, Joseph removed the CD and laid it carefully on its bed. Then he returned to the sofa.

"Is that better?" he asked.

"Yes. That's good."

Again, they kissed. The fingers of Joseph's right hand made circles over Paul's chest; slipped between the buttons of his shirt.

"You've got a very nice musculature," he said.

"Thank you."

"Let me see what you look like."

Obediently Paul stood. He undid his tie.
And so it has come to this,
he found himself thinking as he unbuttoned,
the way it might have begun, in San Francisco
...yet he was not unhappy, nor unaroused. Instead, as he opened his belt, and peered over at Joseph, who was watching him urgently, he could feel the lust rising in his own throat. Also in his pants.

Eyes closed, he pulled his T-shirt over his head, sat again, his nipples hardening. He thought of Thang, his hands.

"You're a beautiful boy," Joseph said. He palmed Paul's chest like a blind man, while Horowitz played, and the pictures in their frames stared from the piano.

"P
AUL, DEAR
," Miss Novotna said, "it's called the
Well-tempered Clavier,
not the
Ill-tempered Clavier.
"

"I'm sorry," Paul said. "I'll start again."

"No, don't start again. Sit down over there. There, we shall have some tea. Consuelo! Tea! And some of those Peek Freans!"

Folding her hands in her lap, Miss Novotna smiled across the table at Paul, who was fidgeting in his chair. It was just past noon on Christmas Eve, and he was visiting his old teacher for the first time since starting Juilliard. She kept her apartment dark these days, he noticed. Heavy curtains, drawn to meet, blockaded the winter sunlight, a few rays of which nonetheless broke through to illuminate a bust of Kessler here, a photograph of Kessler there, the Mason and Hamlin piano, from which dust particles rose, only to resettle on other, older, dustier things.

"You are not playing your best today," Miss Novotna said, adjusting one of her rings.

He looked away. "Not an easy Christmas. My parents are divorcing."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Thank you. My mother's very depressed."

"And how is school?"

Paul cracked his knuckles.

"Don't do that, it brings on arthritis. Now how is school?"

"School is ... all right. Not great."

"And Kirchenwald ?"

"Fine. He's not like you, of course. Also ... I don't know. He just doesn't seem very
interested
in me." Paul rested his cheek on his fist. "To be honest, he's much more interested in a boy called Thang Po. Have you heard of him? Joseph Mansourian's already signed him on. He's going to Brussels for the Queen Elisabeth."

"Ah, the Queen Elisabeth."

"Yes. And I'm jealous. At least I admit it. No one else will. I'm not going to Brussels, though. I don't think I'm ready."

"Judging from your performance today, Paul, I'm afraid I must agree."

He glanced up, startled a little bit not to be contradicted.

"I have to be honest," she continued. "You have fallen off since the summer. What I had hoped Juilliard would develop in you ... that quality of sincerity, of holding the music together ... I do not hear. No, don't interrupt!" She stood and hobbled over to the old record player. "I am going to play you something. I am going to play you the adagio of the
Hammer Clavier.
Listen."

Then she sat down again, and they listened. It is a difficult adagio, one that only a great pianist can keep from falling apart. And in these hands it did not fall apart; it was more than broken things, even though broken things were what it spoke of. Paul heard a voice that was tired, perhaps of life. Then a cuckoo seemed to call slowly, softly—not like a cuckoo at all. And the voice sustained the ability to go on. Nothing so poetic as peace, or a reconciliation ... just that stark sentence: the voice sustained the ability to go on.

When it was over, Miss Novotna lifted the needle from the record with a shaky hand. "It is very sad," Paul said, as she passed him a box of tissues.

"Yes, it is."

After a moment, he said, "I shall never play like that, shall I?"

His teacher stared for a few seconds at the tabletop. "No," she answered at length. "No, I suspect you will not."

"And yet earlier you seemed to think—"

"That was my failure. It is possible to see one thing one moment, and then later realize—"

"But Miss Novotna, if I can't be a pianist, what am I going to do? I'm not good at anything else."

"Nonsense. You can do anything you wish. Go to medical school, or law school. Or write. That is, if you can't bear remaining in the world of music. If that's the case, I understand. It is easier, perhaps, for women, to take a supporting role, to become teachers and nurturers, accompanists—"

"Page turners," Paul interrupted.

"To be a page turner is not a profession," Miss Novotna said quickly. "To be an accompanist, on the other hand, is a noble calling. You might consider that option. Certainly you could make a success of it, since as I've always said—"

"Will carries an artist further than talent. I know."

"Precisely. And will, Paul, you possess in abundance."

"But talent only enough to accompany brilliant violinists and cellists and singers, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm only trying to spare you future suffering," Miss Novotna answered stiffly. "Believe me, if you prove me wrong and become one of the great pianists of your day, I shall be the first to admit my misjudgment. But if you do not, and this is likely for anyone, then it's best to decide now whether you can bear accepting a secondary role."

"The way you did."

She bowed her head.

"And yet it seems so unfair! When Kennington was my age, he'd already—"

"Do not speak of him like that!" Miss Novotna lifted her hand peremptorily. "Remember, this is a man who lives for music itself. Keep that in your mind when you speak of him. Otherwise he becomes for you nothing more than a projection of your own ambition. And Kennington has never been concerned with ambition. To him fame is a grief. It is what gets in the way." ■