The Silver Swan (13 page)

Mariana sighed. “I think you’re right.”

The Do Not Disturb sign remained on the door. Preparing for his concert tour, keeping his hands in shape, Claude put his mute on the cello and played. He practiced Kodály and Bach and, of course, the Schumann concerto. Mariana — holding a cup of coffee — lay naked on the bed, listening intently and critiquing his technique. Claude recognized her father’s teaching in what she said and how she said it. Feldmann’s presence in the room was almost palpable.

“Don’t rush through that passage. You need to vary the tempo, make each return to the refrain slightly different. You can’t be lazy, not for a second.”

He tried again.

“You mustn’t always emphasize the beginning of the phrase,” she’d say. “And don’t play repeated phrases in the same way. Use your imagination. Speak to me in the language of the music.” If a passage were just right, “Bravo,” she’d call out. “
Yes!
”

They turned their cell phones off. When he left to buy flowers or wine, however, Claude would call Sophie and leave messages, hoping she would not answer. There were several messages from Francine, home in Lugano. Finally, he called her back. He told her he couldn’t stay long on the phone.

“What’s the great rush?” his mother asked. “It’s eight thirty in the morning in New York, if I am not mistaken.”

“I’m practicing, Maman, I’m always practicing this week. You know I must prepare for this tour.”

“All right. I won’t disturb you,” she said resentfully.

“Thank you.”

Outside, on the city pavement, Claude felt unmoored. He hurried back to the hotel. Never before had he experienced this sense that someone important was absent when he was alone. It was unnerving.

The moment came, each morning, when he put the instrument away and joined Mariana in bed. She held out her arms to him and joked that she’d fallen under his spell in the course of three Brahms sonatas on that first night in Tully Hall, that his music, not him, caused her feverish, uncontrollable desire.

“Why try to control desire?” he asked.

“Fires are always dangerous, Claude, there are reasons to extinguish them. But do I look like I’m trying?”

“Not very hard.” He kissed her. “And neither am I. There will be nothing left of me when I start this tour but a cello and an empty suit.”

From time to time he could hear a television and the sound of news or the canned laughter of a situation comedy in another room. The chambermaids rolled carts along the hall. But for him, there was only Mariana, always her lush nakedness, the sex, the stories of her father, the music. For now, he wanted nothing more.

She withheld some part of herself. Although he tried all week to learn more about her past, she would deflect his questions. And when he mentioned the Swan, she would cover his mouth with her hand and say, “No, let’s not spoil anything. For now, let’s live only in the present.”

This was fine with him. But as their week together drew to its end, she withdrew. This trip, he told himself, had brought him luck — the success of his debut at Tully Hall, the fling with the lithe beauty beside him, the resplendent cello. He wanted her to feel as happy as he did, although he could see she did not.

As they returned to the hotel from a long walk in Central Park, she suddenly asked him if he had “someone” in Switzerland — a girlfriend there?

Caught off guard, he joked. “At our age, I think we should call them lovers.”

She made him stop walking and look at her directly. “You know what I’m asking, Claude. Call it what you will: a lover, a mistress, a serious relationship, a partner, a girlfriend. You know what I mean. You are thirty-five years old. Surely there’s someone in your life. Tell me.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “Mariana, I have had
only casual relationships without commitments. I have little time for anything serious. My life is the cello and the cello is a stern mistress. It is so hard to launch a career.” Claude frowned. “No one knows better than you how consuming this is and how little it leaves you for the rest of life. I don’t want to make anyone unhappy; I don’t want to feel guilty. I don’t want to be a bad husband or, worse yet, an absent father. No, there’s no one in Switzerland, or anywhere else, whom I would call a partner in my life.” He paused, then asked, “And you?”

Staring straight into his eyes, she answered, “Not since Anton.” She dropped her head to his chest. “Our lives, yours and mine, have so little way to connect, Claude.”

He stroked her hair. “Our lives are forever connected — through the Swan and your father and the way we care for each other.”

He wondered if this were true. They walked back to the hotel. In their room, he took off his jacket and shoes and began to undress her. He saw something in her manner that he had not seen before — something profoundly sad. He took off his watch, his shirt and pants. The bed had been remade by the chambermaid while they were out. There were chocolates on the pillow. He brushed these aside and lowered her to the smooth, cool sheets. She brought her arms across her body to support her breasts. Claude reached over and spread her arms wide, then tenderly touched her wet cheeks. He knelt on the carpet at her feet, kissing her instep and toes. “Mariana, your legs are so long; I will start here, slowly. It will be hours before I reach your calves, your knees, and every place beyond. Have you the time? Will you open yourself to me?”

“I have time,” she answered, her breathing shallow. “It’s you who has to go.”

“I’ll make time for
this
journey. No shortcuts,” he whispered. He licked her feet, then ankles, hearing the rapid intake of breath and then her soft sharp groan.

When he left for the West Coast, he said he’d try to call every day. He was playing in Los Angeles, Seattle, Portland, Denver, Houston, and finally, Baltimore. When he finished, he planned to return directly to Lugano from Baltimore, where his final concert was scheduled, two weeks hence.

“I miss you already,” she said.

Claude, preparing for departure, reminded Mariana that he would return the moment Pierre Fernand summoned him. As soon as the Swan was restored and ready to be played in public, they would meet again. And if that turned out to be too long to wait, they could plan a vacation together. They could meet in Europe, if she wished to “cross the pond.”

Pleased with himself for remembering that expression, he repeated it. Yet nothing he said could make her smile. “My dear Mariana,” he finally said, “you’ve been left too often by a cellist.”

Hailing a cab, he loaded his suitcase and his cello into the trunk and they kissed goodbye. As the taxi pulled from the curb, he saw her sling her bag across her shoulder and, he assumed, head home toward the apartment to which he’d not yet been invited.

In the Sky Club at Kennedy Airport, the wine was second-rate
vin ordinaire
, but he drank it anyway, hoping to sleep on the plane. He was relieved to be alone. Although he had no desire to, he called Sophie. Days had gone by since he had spoken to her. The connection was good.

“Tell me all your news first,” he said. “I insist.”

She informed him about the museum retreat, the plans they were developing for an exhibition of the collection’s Spanish holdings and the Velázquez they were hoping to authenticate, a painting she particularly loved. He could tell she was trying not to sound reproachful.

“I know your trip has been very eventful,” she concluded.

“Yes, this has been an exhilarating time.”

“Your mother told me about the gift of the great cello.”

Annoyed with Francine, he continued, “I’ve met influential people in the music world. I’ve been practicing each morning and, of course, I’ve visited Pierre Fernand every afternoon.”

“The luthier?”

“Yes, the man who will restore the Silver Swan.”

“I’m very happy for you, Claude,” Sophie said. “Your mother and I had lunch together two days ago. She invited me to celebrate your good fortune. We toasted you.”

Claude said nothing. He took a sip of wine and looked around the club. A family played cards at the next table. An elderly couple slept, snoring lightly. A woman brushed her hair.

“Are you there?”

“They’ve called my flight. I’ll have to board soon.”

“And was Feldmann’s daughter nice? Your mother said you both met her.”

“Her name is Mariana, and as far as I can tell she’s quite a lovely person. She used to be an important cellist, but she no longer plays as a soloist.”

“Yes, so I heard,” said Sophie. “It was generous of her and, of course, her father to leave you this great instrument. It must be difficult to know how properly to thank her.”

Ah, he thought, Maman is doing what I asked her to, including Mariana in the gift. He replied, “Indeed, I must give that some serious thought. A proper gift.”

“Perhaps I can help you to think of the right thing.”

“That would be lovely, Sophie. Do try to think of something. And now I have to go. I’ll call you as often as possible. Goodbye for now.”

“
Ciao
, darling. Come home as soon as you can. I’ve something wonderfully interesting to tell you.”

“Why not tell me now?”

“No, it must wait until we are together.”

He boarded as soon as first class was announced. Thinking of the Silver Swan, he strapped his Tecchler into the seat beside him. The flight attendant took his coat and he accepted the offer of another glass of wine. It would surely put him to sleep. He kicked off his shoes and, sinking into the leather seat, thought of Mariana, the smell of her still on his clothes. Perhaps he would miss her.

The man behind him leaned forward. “Did you buy a ticket for that thing?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, did you have to pay for it? My Lord, what an expense.” Claude turned around to answer. “Yes, I buy a ticket for my cello every time I fly. Traveling with a cello is like traveling with a woman — complicated, expensive, and cumbersome. But there are two positives …”

“Yes?”

“I eat its food, and the instrument doesn’t talk.”

The man laughed at Alexander’s old joke. Claude settled back in his seat.

One week after Claude left New York, Mariana, at Heinrich Baum’s urging, decided to travel to Stockbridge to check on the house and make sure the copies of the Swan were safely stored. Baum had asked her to locate their ownership papers in the event she decided to sell. When Alexander died, she had departed Swann’s Way in haste, leaving behind disorder. She’d not been back for months.

Claude had called twice, from Los Angeles and then from Portland. He proudly read her his stellar reviews. He had launched his American career. The calls were brief. He asked very little about how she was spending her time but regaled her with stories of his travels. “America is vast and dull and provincial for the most part,” he joked, “but it does have some beautiful concert halls. And a few beautiful women, you being the foremost example.”

She told him she would soon be going to Swann’s Way.

He seemed disconcerted. “Why will you go?”

“I have to put the estate in order. The house needs work. There are boxes of CDs and cartons of old vinyl recordings. There are nine copies of the Swan and God knows
how many music stands and metronomes and old bows with stiff horsehair, gifts and trophies and framed covers of albums and honorary degrees. Stuff, lots of stuff. You are lucky you haven’t faced this yet, Claude. My father’s career spanned three-quarters of a century and he saved absolutely everything.”