Body & Soul (45 page)

They worked through the piece one small section at a time. Without disturbing the structure or the essential mood, Frescobaldi demonstrated opportunities for double stops, dramatic runs up to the bridge, broken chords based on an open G string, cleverly placed harmonics, and some supportive left-hand pizzicati. The result was to open up the sound and, without straining, to make the violin sound bigger, more elaborately playful, which worked well with Blake's image of a lamb. Claude made frantic notes, his hand almost trembling in his excitement.

"Work on them," Frescobaldi said. "Send them to me in Rome and I will look at them and respond."

"I will, I will. I can't thank you enough."

"No thanks, no thanks." He rapped Claude very lightly on the head with the top of his bow. "Music, also, is a brotherhood."

Spurred by this remark, and his general euphoria, Claude blurted out a question as they climbed the stairs. "Mr. Weisfeld would like to see your violin. Can you spare a couple of minutes? He repairs them, you know, sometimes."

"Of course," Frescobaldi said, edging himself through the door. "It's the least I can do. I mean to pay him for the studio time before we leave for Philadelphia."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Claude said quickly.

"Necessary or not, I will do it." He advanced to the cash register and put his case on the glass. "Please forgive me, Mr. Weisfeld, I meant to show you this before." He unsnapped the clasps and whipped away the silk cloth.

"Claude," Weisfeld said, "go next door and get Bergman. Tell him to bring a large glass."

Claude obeyed, coming back with the old, stooped gentleman, wearing his spectacles with the small, black cylindrical magnifier clipped onto one lens, a large magnifying glass in his hand. After introductions, Weisfeld pulled out a square of green felt and spread it over the glass. He lifted the violin from its case, lowered it to the felt, and adjusted the gooseneck lamp for the best light. Soon both heads were bent to the gleaming instrument, Bergman's a little closer as he peered through his jeweler's glass, a handkerchief at his mouth so as not to breathe vapor on the varnish. They made hushed sounds and exclamations to each other.

"Maple."

"Maple neck."

Peering through the f-hole, Weisfeld said, "Willow blocks and linings."

"Look at that purfling! Beautiful!"

"Notice the archings." Weisfeld measured with a fine steel rule.

Bergman took the rule and measured the neck. "Thirteen," he said, and then measured to the bridge. "Nineteen point five."

They were like two surgeons examining the innards of a patient. Weisfeld looked up at Claude. "The varnish was general knowledge for a hundred years. Then around 1750 the secret was lost."

"Does the varnish matter?"

Weisfeld answered as Frescobaldi gave a chortle. "Oh yes, it matters very much. It affects the sound."

Holding the instrument by the scroll, Weisfeld gently turned it over.

"Beautiful flame."

"Lovely." Bergman agreed, raising his head.

"A Guarneri, maestro," said Weisfeld. "Of the later period?"

"It once belonged to Ysaÿe, so of course I had to have it."

All three men burst into laughter.

Claude missed the joke and looked from man to man. Only Frescobaldi met his eye. "Ysaÿe was the only virtuoso fatter than me," he said. "Much, much too fat, the poor man. I am a sylph by comparison."

Weisfeld lay the violin in its case.

"I have a Strad also," said Frescobaldi. "For Mozart."

"We are most grateful," said Weisfeld.

"Absolutely," Bergman added. "I've never seen one before. Only pictures. Now I'll be ready if someone wants to hock one."

"Hock?" asked Frescobaldi. "What is 'hock?' "

"Mr. Bergman owns a pawn shop," Claude explained.

"Aha, I see!" He nodded.

The three men laughed again.

After the fourth encore Frescobaldi stood in the wings wiping his face and neck with a towel, pausing every now and then to gauge the dynamics of the applause. "Are they still standing?"

From the peephole Claude said, "Most of them in the balcony. Most down front in the orchestra. The back is thinning out."

"All right. One last bow from the side of the stage.
Avanti!
"

Frescobaldi stepped into the light and the audience roared. Claude followed. He had learned by now that the big man bowed slowly and elaborately, like a Shakespearean actor, in such a way as to milk the crowd, and he timed his own simple movement accordingly. Their heads came up together. Claude led the way offstage.

"It is important to have a feel for the audience," Frescobaldi said. "You must time it so you can hear the applause all the way to the dressing room." He then moved off rather quickly.

Indeed, Claude could hear a faint echo as he approached his room, still gratified to see his name on the door. Elegant calligraphy on a cardboard insert. Once inside, he fell into an armchair. The management had provided a bowl of fruit and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, with four glasses. He stared at these without seeing them.

His body hummed with a comfortable and gradually waning tension, winding down like a gyroscope. Several things about the concert had surprised him. The piano had not been retuned despite his request from the afternoon, remaining slightly sharp in the treble. Frescobaldi had adapted smoothly and with apparent ease, but for Claude it was mildly irritating. Also Frescobaldi had been much more mobile and physical in performance than in rehearsal—dipping, bending, leaning backward, moving here and there for no apparent reason. The movements of his bowing arm had seemed almost flamboyant. For all that, his playing had been breathtaking—utterly clean and so filled with emotion, so exalted in its discoveries, the concert had the feel of a celebration of music itself. Early in the first Beethoven sonata it was as if both of them had somehow levitated an inch above the stage, held there by some indescribable force released by their communion. They had sustained this magic equipoise right through to the end, Claude fighting all the way to control his excitement. He was euphoric and humbled at the same time.

After several minutes of sitting in mindless bliss—his state not unlike the sky-blue sunlit drift of post-coitus—he re-entered the world with the decision to get out of his tails and into civilian clothes. He was standing in his underwear washing his face when Frescobaldi burst into the room, closing the door on a number of people behind him.

"There will be newspaper people in the green room," he said, opening the champagne. "I meant to talk to you about this on the train, but I forgot. I excoriate myself." In fact, the big man had slept through most of the trip. He had a remarkable ability to go to sleep in an instant, as if the handkerchief he dropped over his face contained ether. His snores were horrendous, the cloth puffing in and out. "The important thing is to say nothing important. They are not to be trusted, and few of them know anything about music. Just talk nice—nice audience, nice hall, nice concert, everything nice. Smile."

"Okay."

Frescobaldi poured two glasses of champagne, brought one over, and clinked a toast. "This has been good for me, playing with someone else. It was different. I found new things."

With the glass in his hand Claude was going to have to stand there in his underwear longer than he wanted to. Frescobaldi seemed not to notice his near-nakedness. "I have to go with the Italian consul to some special affair. I will see you at the hotel, either tonight or for breakfast, okay? You will be okeydokey? Eat a good dinner?"

"I'll be fine." Claude emptied his glass to be rid of it, so he could put on his pants.

Frescobaldi ate a couple of grapes. "Tell me," he said, "when we were waiting to go on, you seemed very relaxed. Like you were waiting for a bus. Don't you get a little..." He fluttered his hand over his heart and knocked his knees together. "A little scared? All those people? A little nervous?" He looked at Claude with genuine curiosity.

"Maybe the day before I'll be wound up," Claude said, slipping his arm into a sleeve. "But it's funny—before, maybe an hour before, I get completely calm. It's like everything drains out of me and I don't care about anything. I think it comes from Fredericks. Some kind of fatalism. He plays gin rummy before he goes on."

"He drinks?" Frescobaldi recoiled in astonishment. "He drinks before he plays?"

"No, no. It's a card game. A silly little card game."

"Ah!" He was relieved, and nodded.

"I'm not really aware of the people," Claude said.

"For me, those last few minutes—it is like hell." He poured and drank off another glass of champagne. "Black hell."

Claude stopped moving for a moment. "I couldn't tell," he said. "I didn't notice a thing."

"No one can tell." The big man tapped his head. "It is all in here." His eyes seemed to bulge under the thick brows. Then he shrugged. "It is the price I pay. Not so high, really. Now I go hear them tell me what a genius I am."

Claude finished dressing, packed up his tails, his music, and his good-luck piece in the overnight case, and went out into the corridor. He found the green room by following the noise.

Frescobaldi was signing programs, slapping backs, kissing hands, smiling, laughing, answering reporters, and moving almost imperceptibly toward the exit. Flashbulbs went off every few seconds. In his vitality and great bulk he seemed master of the situation, sweeping people up into his own enthusiasm, touching their hands or arms quickly, like a politician or a famous cleric. As they turned away some of them spotted Claude.

Claude signed programs, thanked people for their compliments, and made an effort to keep smiling.

"You're very kind," he said, and, "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I sure did," and, "Thank you so much."

"Is this your Philadelphia debut?" a reporter asked.

"Well, no, actually. But this is the first big ... I mean, I've played in various places but not in this hall, not for such a large audience, in Philadelphia."

"How did you meet Frescobaldi?" Another reporter.

"Through my teacher."

"Was this a big break for you?"

"Yes, it was."

As the questions got more personal he excused himself and turned around, bumping into a tall, gangly young man who looked familiar.

"Hi! Remember me?" he asked, extending his hand.

"Of course," Claude lied, and shook hands. "I can't remember where, though. At the store?"

"Longmeadow. The Beethoven quintet. I'm Jerry Marx. The bassoon?"

"Oh, yes! Absolutely. How are you? What are you doing here?" Claude gushed, happy to have placed the man.

"I got my ticket weeks ago," Jerry said. "I never expected to see you up there. It took me a while to recognize you."

"Filling in," Claude said.

Jerry frowned. "No, I wouldn't call it that. It was extraordinary. I can't remember when I've heard—" He broke off and covered his mouth, looking down at the floor. Then he raised his head, speaking fast. "I have to go. I just wanted to tell you, I'm proud to have played with you. Years ago, maybe, and now you're ... you're ... Well, anyway, just keep on doing what you're doing."

Claude felt the man's emotion and didn't quite know what to do. "Good to see you," he said limply.

"Yes. Yes." Jerry left quickly.

Frescobaldi had made his escape and the room was emptying. Claude got his case and slipped out.

The dining room at the small, elegant hotel at which they were staying was closed—had just closed, the concierge was desolated to report—but food from the short menu could be ordered from the room, and was available at the bar, should monsieur prefer. Monsieur did.

It was dark. An elderly couple sat at the bar, but otherwise the place was empty. Claude sat down in a booth and ordered a roast beef sandwich and a glass of milk. After quite a while it arrived, a splendid presentation of sandwich, potato salad, cornichons, cherry tomatoes, parsley, and horseradish sauce. He ate slowly, savoring the flavors.

He pondered Frescobaldi's confession of stage fright. It seemed so entirely out of character, so unconnected to the rest of him. And yet the intensity with which he had said "Black hell"! Claude almost shivered at the recollection, and felt a wave of sympathy. At the same time he was proud Frescobaldi had told him. It was a mark of trust, one professional to another, and Claude would bet very few people knew about it. He resolved to tell no one. How strange people were, he thought, subject to all kinds of invisible forces, dealing with hidden devils and all the while keeping up appearances. He wondered if he was capable of that kind of bravery.

And there had been something spooky about the cadaverous image of Jerry, his head bobbing as he'd made his emotional speech. The bassoonist had treated him as a superior, as someone on a higher level altogether, and there was no doubting his sincerity. It was as if Jerry had been talking to a third person. All at once—between a cornichon
and a tomato—a complex insight came to him, surprising him so much he stopped eating.

Claude had been working at music all his life, driven by the need to penetrate deeper and deeper into its mysteries and sustained by his ability to do so. His progress had been constant, reasonably steady, and tangible with regard to his instrument. The growth of his musical imagination was simply a fact, like the growth of his physical body, except that it promised to continue longer. In a certain sense he had taken all this for granted, assuming the same thing was happening to everybody who worked hard. But suppose it wasn't! Suppose people got stuck—developing to a certain point and then staying there. How long might he have stayed at his own personal wall without Fredericks telling him how to get to the other side? How many young musicians, having been told, were able to do it? Desire for growth did not ensure the fact of growth, he now admitted. It was more complicated. There were imponderables. So Jerry might be one of the unlucky ones, a good player—probably working in an orchestra, a passionate lover of music, but stuck—aware of the other side, yearning for it but unable to get there. Hence his emotion. Claude allowed himself to see himself through Jerry's eyes, and for a moment it scared him.