The Silver Swan (19 page)

He refrained from pointing out that
she
was the one who had made this appointment and kept him from going
straight to bed. On the round table in the living room she had arranged a pot of coffee with two china cups and an assortment of pastries:
pain au chocolat
, croissants and jam, slices of cheese. “Since you were in the air all night,” said Francine, “I thought you might prefer breakfast to lunch.”

“Lovely.” He smiled. He was suddenly touched by his mother’s thoughtfulness and sank gratefully into a soft chair near the window. Warm sunlight spilled onto his lap. “I’ve been dreaming of good coffee.” She knew the way he liked it — how much sugar, how much milk — and the
pain au chocolat
was warm.

As they ate, she questioned him about his American tour, how he felt about the concerts, the cities he had visited, the people he had met. Her pride in his achievements was so manifest it shamed him to resent her, yet he wished she had a richer life of her own, that her career had flourished, as had his and his father’s. They talked about the Silver Swan, her gratitude and his to Feldmann, how soon the restoration work would begin, and when he would return to New York to bring the instrument home.

“And Mariana?” she asked at last.

“She’s been very kind to me. Remember, she introduced me to the management at Tanglewood and the BSO.”

“Yes, that was another stroke of luck.” She poured more coffee. “But as Feldmann’s student, you would have come to their attention anyhow.”

“Perhaps. But not as quickly.” Claude saw little purpose in continuing to talk about Mariana. Something about the woman agitated his mother; that was clear. She set out fruit and nuts. He peeled an apple and offered her a slice.

“Claude, you know I’ve been waiting to talk to you.”

“Yes, I know, but I haven’t a clue why. What’s worrying you? Ever since you insisted I come home so urgently, I’ve been nervous. Are you all right? Is Papa?”

He had not in truth been all that concerned but thought it best to say he was. His mother often dramatized things. Now she pressed her fingertips together. “Really, it should be Sophie who tells you the news. I’ve decided it’s not up to me, I must only tell you that you need to go see her immediately.”

“Oh, God,” he joked, “has she found another boyfriend? Someone who stays in Lugano all the time and attends to her?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not joking.”

“Has she taken a job in another country? Perhaps China?” He felt this might be good news.

“Stop, Claude, this is serious. She called me, quite upset, when she hadn’t heard from you for more than two weeks. I said you were at Tanglewood arranging future concerts and would be home soon. I didn’t tell her you were there with another woman.”

“Why?” He sipped his coffee and eyed his mother over the cup’s rim. “Mariana’s scarcely ‘another woman.’ ”

“I urged her to wait until you came home to have your conversation. I thought that would be better …”

“What conversation?”

“Listen, my darling” — she pursed her lips — “I’m trying to stay out of your personal life, as I always do. This is why I’ll let Sophie speak for herself, but you haven’t many days by now to be here at home. And you’ll have much to think about. You must call her immediately.”

When, he wondered, had his mother ever tried to stay out of his personal life? He studied her. In the bright morning light she looked weary, her face lined.

“You’ll call?”

He tried once more to challenge her. “Do I really need to call? I understand you’ve already arranged for us to dine together tonight. Have you also made a reservation?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I simply told your father that he and I won’t have dinner with you this evening because you’ll be seeing Sophie. I haven’t telephoned her. That’s for you to do.”

Claude shrugged. Rising to leave, he hugged Francine. “Okay, Maman, you win. I’ll call her as I’m driving home. I always do just as you say.”

She walked him to the door and watched as he loped down the stairs and folded himself into the Porsche. “Thanks for a perfect meal,” he called, and waved. Starting up the engine, he drove off.

Lake Lugano glistened below as he wound down into the city. Ferries and sailboats crossed the water, and the mountains wore a necklace of bright clouds. He turned northeast along the lakefront, heading for the Thyssen-Bornemisa Collection, where Sophie worked. Passing his apartment building, he lamented his lost chance to take a nap.

From the car, he called Sophie’s office. Her secretary answered and, after a moment, connected him. He could picture Sophie at her desk in the beautiful old mansion, with its leaded windows giving out over the lake, the art books and catalogs on shelves, the watercolors and oil paintings arranged on the walls. The back of her antique chair, he knew, rose high behind her head.

“Yes, this is Sophie von Auer.”

“It’s Claude. I’ve just returned. Do you have any time
now? I heard from my mother that you have something to tell me.”

“Welcome home,” she said, her voice crisp. “Yes, I thought I might hear from you today. Where are you?”

“I’ve just arrived in the museum parking lot.”

“Oh, Claude.” She laughed. “I’ll ask Tya about my appointments. I hope I’ll be able to meet you.”

Ten minutes later, half asleep, he heard her high heels approaching the Porsche. She walked briskly, dressed in a chic gray suit and carrying a briefcase. With her dark blond hair swept up in a chignon, she looked every inch the professional woman. Slipping into the car beside him, she turned his head toward her and kissed him on the lips.

“How much time do we have?” he asked, turning the key.

“I’m finished for the day. Sudden, terrible headache.” She smiled.

“Then Gandria, perhaps?”

“Why not? It’s a lovely afternoon.”

Instantly he regretted having suggested the shoreline village. It was the site of their first tryst two years earlier and would have sentimental connotations for her. On that night, after dinner at the Hotel Moosmann, on the lake’s edge, he had suggested they stay the night. Looking up at him over her cup of espresso, Sophie had said, “Yes, why not?” She had impressed him with her frank, direct sexuality, the way she’d taken off her clothes and folded them over the chair by the bed, the way she made no fuss about the details of seduction, the soft intake of breath when she came, and the way, after sex, she rose to brush her teeth. He noticed she had packed a toothbrush in advance.

Now she took a scarf out of her briefcase and tied it tightly around her hair. She put on her sunglasses and fastened her
seat belt as well. Claude drove east. The wind and the roar of the engine made it difficult to talk. He wondered again if she had been offered a new job in some other city or country. That would be as good a way as any to bring their affair to a close. Given the unexpected appearance of Mariana in his life, it did feel like the right time.

The road followed the curve of the mountains, emerging from shadow into sun and back again. At Gandria, they parked along the roadside and descended the steep stone stairs through the old village, to the lake.

“I’m glad to see you, Claude. I began to think you weren’t going to return.” She took a sip of her wine. “How long will you be here?”

They were sitting in the shade of the café’s terrace, empty in early afternoon. A rowboat, tied to the iron railing of the terrace, slapped against the wet stone wall beneath. Above them the village clung to the cliff. Claude felt tired, and the wine made him dizzy.

“Not long. I leave on tour next week. First France, then Germany.”

“I hear you’ve been given the great Stradivarius. It’s an enormous honor that Alexander Feldmann left his instrument to you. I’m happy for you. When may I see it?”

He brushed away a fly. “I can hardly believe it yet myself. I don’t yet have it here with me. The great luthier in Manhattan — Pierre Fernand, the one I mentioned — is doing restoration work on the instrument, work he promised M. Feldmann he’d do. It hasn’t been attended to for years and it won’t be mine until he’s done.”

With characteristic directness, she asked, “Was it hard for you with his daughter?”

“What do you mean?”

Sophie broke a breadstick in two and handed him half. “Your mother mentioned that she wasn’t happy about the gift.”

His mother had broken her promise. “Yes, it was quite difficult. That’s why I stayed,” Claude lied.

She smiled. Not for the first time he noticed her smile. She had the close-mouthed, tooth-hiding smile that signaled good manners in Europe. In America, by contrast, you could see a person’s dentures and cavities and fillings every time someone laughed.

“I don’t blame you. It was kind that you stayed on. But it was an unfortunate period for you to be so long away. It complicates things now.”

“Ah, yes, your news. My mother said you had news.”

A powerboat started its engines at the mooring of the next café. There was a loud thrumming, a backwash, a song on the boat’s radio. She waited till the noise subsided.

“I’m almost nine weeks pregnant with our child.”

Claude, leaning closer, caught his breath.

“I’ve known now for a month. I could have told you while you were in America, but it seemed better to wait. You were so focused on your concerts and I didn’t want to tell you over the telephone. Anyway, you stopped calling.”

He stared at her, speechless. Putting down his wineglass, he drank water. Sophie watched him, her expression neutral.

“Have you told your parents?” he managed.

“Of course not, they’ll be appalled. In any case, I thought you should know first.”

“Will they be very shocked? Could they possibly think you’ve never slept with anyone? My God, you’re thirty years old.”

She smiled. “It isn’t that at all. It’s that they would hope I’d have more sense than to get pregnant
before
I’m married. That’s what will disappoint them. They’ll think I’ve been irresponsible.”

Claude looked out over the lake. The houses on the far shore were bathed in afternoon sun. A wave of fatigue swept over him. This was not at all the news he’d expected. “Are you certain that you want this child?”

“
Our
child,” she corrected him.

“Our child.”

“I’m ready,” she said soberly. “Yes, I’m certain that I’ll keep it. I am, after all, Catholic.”

He was silent again, trying to find something to say. He wanted to say, “How the hell did we two grown-ups let this happen?” Finally he asked what she had told his mother.

“I told her the truth,” said Sophie. “When you decided to stay on in America, I asked her how to reach you by phone. She didn’t have a phone number, and you weren’t answering your cell. I called many times.”

The waiter approached. Claude waved him off.

“Your mother could tell I was upset, so she invited me to lunch. I was afraid you’d met someone in America. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I was in such a state.”

He took her hand. “Of course you were.” He didn’t want to ask about his mother’s response. He desperately wished she didn’t know.

“I’m aware this isn’t a good time.” Sophie’s voice began to quaver. “A good time to give you my,
our
news. You’re going to be leaving soon, you’re tired, and you have concerts to prepare. But I haven’t really any choice. I’d hoped for more time
together.” She withdrew her hand from his and regained her composure. “In any case, Claude, I must know if we will get married. If we’re going to, I would rather do it soon, obviously.”

Feeling trapped, he wanted to flee, to knock over the table and bound up the stairs. At thirty-seven, on the brink of international success, major opportunities and engagements, he did not want to marry or have a child. His feelings for Sophie had not altered or grown since he’d met her. She was a delightful companion, but he had been very clear. Marriage, fatherhood? No, he would be a failure at both. He needed time to carefully phrase his response. As he sat across from Sophie at the small table, he hoped he could conceal his roiling emotions.

Claude took a deep breath. He drank the last of his wine. He knew he had received her news with an absence of joy that must hurt. He spoke softly. “You’ve had time to think about this, to examine your choices, your conscience, and decide how you feel and what you want to do. I, of course, have not. This comes as a huge surprise to me. I can hardly grasp it. I have no time to grasp it. You’ve chosen your path, in any case. But I have to prepare for my next concerts. I have to keep my focus — just for a few more weeks.”