The Silver Swan (16 page)

The Koussevitzky mansion sat on a ridge five miles from Swann’s Way. Cars lined the driveway. It was dusk by the time they arrived. Claude held her waist as they looked at the expansive view, the breadth of the Berkshires and sky-piercing silhouettes, around the parapet where they stood.

They were warmly welcomed. No one had seen Mariana in months. She made introductions: “My father’s gifted student, Claude Roselle. He’s visiting to help me with Alexander’s papers and music manuscripts. We have to make some sense of what he left behind. I hope someday you’ll hear Claude play.”

They had of course heard of him, and several owned his recordings. Two of the guests had even been present at Alice Tully Hall when he performed the Brahms sonatas with William Rossen. Claude was gratified. They not only knew of his New York debut but also had long heard from Feldmann about “his young Swiss disciple.” To Claude’s surprise — Mariana had not warned him — the gift of the Silver Swan had now been made public. Over and over, they were congratulated — he for his good fortune and she for her
generosity. Mariana answered that this choice — hers and her father’s — had been the right thing to do. “Alexander had a horror of seeing instruments locked up. Put out to pasture, he called it.”

At dinner they sat at a table for eight with officials from the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the music festival. Toasts were proposed to Feldmann’s memory. They would miss Alexander, they said. Somewhere up above, someone joked, the maestro was no doubt looking down on them, disdaining their opinions and the wine. This would be the first year in fifty that Feldmann was absent, though, they insisted, not forgotten, never forgotten. They would name a scholarship in his honor, or a cello competition, and try to extract, from this incomparable loss to the world of music, at least a little gain. They expected Mariana to remain in the community, attached to the Music Center. They hoped that Roselle would return. He would be welcome back. Claude felt he had entered the inner sanctum of the world he so wanted to conquer.

Across the table, Mariana was radiant. Claude took pleasure in watching her and listening as she teased and entertained the men on either side. They vied for her attention. She was at home among old friends. A distinguished older man pulled up a chair beside him, and Claude turned. “I hope you will consider playing for us at Tanglewood, M. Roselle.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Claude answered, “whenever you invite me.”

Dinner ended at eleven, and they drove back to Swann’s Way. Exuberant, he told Mariana he had been asked if he would be available to perform with the BSO in the summer of 2012. It
would be his first appearance at the festival; his manager would fix the date and terms. “It’s wonderful, darling,” Claude said. “Really, you’ve done this for me. For so many reasons, I’m in your debt. Now let me do something for you. What will it be?”

Without hesitation, she answered, “Come back to me after your next tour. I’ll open Swann’s Way for the summer and we can be together.” She smiled at him, a very slight smile that seemed to him to bear a hint of a challenge. She dropped her right hand from the wheel to fondle his left. “Perhaps I should think about keeping Swann’s Way. For us.”

He felt a sudden chill. Leaning back, he stared out into the darkness. Mariana, it seemed, was envisioning a life with him, making plans for a shared future in America, even after he’d been so forthright with her in New York about his intention to remain unattached. He would never live in America. His home was Europe, he belonged in Switzerland. Could he even contemplate a life with Mariana, wherever it might be?

He helped her out of the car and they made their way to the house, hurrying up the front steps. Claude pulled Mariana into the living room and down onto the sofa, where they made love in the dark. After, seized with confusion, he held her while she slept.

When he awoke in the morning, he wondered how and when they’d climbed the stairs. Mariana lay beside him, naked, but he had no memory of leading her, nor of being led, up the long staircase and down the corridor. A thick fog encased the mountains. The air was damp and cool. He slipped out of bed and put on his robe. In the kitchen, he brewed coffee. Then he called his mother to tell her the wonderful news about the BSO.

Francine was pleased. After they’d talked for a minute, she said, “You must come home now, Claude. You’ve stayed away too long. There are things that must be decided.”

“What things?”

“I can’t discuss them on the phone. Please,
Liebchen
, come home at once.”

“What kind of things?” he asked again.

She was silent. He could picture her — the phone cord wrapped around her wrist, a cup of chamomile tea at her side, the
infusion
she took after lunch — in the chair by the bay window. She would be crocheting, perhaps, or reading the newspaper or polishing her nails.

“I have really enjoyed Swann’s Way, Maman. Alexander always spoke of it so glowingly. He was right. It’s very special. I’m regaining my energy.”

“I’ve never been there,” Francine said dryly. “You must tell me about it.”

Claude’s last day with Mariana was elegiac. They walked the now familiar trails, practiced their celli in separate rooms, and shared a bottle of Pommard at dinner on the porch. All night they talked and made love, and he consoled her, promising, “We’ll see each other soon again.”

The next morning they drove to Boston. At Logan, Mariana dropped him off without parking the car. They kissed as the policeman insistently waved her away from the curb, yelling at her to move on. Claude watched with sadness as she pulled away. Then he picked up his cello and suitcase and walked through the automatic doors, on his way home to his work.

Mariana drove back to Stockbridge. She had packed her bags when Claude packed his, planning to return to Swann’s Way only to pick up her Vuillaume, collect the papers she had promised Baum, and close up the house. On the radio, she listened to Murray Perahia play Schubert impromptus. She wanted terribly to feel calm. Claude had promised they would meet within six weeks.

Finishing her various tasks at Swann’s Way, depleted and lonely, she decided to spend the night at the Red Lion Inn on the main street of Stockbridge. She reserved a single table for dinner at seven. This comforting old place, with its rocking chairs on wraparound porches, its many chimneys and antique charm, had been a favorite of her parents’. They had eaten there often as a family.

At the front desk she checked in and took the ancient birdcage elevator to the second floor. The walls of her room were papered in an early American flower print with red roses on green vines. There were rag rugs and a fireplace with logs laid crosswise in it. The inn had occupied the corner of Main Street for more than two hundred years. Here, she felt
safe. She stripped and ran a bath. The tub was deep, if short, with claw feet and old-fashioned faucets. She sank back to soak, stretching her legs over the rolled enamel lip, letting her toes drip water onto the floor. Although the hot scented bath soothed her body, her mind would not quiet. Should she tell Claude about his mother’s affair with her father? Why should she be the bearer of this news which, were he to know, would make him so unhappy?

In fact, here was something good that had come out of all the misery. After Pietovsky left, it had seemed unlikely she would allow herself ever again to feel so deeply. And now she was beginning to realize that Claude had awakened her. Her body had come alive: she was falling in love with him.

Her cell phone rang. Shaking soapy water off her fingers, Mariana picked it up from the three-legged stool by the tub.

“Hello, my love.”

“
Claude …
”

“My plane has been terribly delayed. I’m still in the club at Logan and I’ve been thinking of nothing but you. I already miss you. Where are you now?”

“At the Red Lion Inn. In the bathtub.” How affectionate he was at this distance.

“Oh, God,” he groaned, “and I’m in an airport lounge.”

“I decided to stay a night here to savor every moment of our time together.”

“And that’s what I’ll do on the plane …”

“Next time I’ll bring you to the inn and introduce you to my father’s favorite waiter. He’s almost as old as Alexander was, and his hands shake. Don’t order soup. The bowl arrives empty by the time he gets it to the table.” She stopped. “Oh, Claude, when will I see you again?”

“We won’t wait long.”

“But when?”

“As soon as my schedule makes it possible, my darling.” After they said goodbye, Mariana stepped out of the tub, dried herself off, and climbed into the canopied bed. The light was fading as she fell asleep.

At dinner, Mariana was one of the few guests who chose to eat outside. Seated at a small table in a circle of light, she ordered an old-fashioned and picked up the menu. She drew her shawl around her shoulders. The evening was growing chilly.

One year before Alexander died, they had come here together to eat in the main dining room. Mariana had held her father’s elbow and helped him up the porch stairs. Stooped, he used his cane. They made slow progress. It was January, and Main Street sparkled in the snow. Few people had ventured out. In the last years, before Alexander stopped leaving the house, their trips to the Red Lion Inn had been more a ritual observance than a meal. Alexander barely ate. His appetite, he liked to say, for everything but music was just about used up. Still, they ordered drinks and shared an early dinner while the staff fawned over him, pointing to his signed photo in the reception room, saying how well he was looking and inquiring what he was up to these days. He visibly brightened. He listed the names of his students and how far they traveled to sit at his feet. He named the countries they came from, the concerts they were giving, the competitions they won. The waitresses would flatter him: “Still so tall and handsome, Mr. Feldmann. Still so very active.” Old narcissist that he was, Alexander reveled in these exchanges.
Mariana could almost feel the energy he absorbed from the attention. For a moment he would cease complaining about the difficulties of old age, the slights to his amour propre, his failing sight.