Body & Soul (43 page)

"I have nothing to say to you." Mr. Powers went back upstairs.

"What is this?" Claude whispered. "What's going on?"

Staring up at the empty stairwell, Lady held up a hand to quiet him.
She appeared calm, her face composed. Claude noticed a tremor in her hand. "I'll have to sit with her for a while now," she said. "You'd better go to bed. I'm sorry. I'll see you in the morning."

"Of course," he said, feeling an instant of guilt at how glad he was to be able to escape the house and its strange, thick atmosphere of hidden struggle.

Back in the city, Claude deflected his confusion and uneasiness about the weekend by immersing himself in work. Four or five hours at the Bechstein, two or three hours writing (the song cycle, a piece for piano), copying, score reading, harmonic analysis, and various other tasks. The very familiarity of the basement studio was soothing, leading him back into himself.

Eventually, over a lunch of corned beef on rye, pickles, and cream soda with Weisfeld in the back of the store, Claude found himself briefly describing the weekend—leaving out his impromptu performance at the party—and then going on at some length about the bizarre behavior of Mr. and Mrs. Powers. "And the next morning," he said, puzzled, "it was as if nothing had happened. She was chatting over coffee, he read the paper, and they went off to play tennis. Lady and I took a swim and I caught the train. It was spooky. And I swear to God, the whole weekend I don't think either one of them actually looked at me. You know, really looked."

"Yes," Weisfeld said. "I think I understand."

"You do? Well, what is it?"

"The parents don't want to see you, they don't want to look. If they don't look, then you're not there." He took a bite of his sandwich and watched Claude struggle with the implications. And it
was
a struggle. Down deep, Claude was aware that he didn't know very much about people—nor, for that matter, about himself—and often couldn't understand their actions. At college people had repeatedly surprised him by taking extreme positions, getting into fights, goofing off in their studies, getting drunk for days, all for no apparent reason. Between his sophomore and junior years one of his classmates—an interesting fellow with an impressive knowledge of art, music, opera, and modern poetry—had killed himself in his parents' garage. Claude had heard the rumor that the boy was homosexual, but he still could not fathom why he would take his own life. From his earliest years Claude had been alert to danger on the outside—the threat of circumstances—
and had developed, in his vulnerability and weakness, a protective screen of pride, tenacity, and self-absorption. He had never been able to afford thinking about danger from the
inside,
from within one's self, and as a result was prone to take people at face value, to assume they were what they presented themselves to be. He was naive. (Lady was perhaps the obverse. At college she had been impressive in her ability to read between the lines with all sorts of people. "Professor Albert-son is aggressive because he's short," for instance. "He resents people for being taller than he is." It would never have occurred to Claude, although he recognized its truth the moment she told him.)

"But what have they got against me?" Claude asked. "I didn't do anything."

Weisfeld sighed. "You're seeing their daughter."

"What's so terrible about that?"

Weisfeld ate for a while and seemed to be thinking about what he was going to say. He drank some cream soda and put the bottle down with exaggerated care. "Maybe," he said, "people in that social circle, it's possible they want their daughter to marry let's say a nice boy who happens to be a Roosevelt, a Harriman, a Rockefeller, or the Duke of Kent or something fancy like that. You know, it's possible."

Claude was suddenly nervous. He did not want to entertain the suggestion. "Oh, that was the old days." And then it popped out of his mouth before he could stop himself: "This is America."

Weisfeld nodded. "Absolutely."

"I just mean the class system is supposed to be more fluid. I hated sociology, but I remember a whole chapter about the effect of the war on the class system," he babbled, trying to cover up. "Everything's different now."

"Sure," Weisfeld said. "And in some cases different but the same. Like you redecorate a room, but it's the same room. You put a mute in a trumpet, but it's the same horn. People don't talk about class and social background the way they used to, but that doesn't mean they've forgotten about it."

Claude drummed his fingers on his knees, a sour expression on his face. He remembered Catherine's words in the car years ago, after the mixer:
You come from nowhere.
They had virtually paralyzed him. He had not thought of those words for a very long time. His face flushed with heat.

"It's ridiculous, of course," Weisfeld went on. "These are small
things they spend time worrying about. But you have to remember, it's possible."

"I'm an artist!" Claude protested.

"Yes, yes!" Weisfeld cried. "We know what that means. We know, but not everybody knows. Even some people who talk like—" He interrupted himself. "You remember when you used to play for Mrs. Fisk? For her little boy?"

Claude was stunned. Could Weisfeld read his mind?

"You remember Dewman Fisk," Weisfeld continued, raising his voice, "the famous ballet enthusiast and culture maven for the mayor? And the pretentious Mrs. Fisk, one of our best customers? You think they knew anything about it? About what it means to be an artist?"

Claude was doubly speechless—first the talk of the Fisks, and second the controlled anger in Weisfeld.

"They know practically nothing." He stroked his mustache as if to calm himself down. "Music is a decoration. A diversion to take their minds off their troubles. Maybe a hobby. To them, the artist is a high-class entertainer. They don't even know they don't know anything, those people. It can drive you crazy." He crushed the waxed paper from lunch into a ball and threw it in the trash. "So don't expect anything. Be careful with those kind of people."

O
TTO LEVITS'S OFFICE
was on Fifty-seventh Street, a few doors down from the Steinway building. It was small, its walls covered with signed photographs of musical artists of every description—Toscanini, Lily Pons, Geiseking, Ezio Pinza, Aaron Copland, Pablo Casals, Victor Borge, Fritz Kreisler, Fredericks.

"Did you get the check?" Otto asked.

"Yes. Thank you."

"Good." He moved some papers on his desk. "I thought it was time for a talk. You've done extremely well over the last few years, according to all reports. All kinds of bookings and everybody's been more than satisfied. They've usually wanted you back and I've had to explain about your special scheduling."

"Even the Swedish tenor? Svenvold?" Claude kept a straight face.

"Aiy yi-yi," Otto moaned. "A cuckoo. A complete crazy-head. He never did the tour, you know. Got lost for a couple of days, and when they found him he was trying to join the Salvation Army. The embassy took care of it. Shot him up and shipped him back to Stockholm."

"Well, he was something different. He wanted to sing with his clothes off, and said I should take my clothes off too and play naked."

"I know, I'm sorry, my apologies," Otto said quickly. "Ah, this business."

"A good singer, though."

Otto looked at him suspiciously for an instant, and then realized
Claude meant it. "Of course!" he said. "He was my client." He paused. "You handled it well."

"Hey. I just got up and left."

"Yes, but you did it nice. You were polite, he said, and respectful. He wrote me a note from the academy of laughter to apologize. He can't help himself sometimes."

"It's okay."

"And Fredericks sends his best. He called from Rome. We talked about this and that. Wants to know what you're doing."

"Playing and writing," Claude said. "Nothing's changed."

"Good. So now maybe we can pick up the pace a bit. Can you do an audition Thursday morning?"

"Sure. For what?"

"A short tour, but it could be important for you. Aldo Frescobaldi's permanent accompanist fell off his chair in a café in San Remo and broke his arm. Aldo needs somebody for three concerts—Philadelphia, New York, and Boston—coming up soon. It's an emergency."

After a moment of lightheadedness Claude crossed his legs and tried to appear casual. He had a dozen of Frescobaldi's RCA recordings and was aware of the man's reputation as one of the finest violinists in Europe. "I like that sound he gets. Deep, almost gritty sometimes, as if he's not afraid to let the violin sound like a violin."

"This could be good for you," Otto said, "but remember, he's listening to some other people. Plus he's sort of unpredictable."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing like Svenvold. But he's a flamboyant character. Very dramatic. Given to grand gestures. An egomaniac, I suppose you could say, but nothing you can't handle. And the money will be very good. More than that, the word will get around."

"I'll do my best," Claude said. "Where and what time?"

"He'll come to you. Ten o'clock at the store."

On the appointed day Claude woke at five, ate a bowl of cornflakes in his room, and walked around the corner to let himself into the store before six. Weisfeld was still upstairs. Claude unlocked the register, neatened up the counters, swept the aisles, and unrolled the awning. When there was nothing left to do he went down to the studio and commenced his regular routine at the Bechstein. Very soon, he slipped out of time.

"Claude!" Weisfeld called from the door. "Come up, please."

As if startled from a complicated dream, Claude pulled his hands abruptly from the keys. Weisfeld seldom interrupted him, and so, fearing some mishap, he quickly climbed the stairs. As he emerged he heard the tinkle of the bell and saw an obese man, puffing and sweating, shirttail half out of his pants, pushing the door with his elbow. He had a violin case in one hand and a bulging briefcase in the other. The wooden floor seemed to bend under his weight as he approached the counter.

"I am Aldo Frescobaldi," he said.

"Good morning, maestro." Weisfeld cleared some space. "You can put your things here. I am Aaron Weisfeld, and this"—he extended his arm with a flourish—"is Claude Rawlings."

Claude understood why there were no photographs on the man's records. A veritable mountain of fat, his huge liquid neck as wide as his head. Even his eyes bulged, under black eyebrows so thick and wild they looked like exotic caterpillars. His hand covered Claude's like a pillow. He looked around. "Where do we play? I can't play here."

"Downstairs, maestro." Weisfeld came around the counter and reached for the briefcase. "May I help you with this?"

Frescobaldi descended, the stairs creaking ominously, carrying his violin. Claude took the briefcase and followed.

"If you need anything at all," Weisfeld said from above, "just let me know." He closed the door.

The big man went to the center of the room and turned slowly to survey it. "It is like the cell of a scholarly monk," he said. "Fredericks said you were a serious young man. Are you a monk? A monk of music?" He moved to the wall of bookcases. Over the years Claude had built up an impressive collection of scores—thirty or forty feet of shelves jammed with folios, in alphabetical order by composer—and more than a hundred books on theory, composition, orchestration, musical biographies, criticism, analysis, and various reference works. Frescobaldi tilted his large head to read the spines of the folios.

"No," Claude said, "but I try to keep things neat down here."

"Commendable." He extracted a book. "I myself am not a well-organized person. I thrive on chaos." He flipped through pages. Claude went to the piano. The big man came over and placed the open book on the music stand. "Scriabin."

Claude nodded, instantly nervous. Scriabin's music often made great demands, and he had not played the etudes in a long time.

"If you would start with the 'Mosquito,' please. Opus 42, number 3." Frescobaldi went and leaned against the wall, his hands clasped under his chin.

There was a long silence as Claude read through the bagatelle with his eye, listening to the music in his mind. It was a study in trills, and as soon as he had decided how to shape them, he raised his hands from his lap and played the piece through.

"Now opus 8, number 10, please," Frescobaldi directed calmly.

Claude flipped back until he found it. This one he remembered better, having used it to work on his thirds when he was young. It seemed Frescobaldi was starting out by testing his technique. Again Claude read the piece, listened to it mentally, and thought about it for several minutes before he played. It was difficult, but its mood was essentially playful, and as he finished he believed he had captured that.

"He was a great pianist," Frescobaldi said, "and he wrote for the piano. This is why I ask to hear it. Now something a bit longer. Opus 42, number 5—affannato."

Claude studied the piece, slowing down for a close look at the fiery passages, speeding up for the melody which linked them. As he read it a second time, Frescobaldi came and stood by him. "I will turn pages for you."

"Thank you." Claude accepted the fact that there would be errors this time—the piece was simply too difficult to bring off without preparation—but he vowed to himself he would not be thrown by them. And so he plunged in, for three minutes on the edge, missing some notes but preserving the inner line of the piece.

"
Santo cielo!
" the big man said when the last notes died away. "What imagination, that man."

"I haven't played it for years," Claude said.

"Don't worry. When you play a wrong note at least you play it firmly. That's good." He opened his briefcase and spilled half the contents on top of the piano. He searched through the pile, selecting a couple of scores, and then dipped into the bag for a few more. Finally he handed Claude a folio with a bold red and black cover. Manuel de Falla.
Siete Canciones Populares Españolas.
"We will do the third. 'Asturania.' " He opened his violin case while Claude looked at the music.