Body & Soul (34 page)

When he opened the door he heard a woman's sharp voice. "Can't come in now." Then he saw the flushed face of Claudia. The others from the quintet were crowded behind her in the small room. "Oh," she said, "it's you," and waved him in. He advanced. They were gathered around Dick Denby, who lay pale-faced with his back against the wall. He had apparently vomited in the toilet, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were glassy. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Claude noticed that Denby's hands were trembling.

"I can't," Denby said to no one in particular, "I can't."

"Of course you can," said Jerry, the bassoonist, lowering his gangly frame to get down on one knee. "You've done it dozens of times in front of a lot more people. Certainly you can."

"It's all in his mind," said Marty, the clarinetist, and gave a sudden giggle.

"What are you laughing at?" Roger was furious, gesturing with his
French horn. "Kribbs from the Chicago Symphony is out there. Mc-Taggart from Cleveland! Grimes from Boston! Have you lost your mind? This is a catastrophe!"

"Dick," Jerry said gently, "tell us what's happening. Let us help."

"I can't. Everything sounds funny and looks funny. I think I'm going crazy."

"You spineless creep!" Claudia shouted.

"We're on in ten minutes, people," said Marty.

"You worthless sack of shit!" She bent over Denby to shout it in his face, trying to get him to look at her.

"You're not helping," Jerry said, shaking his head.

"That's it, then," said Marty. "I'm packing up."

"I have to go home," Dick said mechanically, his voice devoid of emotion. "I have to take a hot bath."

"Dick," Roger said, "think about it. Give in this way and there'll be psychological damage. You have to beat it now. Otherwise, before every concert, before every appearance..."

"I have to go home," Dick repeated.

Claudia stood erect and took a deep breath. "Yes, go home. Spend the rest of your life playing tennis at the Merion Cricket Club. It's all you're good for." She picked up the score from between his legs and thrust it at Claude. "All right. You do it. An emergency. You do it."

Marty said, "Now wait a minute."

"No rehearsal?" Roger cried. "He just sight-reads it? Are you kidding? It's better we don't play at all."

Claudia was staring intently into Claude's eyes. "No, he's good. He's got to be good."

"I don't know about this," Marty said.

Claude took the score, broke away from Claudia's gaze, and looked at it. A few flecks of vomit marred its cover. He went to the stall and got some toilet paper and wiped it clean. A definite sense of excitement began to stir in the back of his brain.

"It could be awful," Roger said. "How do we know?"

"It's an emergency," Claudia said. "We'll announce it. People will understand."

That was all Claude needed. "I'll do it," he said.

"Oh, God," Roger moaned.

"Oy vey!" Marty said.

Claudia put her hand on Jerry's shoulder and the bassoonist looked up. "What do you say?" she said. "Let's just do it."

There was a moment of silence while Jerry regarded Claude and bit his lower lip. Very slowly, a trace of a smile showed at the corners of his mouth. "What the hell. Let's see what happens."

And so the arrangements were made. The string quartet who were to have played Bartók during the second half were prevailed upon to play first. Meanwhile Claude studied the score, with Dick Denby's sketchy notations, in the front seat of Roger's Studebaker. During the last available ten minutes, Jerry sat with him and went over tempos and phrasing.

"What we're doing is insane," Jerry said as he reached up to turn off the dome light.

"I know," Claude said, and they both laughed.

In the sudden silence following the last abrupt volley of notes ending the piece, the first thing Claude heard was the awestruck voice of the girl with the green eyes, her breath in his left ear. "Wow!" she said. She had stepped forward from the audience when Claudia had asked for a volunteer to turn pages.

And now the applause started. Claude looked at the faces of the other players, all of them smiling. Jerry giving him a thumbs-up sign, Claudia blowing him a kiss. As he stood up from the bench he realized that the applause from the sixty or seventy people in the audience was very spirited, punctuated by the odd shout. Claude made his way around the piano to stand with the other players. As they all bowed, more or less simultaneously, the audience got to its feet and continued to applaud.

"Terrific," Jerry said out of the corner of his mouth. "We did it."

"Thank God," said Marty.

"Amazing," said Roger.

Facing the audience, Claude felt a sense of relief. He had missed dozens of notes, played a few wrong ones, rushed the tempo of the third section out of nervousness, and had not quite matched the phrasing of the horns on several occasions. But the piece as a whole had been executed clearly, its shape unambiguous. Parts of it had even been beautiful, and, remembering those moments, he allowed himself to be swept up in the general enthusiasm.

A second bow.

"I knew it," Claudia said. "I had a feeling."

A third and final bow.

"Where's Dick?" Claude asked as they all thanked him and began moving out to their friends in the crowd. No one knew. "On the way to Philadelphia, I hope," said Claudia.

Quite a few people from the audience came up to Claude and offered compliments. "You really never played it before?" asked a short man with a white beard.

Claude made his way outside and took several deep breaths of the balmy air. There was the barest sliver of moon hanging over the trees, and the dark sky glinted with innumerable stars, more stars than he had ever seen. He felt extraordinarily alive, cleansed somehow, his body light and humming. He felt fresh.

The dark shapes of people fanned out in all directions. Behind the barn, car engines started, and beams of light appeared to the left and right like a panoply of arms. A single figure approached him from the center of the shed.

"Here." It was the girl with the green eyes. "Don't forget this." She held out the score.

"Thanks." He put it under his arm. "And thanks for turning pages. Your timing was perfect."

"My pleasure," she said. "It was something to see."

They stood in comfortable silence. He could see the pale orb of her face, but it was too dark to make out her expression.

"Well, I better get back to the inn," he said.

"Are you driving?"

"No, walking."

"Me too. I'll come along with you."

"Okay. Sure." Now he could catch a faint lemony scent as she came up to his side, close, almost as close as she would to take his arm.

There was a path along the side of the road, and when it narrowed her shoulder would touch his arm. He felt buoyant, almost dizzy, and everything he saw—the trees, the stars, the wooden bridge over the creek—pleased him in some simple, mysterious way. At the same time, even though no words were being exchanged, he was aware of a tacit tension growing between them. They seemed to be talking without talking, and strange as it was, it felt natural, inevitable.

It was almost a shock when, turning the corner toward the inn, she spoke. "My name is Eva."

"Claude," he said. "It's nice to meet you." He felt a little foolish, and as he turned to smile she put her hand on his arm and they stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Could we get a cup of coffee or something?" she asked.

"I bet we can." He found himself bending his head forward, like one of the actors on the great screen, again with an odd, graced sense of inevitability, to kiss her. Her lips were warm and he closed his eyes, lost in sensation.

Then she was smiling, and she took his arm, and they began walking again.

The lobby of the inn was entirely empty, even the reception desk. The dining room was closed, and dark through the glass doors. For a moment he stood, her warmth up against his side, unsure what to do next.

"I guess ... I guess..."

"It doesn't matter," she said.

"We could go up," he said, amazed at himself, as if the words had passed through him from some powerful agency, as if he'd been seized by magic. He held his breath.

"Yes," she said. "Let's do that."

They climbed the stairs and went to his room. She didn't leave until just before first light.

"You look like you could use this," the waitress with the hair net said at breakfast, pouring him coffee. "What'd you do last night, tie one on?"

For a split second he thought she knew, but then he realized she meant drinking. He shook his head and looked down at his plate. "No," he said, spreading his napkin on his lap. "The truth is ... the truth is, I feel very good. I feel great."

"Well, fine," she said.

And it was true. He'd spent half the night making love with Eva, and the world seemed like a brand-new place. Everything seemed newly minted—the salt and pepper shakers, the sun coming in the window behind him, clattering sounds from the kitchen, his own slender hands. He felt so good he imagined his happiness to be radiating outward from the confines of his body, and he marveled that the waitress didn't seem to notice it. And the Beethoven! He felt the music again. The Beethoven! He had to concentrate to eat his breakfast.

When she came back to clear up she said, "The chef has some white pants you could borrow. They won't fit, though."

He rose from his reverie. "I'm sorry?"

"The white pants you wanted."

It was like a memory from weeks ago. "Oh, yes. The pants. Thanks. Thanks for asking. I mean, for going to all that trouble."

"They won't fit."

"It's okay. I don't need them. It turns out ... I'm ... everything's okay," he spluttered.

"Good," she said. "Supposed to tell you you've got a message at the desk."

He approached the reception desk with trepidation, various embarrassing scenarios running through his head. The old man looked up, his milky blue eyes sharp and steady.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning."

"They say stop in at the administration. You got some telegrams."

"Oh, fine," Claude said, instantly relieved. "Thanks a lot."

"Good breakfast?"

"Absolutely. First rate. Delicious."

"We do good breakfasts."

"You sure do. The food is great," Claude said. "Dinner too. Just great."

"We aim to please." The old man picked up a toothpick from a glass and slipped it between his lips. He pushed the glass forward. "Want one of these? Mint. Got a mint flavor."

Claude accepted one and moved away. Now that he appeared to be safe, he wondered about the telegrams.

On his way to the farm he looked up at the sky—great, billowing white clouds hanging motionless under the blue—and for no reason at all broke into a run, relishing the air against his face. His new white tennis shoes gripped the surface of the path as he flew effortlessly along, slapping at the leaves now and then.

He was out of breath when he reached the administration building. Mrs. Chatfield wore a different sweater but the same pearls, and the same half glasses midway down her slender nose. Telephones rang, people came and went with pieces of paper, and she held a pencil sideways in her mouth as she rummaged through her drawers.

"
Voilà.
" She handed him two yellow windowed envelopes. He opened the first, which read:

Unavoidably delayed here. Have notified Popkin. Show him what we want. Look forward to performing with you tomorrow.

Fredericks

Claude would have to do the second rehearsal alone. He felt a flutter as he realized the extent of his responsibility, but he also remembered exactly those places he had pointed out to Popkin, so he at least knew where to start.

"Fredericks can't come to the rehearsal today," Claude said to Mrs. Chatfield.

"These things happen all the time around here," she said with a sigh. "I'm sure it will work out."

He found a chair against the wall, sat down, and opened the second telegram.

Some time to get the flu. Doctor insists bedrest. I will be thinking of you tomorrow. Play loud maybe I'll hear it.

Weisfeld

Claude stared at the paper for a long time, his eyes going over and over the strips of tape bearing the words. He did not know what to think, aware only of a sense of disappointment, a kind of slowing down within himself.

"Something wrong?" Mrs. Chatfield asked.

"My teacher has the flu. He can't come."

"Fredericks?" she said, half rising in alarm, her glasses, held by a black cord, falling to her chest.

"No, no. My first teacher, my real teacher. Mr. Weisfeld."

She sat back down. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, sounding relieved. "That's a shame."

"Can I call him on the telephone?" He got up and went to the desk. He wrote the number on a scrap of paper and handed it to her.

"Well, I'm not supposed to," she said, reaching for the receiver, "but if he's not well..."

She read the number to the long distance operator and handed the phone to Claude. After some time he heard the soft burr of the ringing on the other end. Then he heard a woman's voice. "Hello?"

Claude was confused. "Hello. Is Mr. Weisfeld there, please? This is Claude."

"He's asleep, Claude. I was just on my way out. This is Mrs. Keller from next door."

"Oh, hi. Hi, Mrs. Keller." It seemed odd to be talking to her, odd to
think of her in the music store. "Is he okay? I got a telegram, it just says the flu."

There was a brief pause. "That's right. The doctor's been. He just has to rest and he'll be fine," she said. "It's nothing serious. When're you coming back? He told me you're up in the country someplace."

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow night." He switched the phone to his other ear. "But he's okay?"

"I'm sure he'll be up and about by the time you get back."

"Good," Claude said. "Okay. Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Keller."

"You're welcome."

Claude hung up the phone, thanked Mrs. Chatfield, and went outside. He walked down the path and sat at the same bench under the big tree. Weisfeld could not come, would not be with him in the wings, and Claude felt slightly askew, slightly adrift at the prospect.