The Brahms Deception (32 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

BOOK: The Brahms Deception
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Kristian, his temper in full spate, made one last attempt. He lunged toward her, his hands out to grasp her shoulders, to shake her into submission. He knew it was hopeless. She was too strong, had been holding on to Clara's body for too long. If Clara was dead, she had no distraction to weaken her. His action would only throw him back to the transfer clinic, back to his own time, and in all likelihood Frederica would remain untouched.
He was too angry to care.
Clara had curled herself into a space even smaller and darker than before. She didn't know if she was alive or dead. If this was death, it was not restful. It was not the golden heaven promised by Scripture or the blissful ignorance of the nonbelievers. It was also not the hell predicted by the faithful. There was no fire, no burning, no lurid Michelangelo scene, no Dantean circles drawing her ever farther down.
It was like being smothered, except that it went on and on and on without respite. Her spirit was not set free, but confined in this corner, forced there by her demon's greater power.
But she heard the shouts, and she stirred in her tiny prison.
The demon was screaming at someone. Was it Hannes? It didn't
feel
like Hannes. Whoever it was felt as forceful and dangerous as the demon. Could it be another demon? If so, she was certainly lost forever.
But there was something different about the other presence. It was powerful, perhaps as powerful as her demon, and it was angry. She could feel its fury, a hot wind that buffeted her demon so that it shook with fear. Why? What frightened it so?
Clara stirred, and stretched, daring a single tendril of energy outside her corner. When nothing happened, she tried another. She was surprised to find that the spark of her spirit, though it had been dimmed nearly to extinction, could still swell and grow, fed by hope as the spark from a match feeds on air. She quivered with excitement as she thought that, perhaps, it could become a real flame again.
She felt the new power surge toward her. Whatever this was, demon or god or something else, it was attacking her demon. It was fighting on her side. She didn't know its reason, but she knew it was her last chance. She felt its approach, and she rose to meet it the way a flame leaps to the wick.
She thrust herself upward, and outward. She used all her strength to launch herself toward the new power, to throw herself into the fray, to add her meager strength to the battle.
Kristian saw Frederica's eyes go wide, the pupils expand with shock. Her mouth opened as if she were trying to catch a breath but couldn't. As he gripped her shoulders, her head fell back and a terrible sound came from her throat, a howl of pain, and of loss.
There was no time for Kristian to consider what it meant or why Frederica was suddenly weakened. He dared not hesitate. He sent a thought to Brahms, a brief,
Forgive me, Maestro,
even as he wrapped his arms around Frederica and pulled her close to him.
She slumped backward in his arms, wailing. Something was happening. Something elemental was changing, and it shook Kristian, too.
Her shoulders were against his chest, her thighs pressed against his. He held her head with one hand, and with the other gripped her stiff, corseted waist.
He felt the vertigo that came with the shift. The world rocked around him. There was no time to think about it. His vision blurred, his stomach turned, and the transfer shattered.
But in the moment before he lost his hold, he saw Clara Schumann in the great almond eyes, the soft, melancholy mouth. In the fraction of a second before he was jarred out of Brahms, and out of 1861, he felt Clara go limp in his arms, then straighten. Her great eyes turned up to him, and they glowed with a light of gratitude and wonderment. For that second, so brief he might even have imagined it, but which he would remember as long as he lived, he held his goddess in his arms. He knew the feel of her slender body, the warmth of her flesh, the sweet skin of her cheek.
In that final instant, she turned her head and pressed her lips to his in a kiss of gratitude. And of farewell.
Then he was gone, spinning through the years, somersaulting over the decades until he landed, with a groan, on the hard cot in the colorless transfer room. He opened his eyes, and found Max and Chiara on either side. Each gripped one of his hands, as if to hold him in his own time, to be sure he didn't slip away from them. He felt their hands, heard their voices speaking his name. At first he couldn't answer.
He had held Clara Schumann in his arms. She had kissed him, pressed her sweet small mouth to his. Her gentle face glowed in his memory, and he knew—he
knew
—that she was restored. She had to be!
With a gasp, he sat up, and looked across the room at Frederica Bannister on her own cot. She still lay unmoving, her eyes closed, as still as death.
Frederica, where are you?
19
Kristian woke to darkness, and a steady rain beating against his window. He rolled over, pulling the coverlet with him, and struggled to sit up. He couldn't remember at first where he was, or when. He rubbed his eyes, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He ran his hand over his chest, and found that he was wearing a tee shirt and shorts.
He remembered being helped up the stairs by Elliott and Max, while Chiara brought a sedative and a glass of water. He couldn't remember getting into bed, though, or getting out of his clothes. He was in the transfer clinic—he thought. He had succeeded—hadn't he?
With sudden urgency, he fumbled at the base of the lamp for the switch and pressed it. When the lamp came to life, he knew for certain he was no longer in 1861. The Brahms biography lay facedown on the floor, illuminated by the yellow circle of lamplight. He caught it up with trembling fingers, and turned to the index to find the references to Clara Schumann.
There were many.
He started turning pages, following the index. He was not quite sure what he was looking for, but he knew somehow that it was vital. Hadn't there been a section with her name? There must have been, because he remembered reading it.
He found it, an entire chapter spent on Brahms's relationship with the Schumanns. Her section was titled “Clara Schumann, Friend and Mentor.”
He scanned the familiar paragraphs. They told of the lifelong friendship between Robert Schumann's widow and Johannes Brahms, of Clara's long performing career, her devotion to her children, her faithfulness to the memory of her husband. It described her summer home in Baden Baden, purchased in 1863. It told of her death in 1896 and her dedication to her husband's protégé, Johannes Brahms.
There was nothing he didn't know, hadn't always known. There were no surprises. Why did that matter? Why did it make him sigh and lay the book aside, turn out the light to lie back on his pillow with a feeling of satisfaction? Of accomplishment?
He didn't know, but a surge of relief left his muscles weak and his eyelids drooping. He turned on his side, plumped the pillow beneath his cheek, and slept again.
 
The next time he woke to sunlight filtering through the window shade. Someone was in the room with him, making a slight clattering noise, as of cups and saucers. He rolled onto his back, and slowly opened his eyelids. Soft footsteps approached the bed, and he looked sideways without moving his head.
“Kristian,” Chiara said quietly. “How do you feel?”
“What time is it?” he asked. He had meant to ask what day.
She said, “It's two in the afternoon. You've had a good long sleep.”
He still wanted to ask what day it was, but the next thing he knew he was sitting up, his feet on the floor.
A tray rested on his dresser, with a carafe of water, a glass, and a cup of something steaming gently in the dim light. He started to ask for the water. He blinked, and the glass was in his hand, half-empty already.
Uh-oh.
Chiara was looking at him expectantly. She had asked him something, but he didn't know what it was. The cup on the tray had apparently cooled. No more steam curled from it.
He shook his head. “I don't know what you said. Sorry.”
She put a firm hand on his shoulder. “I asked if you wanted to drink a cup of tea.”
“Sure.” He took the cup, concentrating very hard on holding the saucer, lifting the cup, taking a cautious sip, then another. He felt fragile, a bit as if he'd had the flu. When the tea was half-gone, he managed to ask, “What day is it?”
“It's Friday.”
He finished the tea, and set the cup down. He turned to her to ask another question, but found himself in the shower, alone. Hot water bubbled over his shoulders and ran down his face. He gave himself up to it, leaning against the tiled wall and letting the water sluice his hair. This was bad. He must have lost ten minutes, at least.
He washed his hair, rinsed it, then washed it again because the water felt good. He got out of the shower and toweled himself dry. Fresh jeans and a shirt were waiting for him, with a pair of shorts that looked as if they'd been ironed. He pulled them on, and hoped Chiara hadn't done his laundry. The shorts were threadbare, something he hadn't noticed before. Erika would have scolded him to shop for new ones.
When he had combed his hair and brushed his teeth, he peeked out of the bathroom. His bed had been made, and the tray was gone. He found socks and shoes, and started gingerly down the stairs. He felt unsteady. He missed one step, but otherwise negotiated the staircase safely. As he put his foot on the tiled floor at the bottom, he had a sudden memory of Frederica, nearly tumbling down the staircase in Casa Agosto, the banister coming away in her hand. That bare wooden staircase seemed more real, for an instant, than did the carpeted one he had just descended.
And Brahms's body seemed more real than his own.
He stopped, leaning against the wall, trying to focus on where he was.
When
he was. He thought of Clara, set free of Frederica, and he felt free, too—free of worry, of anxiety over Clara, of dread of what was to come. He straightened, and started toward the transfer room, eager to see that Frederica had awakened.
Chiara met him at the door, stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm, and turned him toward the kitchen. “Don't go in there now, Kristian,” she said. “The Bannisters are making arrangements.”
“What? Making what arrangements?” If she answered, he didn't hear it. He blinked, and found himself in the kitchen, seated at the island, watching Chiara slice tomatoes on a board. Several slices of cheese were already arranged on a plate.
“Chiara—,” he began.
She looked up at him. “Yes?”
“I keep losing time. Minutes. Hours. I don't even know.”
“Yes. I know this.” She slid the board across to him, and brought a plate of bread with a dish of olives, and set those in front of him, too. “Please eat something. Then it would be good for you to take some exercise. I think it will help. We will go together for a
piccola passeggiata,
a little walk.”
“Okay.” Obediently, he laid a slice of cheese and one of tomato on a piece of bread and took a bite. When he had swallowed he said, “What was that about arrangements? The Bannisters?”
She didn't meet his eyes, but busied herself with a glass of water. “They are going to have Frederica transported back to Chicago. An ambulance is coming.”
“Wait.” Kristian laid down the bread, his mouth suddenly dry. “She's still not awake?”
Now Chiara looked up at him, and he saw strain in the shadows beneath her eyes. “No. No, she is not.”
“But she—she should be.”
“Can you tell me what happened?” Chiara sat down at the island, propping her chin on her hand as she waited for his answer.
He hesitated. How could he tell her what he had done? It was distasteful even to think of, much less speak about. He remembered how intrusive and intimate it felt to take on someone else's body, to feel his skin and bone and hair. He doubted he could erase those memories, and he had the feeling that if he told anyone, the questions would never end.
He settled for the quickest and simplest explanation he could find. “The layering effect worked. We couldn't both be in the same place at the same time, and she was jarred out of the transfer.” He picked up the bread again, folding it around the cheese and tomato. “So was I,” he added. “The hard way.”
“Yes, I guessed that. That is why the time lag is so severe.”
“Why isn't she awake?”
“No one knows.”
“The layering—it was so violent, being thrown out that way. I wonder if she—she might really be lost.”
“Dr. Braunstein wants to talk to you, as soon as you're feeling stronger.”
“I feel fine,” he said. He pushed his plate away. “I can speak to her now.”
“Now is not a good time, I think, Kris. I had to sedate Mrs. Bannister. She was hysterical. And Mr. Bannister has been shouting at Dr. Braunstein for hours.”
“Really?”
A brief smile touched Chiara's lips. “Oh, yes. It is very loud. We made them move to the reception room.”
“Poor Bronwyn.”
“It is very bad for her.”
“Chiara . . .” Kristian paused, not sure he even wanted to ask. She raised her eyebrows, waiting. “Do you think I should tell her?”
“Do you mean Mrs. Bannister?”
“Yes.”
“You would tell her what Frederica did?”
“I don't know.” He looked down at the metal counter. His face was reflected back at him, and he noticed with surprise that it looked normal to him, his own face, his own shock of hair. “I need a haircut,” he said.
“What?”
He blinked, and looked up at her. “Oh. What was I saying? I lost track.”
“You were wondering if you should tell Mrs. Bannister what you saw Frederica do.”
“I don't think she would believe me,” he said. “Would you believe something like that about your own child?”
Chiara put out her hand and took his. “I think you know what is best to do, Kristian. In your heart, you know. You're a good man. You will do the right thing.”
He turned his hand over to hold hers, and he found himself smiling. “Thank you. That helps.”
“I think you do not want to hurt Mrs. Bannister.”
“She's already so hurt. It won't help to tell her her daughter tried to—” He shook his head. It was too hard to put into words. “Frederica should be awake,” he repeated. “Everything should be fine now.”
“You seem very sure.”
He met her eyes, and hoped that his were as frank and clear as hers. “I am,” he said. “I am very, very sure.”
“Well, then. That is the end of it.” She released his hand, and pushed the plate toward him again. “Eat, please. You need some calories.”
He took an olive from the dish, but as he looked at it, it transformed into one of the olives in the kitchen at Casa Agosto. He saw the cook slicing sausage with a big knife, but then she, too, changed. Was she Chiara? Clara? Catherine. The world shifted around him, flickering from Casa Agosto, to the kitchen, to Columbus Avenue in New York, to the apartment in Boston, then to Casa Agosto again. He closed his eyes, trying to make it all go away.
He heard Chiara's voice, calling his name, but he also heard Clara's, calling out to Hannes in distress. He heard Erika's, asking what had become of the song about a girl on a swing. He heard Catherine's, laughing over the piano at Angelo's. He couldn't sort out which to answer, so he didn't try.
He got up from his stool, meaning to leave the kitchen, but he couldn't find the door. He thought he sank onto a chair, but it turned out to be the cold linoleum. He put his back against a wall, or perhaps it was a cabinet. It could have been the refrigerator. He couldn't tell. He reached out to someone, grasping her around the waist, and he didn't know if it was Chiara in her jeans or Clara in her corset. Fearful he would be sick again, he didn't dare open his eyes to the kaleidoscope of days spinning through his head.
He felt, after an indeterminate time, the prick of a needle in the muscle of his arm, and then, blessedly, he felt nothing at all.
 
Clara trembled as she stepped down from the cart, nearly falling into Hannes's arms. She hastily pulled on her bonnet, though it was crushed nearly beyond recognition. She adjusted the veil. The sun was hot on the shoulders of her traveling suit, and she smoothed her gloves to protect her hands. The air was full of the perfume of the nearby flower market. In the distance, the
campanile
with its lacy fretwork of stone rose into a clear blue sky. It was all unbearably sweet to see and to feel and to smell. She was alive again. The demon was gone. It had left terrible memories behind, but perhaps in time those would fade. Seeing her children would help. Returning to her music would strengthen her. She could hardly wait to reach her own piano, to begin work on the concerts scheduled for the autumn.
She wanted to talk to Hannes, to explain to him, to ask—to ask what?
There was no time. Their trains would be leaving soon, so soon. Hannes would be off to Hamburg, and she would be on her way to Berlin. She didn't know when they might meet again.
Claudio unloaded their small bits of luggage. While his dear little donkey slurped water from a trough outside the station, Claudio fetched a rolling cart and piled her hatbox and portmanteau and valise onto it. He rested Hannes's music case on top, then led the way into the shadowed interior of the station. Clara and Hannes followed, side by side, but not touching.

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