The Silver Swan (3 page)
Authors: Elena Delbanco
“You should have a husband.”
“I had many a boyfriend as a kid, Papa, and you made it very difficult for all of them … and for me. Remember how intimidating you could be? She smiled as she said this, but clearly she was annoyed. “I think you were jealous every time I went out. You scared everyone away. And when I fell in love with Pietovsky, I thought you’d have a stroke, you were so agitated,” she continued, an edge in her voice.
“Well, he was a married man, Mariana, and no good for you. What father would want that for his daughter? All we wanted, your mother and I, was that you find a good husband.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “If I had a husband, good or bad, I couldn’t have lived here with you for all these years.”
“And,” he continued, ignoring her answer, “you should never have stopped playing; you had such a rare talent. Such a tragedy. I hold Pietovsky responsible for this.”
“And yet you remained dear friends.”
“You should have had a fantastic career. Your life was unfolding so brilliantly.”
“Don’t blame Pietovsky. Besides, if I had had a great career, I would have been playing a concert somewhere in Europe tonight. Mama would have died alone, and you would be here with only your nurses for company.”
Again, he ignored her. “And certainly, if you weren’t going to have a great career, you should have had a child. You are so nurturing, darling.”
“Oh, Papa.” She sighed again, getting up to clear away the dishes. “I have had a child, believe me. I still have a child. He is about to turn ninety years old, and yet he’s still a child.” She leaned down to kiss his cheek and went for the night nurse.
The Prudential Building loomed in the distance. From the taxi, Mariana could see joggers on the towpath by the Charles River, and bicyclists, and people walking dogs. She was about to meet Christopher Beecher of Beecher, Hamilton, Stein & Snow; Alexander had retained him when he established legal residence in the state of Massachusetts. The meeting today would clarify what she could expect from the Feldmann estate. As its sole heir, she would be rich. In addition to the Silver Swan, now estimated to be worth at least ten million dollars, and possibly a good deal more, there were nine copies of the great original — nowhere near as valuable, of course, but fine to play and worth a collective half million at least. There were bows and cash and stock market investments and the Berkshire property. Lawyers and accountants often warned Feldmann about taxes, and estate planners offered their advice. Had her father transferred ownership of the Swan to her years earlier, or sold it, or established a trust, the government would not now be poised to take such a large share of her inheritance. Yet he retained possession of the instrument, claiming he would own it until his death, an
event he simply could not foresee. He would say, “
If I die
,” not “
When …
”
At the lawyer’s office, Mariana was greeted by an elderly receptionist and then by Christopher Beecher himself, a short gentleman with a shock of white hair, piercing blue eyes, and a slightly hunched back that made him appear somehow kindly. His shirt was blue, his tie striped red and green. Horn-rimmed glasses on a black elastic ribbon dangled at his chin. Beecher invited her into his book-paneled office, where he explained that Alexander had particularly requested this meeting for a reading of the will, though such a face-to-face encounter was no longer necessary. “It is, I’m afraid, more a function of television shows and films than legal practice nowadays, but it was your father’s wish and we chose to honor it.”
“I’m glad you did. It’s a pleasure to meet you …”
“Yes.” His voice was high. “A personal association is always preferable, is it not, to fax machines and xeroxed documents arriving in the mail? And I do want to tell you how much I admired your father; I have a whole
shelf
of recordings, and I went to his concerts whenever he played in Boston. You know, I came to the memorial service in New York, though I did not introduce myself to you at the time. You were so occupied.”
She nodded. The memorial service had taken place on March 25, at the 92nd Street Y. Hundreds of people attended. Alexander’s students spoke. Few of his peers were still alive, and the men and women onstage were no longer young. Thirty-, forty-, fifty-, and even sixty-year-olds saluted their lost master, describing how he’d taught them, how he’d changed their bow arm or vibrato or understanding of the instrument, how generous he’d been and how important,
crucial even, to the course of their careers. Most passionately, they talked of the deep understanding of music he offered them. At the ceremony’s end, sixteen cellists came onstage to play the Casals “Song of the Birds” in his honor. Many wept.
“In any case,” Beecher continued, “your father wanted you to read a letter he entrusted to me just before he passed.”
“Oh?”
Beecher handed her a sealed envelope: cream colored, thick, with her name in a familiar scrawl in black ink on the front. “This is for you.”
Mariana was surprised. She asked the lawyer if he knew the letter’s contents or had, in fact, read it himself.
“It’s signed across the back, you see. And no, I have not read it. It is — that old-fashioned concept — confidential.”
She wondered what the letter could contain. The two of them had lived together, after all, and she had overseen his mail, paid his bills. This letter would no doubt offer some instructions for a scholarship program he planned to establish or what she should do with the Stradivarius copies or do to the roof at Swann’s Way.
The lawyer withdrew from the room; she opened the letter and read:
December 10, 2009
My dear Mariana,
I think perhaps this is the first letter I’ve written to you since you were a small child and I was traveling in France. And to think it will come to you when I am gone is very strange. But there are things you must know in order to understand how I have organized my legacy — things I meant to tell you when your mother died. Because you were distressed at that time and had already
decided to give up your solo career, I never found occasion to reveal these things to you. After a while, I simply decided not to.
As I’m sure you have known and been much affected by, your mother and I were not happy together. I shall spare you the details but tell you that she resented my absence as my concert schedule increased; she resented my success, my students — she even resented you — anything that took my attention away from her. It was an unnatural dependence, and as she grew more withdrawn, refusing to travel with me or share in the pleasures of my fame, I developed a close relationship with another woman, someone you have met only once before, the Swiss singer Francine Roselle.
Mme Roselle and I were both married to others throughout the years of our affair, she to the conductor Bernard Roselle. We saw each other only when we could, but our love was intense and passionate. As you may perhaps remember, Francine had something to do with my acquisition of the Silver Swan, long ago in Strasbourg. It was her mother who introduced me to the owner of the instrument. Over the years I taught Francine’s son, Claude — he is three years your junior, and I have been very proud of his career: he is a fine cellist. His father is an excellent conductor, if somewhat uninspired. In some ways — since you, alas, no longer perform as a soloist — Claude has come to be my musical heir. I hope you will be friends. Your mother, I believe, never knew of my relationship with Mme Roselle, for we were together only in Europe.
This information changes nothing in your life, dear Mariana. You are my beloved, my only daughter, and I have always protected you, as I shall continue to through the disposition of my estate. But your knowledge of this will help you accept what is to come. I have written this letter, sealed it, and given it to my
lawyer, Christopher Beecher, whom you will now have met. No one else is apprised of this information — besides you and, of course, Mme Roselle, though she does not know I have told you of our relationship. You have been a devoted daughter. I have never understood what caused you to stop playing. But now, at least, I can offer you the fruits of my long life in art.
Be free, my angel, to live your own life at last.
Papa
Alone in the office, Mariana pressed her hands to her face. How could it be possible that neither she nor her mother had suspected this long, treacherous affair? How could he think this changed nothing? Had her mother actually known about Francine Roselle? How terrible if she
had
known, or suspected it. This would explain the tears, the dark silence in the house whenever Alexander got ready to leave. Every time he went on tour, he went to open arms abroad. Pilar must have felt the pain of his eagerness to go.
Mariana put the letter in her purse and rose from her chair. She wiped away her tears with the back of her trembling hand. The lawyer knocked. Courteously, he opened the door and beckoned her to follow. Mariana walked behind him to the conference room where, she assumed, he would read Feldmann’s will to her. As he opened the oak door to usher her in, Beecher turned to face her. “Your father left very strict instructions for this occasion. I hope things will turn out to everyone’s satisfaction.”
“Everyone?”
But Beecher had entered the conference room.
The table gleamed. Large windows framed the street, the rise of Beacon Hill beyond, the shops and cars below. There were green-shaded lamps, dark leather chairs, a water pitcher and four glasses on a tray. Two people — a young man and a much older woman — were seated at the table. “You’ve met before,” said Christopher Beecher. “But unless I’m much mistaken, it’s been a very long time.”
The elegant man stood to greet her. From the photos on her father’s wall, she understood that this was Claude Roselle — but he was even more handsome in person. In most of those pictures, Claude wore a tuxedo; today he was attired in a slim, dark gray Italian suit. He approached, his hand out-thrust, smile flashing. He held her hand with both his own and pumped it warmly, eagerly, looking into her eyes.
“How wonderful to meet you, Mariana.”
She stared at him, then at the woman sitting at the far end of the table. This must be Alexander’s lover, Francine Roselle, the woman who’d drawn him away from Pilar and from Mariana as well. No photograph of Claude’s mother adorned her father’s studio wall, but here, clearly, was the singer who’d been Feldmann’s mistress, and for whom his love had been — as she’d just read — “intense and passionate.”
Christopher Beecher was saying, “And do you remember, or may I present, Mme Francine Roselle?”
The woman stood. She was short, plump, and still lovely, her skin unlined. Her hair, dyed a pale silvery blond, was carefully coiffed, and she wore a slate-blue traveling suit and embroidered white silk blouse. Strands of pearls enclosed her neck. Mariana would not have known her on the street, but seeing Francine now revived in her the mysterious feeling of unease she’d felt whenever Alexander mentioned — in passing, as he’d
often done — her name. Claude had retained her hand. “I so loved and admired your father. He was the most inspired of artists and teachers. I’m deeply grateful to have been his student.”
Francine Roselle pushed back her chair and came around the table, reaching up to kiss Mariana on both cheeks. Mariana froze. The smell of the woman’s skin was familiar: L’Heure Bleue — the Guerlain perfume her father always brought her from Europe, and which she’d never liked. Pilar had told him that the perfume was unsuitable for a young girl, but Alexander continued to purchase it, no doubt in haste, at the airport duty-free shop on his way home. Or perhaps he’d taken it from Francine’s supply. All his gifts were tokens, Pilar complained, all his kindnesses perfunctory or rushed. Francine drew back, removing her hands from Mariana’s arms as if she’d touched something terribly hot.
“We haven’t met for such a long time, my dear. I wanted to write to you the very
moment
of your father’s death. I would have come to his memorial service, but I had a concert engagement and was unable to cancel.” She clasped her hands as her eyes teared up. “His death deeply affected us. We will greatly miss him.”
