Shoot the Piano Player (10 page)

"You really like the piano?"

"Yes, yes. Very much." A certain eagerness that glowed in her eyes, and he knew what it was, he knew it had nothing to do with music. She looked away, blinking hard and trying to cover up, and then bit her lip, as though to scold herself for letting it show. She was embarrassed and silently apologetic, her shoulders drooping just a little, her slender throat twitching as she swallowed the words she didn't dare to let out. He told himself she was something very pleasant, very sweet, and, also, she was lonely. It was apparent that she was terribly lonely.

Her features and her body were on the fragile side, and she had a graceful way of moving. Her looks were more Castilian than Caribbean. Her hair was a soft-hued amber, her eyes were amber, and her complexion was pearl-white, the kind of complexion they try to buy in the expensive salons. Teresa had it from someone down the line a very long time ago, before they'd come over from Spain. There was a trace of deep-rooted nobility in the line of her lips and in the coloring of them. Yes, this is something real, he decided, and wondered why he'd never noticed it before. Until this moment she'd been just another girl who wanted to learn piano.

Three months later they were married. He took her to South Jersey to meet his family, and prepared her for it with a frank briefing, but it turned out to be pleasant in South Jersey. It was especially pleasant because the brothers weren't there to make a lot of noise and lewd remarks. Clifton was presently engaged in some kind of work that required him to do considerable traveling. Turley was a longshoreman on the Philadelphia waterfront. They hadn't been home for more than a year. Once every few months there'd be a post card from Turley, but nothing from Clifton, and the mother said to Teresa, "He ought to write, at least. Don't you think he ought to write?" It was as though Teresa had been a member of the family for years. They were at the table and the mother had roasted a goose. It was a very special dinner and the father made it extra-special by appearing with combed hair, a clean shirt, and scrubbed fingernails. And all day long he'd stayed off the liquor. But after dinner he was at it again and within a few hours he'd consumed the better part of a quart. He winked at Teresa and said, "Say, you're one hell of a pretty girl. Come over here and gimme a kiss." She smiled at her father-in-law and said, "To celebrate the happiness?" and went to him and gave him a kiss. He took another drink from the bottle and winked at Edward and said, "You got yourself a sweet little number here. Now what you wanna do is hold onto her. That New York's a fast town--"

They went back to the basement apartment on Ninetythird Street. He continued giving piano lessons, and Teresa remained at the fruit-drink stand. Some weeks passed, and then he asked her to quit the job. He said he didn't like this nightwork routine. It was a locale that worried him, he explained, stating that although she'd never had trouble with Times Square night owls, it was nevertheless a possibility.

"But is always policemen around there," she argued. "The policemen, they protect the women--"

"Even so," he said, "I can think of safer places than Times Square late at night."

"Like what places?"

"Well, like--"

"Like here? With you?"

He mumbled, "Whenever you're not around, it's like-- well, it's like I'm blindfolded."

"You like to see me all the time? You need me that much?"

He touched his lips to her forehead. "It's more than that. It's so much more--"

"I know," she breathed, and held him tightly. "I know what you mean. Is same with me. Is more each day--"

She quit the Times Square job, and found nine-to-five employment in a coffee shop on Eighty-sixth Street off Broadway. It was a nice little place, with a generally pleasant atmosphere, and some days he'd go there for lunch. They'd play a game, customer-and-waitress, pretending that they didn't know each other, and he'd try to make a date. Then one day, after she'd worked there for several months, they were playing the customer-waitress game and he was somehow aware of an interruption, a kind of intrusion.

It was a man at a nearby table. The man was watching them, smiling at them. At her? he wondered, and gazed levelly at the man. But then it was all right and he said to himself, It's me, he's smiling at me. As if he knows me--

Then the man stood up and came over and introduced himself. His name was Woodling. He was a concert manager and of course he remembered Edward Webster Lynn. "Yes, of course," Woodling said, as Edward gave his name, "you came to my office about a year ago. I was terribly busy then and couldn't give you much time. I'm sorry if I was rather abrupt--"

"Oh, that's all right. I understand the way it is:,

"It shouldn't be that way," Woodling said. "But this is such a frantic town, and there's so much competition."

Teresa said, "Would the gentlemen like to have lunch?"

Her husband smiled at her, took her hand. He introduced her to Woodling, then explained the customer-waitress game. Woodling laughed and said it was a wonderful game, there were always two winners.

"You mean we both get the prize?" Teresa asked.

"Especially the customer," Woodling said, gesturing toward Edward. "He's a very fortunate man. You're really a prize, my dear."

"Thank you," Teresa murmured. "Is very kind of you to say."

Woodling insisted on paying for the lunch. He invited the pianist to visit him at his office. They made an appointment for an afternoon meeting later that week. When Woodling walked out of the coffee shop, the pianist sat there with his mouth open just a little. "What is it?" Teresa asked, and he said, "Can't believe it. Just can't--"

"He gives you a job?"

"Not a job. It's a chance. I never thought it would happen. I'd given up hoping."

"This is something important?"

He nodded very slowly.

Three days later he entered the suite of offices on Fiftyseventh Street. The furnishings were quietly elegant, the rooms large. Woodling's private office was very large, and featured several oil paintings. There was a Matisse and a Picasso and some by Utrillo.

They had a long talk. Then they went into an audition room and Edward seated himself at a mahogany Baldwin. He played some Chopin, some Schumann, and an extremely difficult piece by Stravinsky. He was at the piano for exactly forty-two minutes. Woodling said, "Excuse me a moment," and walked out of the room, and came back with a contract.

It was a form contract and it offered nothing in the way of guarantees. It merely stipulated that for a period of not less than three years the pianist would be managed and represented by Arthur Woodling. But this in itself was like starting the climb up a gem-studded ladder. In the field of classical music, the name Woodling commanded instant attention from coast to coast, from hemisphere to hemisphere. He was one of the biggest.

Wooding was forty-seven. He was of medium height and built leanly and looked as though he took very good care of himself. He had a healthy complexion. His eyes were clear and showed that he didn't go in for overwork or excessively late hours. He had a thick growth of tightly-curled black hair streaked with white and at the temples it was all white. His features were neatly sculptured, except for the left side of his jaw. It was slightly out of line, the souvenir of a romantic interlude some fifteen years before when a coloratura-soprano had ended their relationship during a South American concert tour. She'd used a heavy bronze book-end to fracture his jaw.

On the afternoon of the contract-signing ceremony with Edward Webster Lynn, the concert manager wore a stiffly starched white collar and a gray cravat purchased in Spain. His suit was also from Spain. His cuff links were emphatically Spanish, oblongs of silver engraved with conquistador helmets. The Spanish theme, especially the cuff links, had been selected specifically for this occasion.

Seven months later, Edward Webster Lynn made his New York debut. It was at Carnegie Hall. They shouted for encores. Next it was Chicago, and then New York again. And after his first coast-to-coast tour they wanted him in Europe.

In Europe he had them leaping to their feet, crying "bravo" until their voices cracked. In Rome the women threw flowers onto the stage. When he came back to Carnegie Hall the seats had been sold out three months in advance. During that year when he was twenty-five, he gave four performances at Carnegie Hall.

In November of that year, he played at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia. He performed the Grieg Concerto and the audience was somewhat hysterical, some of them were sobbing, and a certain critic became incoherent and finally speechless. Later that night, Woodling gave a party in his suite at the Town-Casa. It was on the fourth floor. At a few minutes past midnight, Woodling came over to the pianist and said, "Where's Teresa?"

"She said she was tired."

"Again?"

"Yes." He said it quietly. "Again."

Woodling shrugged. "Perhaps she doesn't like these parties."

The pianist lit a cigarette. He held it clumsily. A waiter approached with a tray and glasses of champagne. The pianist reached for a glass, changed his mind and pulled tightly at the cigarette. He jetted the smoke from between his teeth, looked down at the floor and said, "It isn't the parties, Arthur. She's tired all the time. She's--"

There was another stretch of quiet. Then Woodling said, "What is it? What's the matter?"

The pianist didn't answer.

"Perhaps the strain of traveling, living in hotels--"

"No." He said it somewhat harshly. "It's me."

"Quarrels?"

"I wish it were quarrels. This is something worse. Much worse."

"You care to talk about it?" Woodling asked.

"That won't help."

Woodling took his arm and led him out of the room, away from the array of white ties and evening gowns. They went into a smaller room. They were alone there, and Woodling said, "I want you to tell me. Tell me all of it."

"It's a personal matter--"

"You need advice, Edward. I can't advise you unless you tell me."

The pianist looked down at the smoking cigarette stub. He felt the fire near his fingers. He moved toward a table, mashed the stub in an ashtray, turned and faced the concert manager. "She doesn't want me."

"Now, really--"

"You don't believe it? I didn't believe it, either. I couldn't believe it."

"Edward, it's impossible."

"Yes, I know. That's what I've been telling myself for months." And then he shut his eyes tightly, gritting it, "For months? It's been more than a year--"

"Sit down."

He fell into a chair. He stared at the floor and said, "It started slowly. At first it was hardly noticeable, as though she were trying to hide it. Like--like fighting something. Then gradually it showed itself. I mean, we'd be talking and she'd turn away and walk out of the room. It got to the point where I'd try to open the door and the door was locked. I'd call to her and she wouldn't answer. And the way it is now--well, it's over with, that's all."

"Has she told you?"

"Not in so many words."

"Then maybe--"

"She's sick? No, she isn't sick. That is, it isn't a sickness they can treat. If you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean, but I still can't believe--"

"She doesn't want me, Arthur. She just doesn't want me, that's all."

Woodling moved toward the door.

"Where are you going?" the pianist asked

"I'm getting you a drink."

"I don't want a drink."

"You'll have one," Wooding said. "You'll have a double."

The concert manager walked out of the room. The pianist sat bent over, his face cupped in his hands. He stayed that way for some moments. Then he straightened abruptly and got to his feet. He was breathing hard.

He went out of the room, down the hall toward the stairway. Their suite was on the seventh floor. He went up the three flights with a speed that had him breathless as he entered the living room.

He called her name. There was no answer. He crossed the parlor to the bedroom door. He tried it, and it was open.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a robe. In her lap was a magazine. It was open but she wasn't looking at it. She was looking at the wall.

"Teresa--"

She went on looking at the wall.

He moved toward her. He said, "Get dressed."

"What for?"

"The party," he said. "I want you there at the party."

She shook her head.

"Teresa, listen--"

"Please go." she said. She was still looking at the wall. She raised a hand and gestured toward the door. "Go--"

"No," he said. "Not this time."

Then she looked at him. "What?" Her eyes were dull. "What did you say?"