When Stani woke
at last and Milo was able to tell him just enough of his condition and the
events buried somewhere in his memory, he felt he was prepared for the weeks
and months to come.
He knew that Stani
had trusted him from that first handshake so many years before, and he intended
to play on that trust now.
The
psychiatrist had advised them to use caution, not provide too much information
at once, so that Stani's memory might return slowly.
Milo once again put John Kimble in charge of
protecting the boy.
No one, with the
exception of the four, Milo and Jana, Peg Shannon and John, would be left alone
with Stani.
He was not to watch
television or listen to the radio without one of them at his side.
The therapists assigned to his case were
cautioned with regard to his memory loss.
Even Mamie and Robert were instructed on acceptable topics of
conversation in Stani’s presence.
The day Stani
was released to return to their apartment Robert brought the car to the loading
dock at the rear of the hospital.
Milo
was certain he did not want photographs of Stani, his arm bound to his side,
his head still bandaged, plastered on the pages of the tabloids.
At Jana's
insistence, Milo had telephoned Stani's mother in London, explaining the
seriousness of his injuries and the expected lengthy recovery.
He had offered to fly her to New York and put
her up in a hotel, thinking it was only right that she would want to see him
for herself.
But she had declined, using
the excuse that at this point in time Stani would most likely prefer for them,
Milo and Jana, and his other friends to see him through his recovery.
Milo never
mentioned to Stani that he had talked with his mother.
Why risk opening a subject that might disturb
him further, when he was already so pensive?
Once at home, Stani settled into a sort of routine.
Therapists came daily to work with him, Jana
and Peg fussed over him, and John Kimble played endless games of chess and
cards with him.
But Stani remained
withdrawn, responding politely to the attention, but spending hours in silent
contemplation.
He never once asked for
his violin or mentioned music.
They
should wait for his cue, they agreed, allow him to resume his life at his own
pace.
But the waiting became more
anxious with every passing day.
Chapter Twenty-three
Peg Shannon was
not the kind of woman who willingly sat and waited.
As she watched Stani in the days after his
release from the hospital, she believed she could see where her talents might
be most beneficial.
Not so different
really from that first time, when she had seen that she could do more for Stani
than just give a few dinner parties to raise money for his tour.
When she had
offered her services to Milo Scheider, agreeing to spearhead the effort to
raise the necessary funds for Stani's first major tour, she had added one
condition.
She asked to be given free
rein with the boy, to give him some style and stage presence.
It wasn't enough, she told Milo, for Stani's
musical genius to amaze concertgoers.
He
had the potential to be a real star, to capture the imagination and admiration
of his audiences as well.
Milo was more
than a little skeptical; but if that was all it took to convince this woman,
known for her skill at raising large sums of money for those artists in whom
she took an interest, he was certainly willing to let her try to put a little
polish on the boy.
Peg Shannon, at
nearly thirty, was a recognized force among arts patrons.
For more than ten years, first at her
father's side and then on her own, she had worked in the family's philanthropic
trust.
The son of an Irish immigrant
banker, Peg's father Michael had made his fortune in the world of finance.
In his declining years, he had dedicated his
life to dispersing his wealth, and that of his friends, in support of worthy
causes.
He had a talent for setting one
would-be donor against another so that by the time they were done outdoing one
another the donations were far more generous than he had initially
requested.
Likewise, Peg had achieved
the same end hostessing small dinner parties, where two or three potential
patrons might find themselves writing checks at the end of the evening, the
sums dictated more by their egos than their interest in the cause of the
moment.
An attractive
even striking woman, with fine intelligent blue eyes and the classic features
of her Irish ancestors, Peg Shannon was known for her sense of style and her air
of elegant confidence.
She was private
and discreet, with many admiring acquaintances and few intimate friends.
Working so closely with her father, she
rarely made decisions regarding her fund-raising efforts without first
consulting him.
In the case of Stani
Moss, after she had heard him play at a private concert alongside other young
musicians, she told her father that the little violinist might soon set the
world of classical music on its ear.
“But you'd
never suspect it to look at him, Dad,” she commented over brandy after she'd
returned home that evening.
“He looks as
if he might fall over with embarrassment, and then he plays like someone
possessed.
He's not a bad looking kid,
although he has the most ridiculous haircut; and he certainly could do with a
good tailor.”
Her father
laughed, sensing where this was likely headed.
“I seem to hear a project coming on.
Are you sure you want to take on an adolescent
boy?”
“That's the
other thing.
According to the program
notes, he's seventeen.
He's been
performing since he was ten years old.
It's not that he hasn't had the experience, he just seems to lack any
sort of stage presence.
I think it might
be possible to turn him into something of a rock star.
He's got the looks, if you can get past that
hair.
It might be fun to give him some
style, spruce him up a little, bring his appearance up to par with that
incredible talent.”
“Sleep on it,
Professor Higgins,” Michael teased.
“You
might be safer just raising money rather than taking a boy to raise.”
But Peg had
been intrigued by the possibilities and with Milo's blessing set out to
transform Stani, first by becoming his friend.
Although twelve years his senior, she was warm and open with him, asking
his permission and clearly stating her plan.
Doubtful but not unwilling, he agreed to let her try, warning her that
he was not a quick study and tended to be easily distracted.
What she soon discovered was just the opposite;
he had a quick mind, though a limited education and even more limited experience
outside his music.
She also quickly
discovered that he was motivated to please, willing to attempt anything she
suggested, just to win her approval.
Together they
shopped for clothes, replacing his uniform of khakis and baggy cardigans with
stylishly slim trousers, soft, clinging sweaters and close-fitting shirts.
She encouraged him to take a page from her
own book, avoiding colors, choosing black or gray to set off his vivid coloring
to best advantage.
She stood him before
a dressing room mirror, pulling his shoulders back and tilting his chin
up.
She showed him that while his might
not be the body of an athlete, he possessed the graceful form of a dancer.
His shoulders were broad and his chest deep,
tapering to a slim waist and narrow hips.
Though not much over five foot seven, he was perfectly proportioned,
giving the impression of greater height.
“You could be
quite elegant,” she assured him, “if you'd only stop walking around as if your
stomach hurt.”
Stani scoffed at the idea
that she thought he could be anything other than his awkward self, but he made
an obvious effort to improve his posture.
When Peg
suggested that they see her stylist to seek advice on a more mature hairstyle,
Stani jumped at the chance.
His hair, he
told her, was the bane of his existence.
Laughing, she agreed that it did seem to have a life of its own.
The hairdresser
saw immediate potential in the currently unmanageable mane.
He first encouraged Stani to let it grow
longer, to which he responded that he'd have to wear a bag over his head.
“Maybe, but
once it grows out, we will cut it into a style you like, so you can throw away
the bag,” was the pragmatic reply.
The
stylist gave him a collection of hair care products, stating bluntly that such
exotic hair could not be expected to respond well to cheap drugstore
shampoo.
If Stani would follow his
advice, he would see that in fact his hair was his finest feature.
When they left
the salon, Peg and Stani had laughed together; but Stani had faithfully
followed the prescribed regimen.
When
they returned several weeks later, his hair was indeed softer, waving rather
than curling wildly, and the color seemed deeper, closer to auburn than
red.
With the skill of a sculptor, the
stylist had trimmed and textured the mop of hair into a style that reached his
collar, parting on the left side so that it fell appealingly across his face
when he assumed a performance pose.
Peg
was amazed at the effect of this single change.
Stani now walked with head held high, even giving his hair the
occasional toss, as if proud to show off his new-found crowning glory.
They next
visited a tailor Peg's father had used for years.
Manny Weinberg was immediately taken with the
boy, circling him appraisingly before taking out his tape measure.
He pointed out to Peg the lines of the
shoulders, chest, and hips and described the cut of the new tailcoat that would
best be shown off by this boy's fine figure.
Stani stood in the midst of this discussion, blushing furiously.
When Manny asked if he had considered adding
just a bit of height by adjusting the heel of his shoes, he turned his eyes to
Peg, clearly pleading for mercy.
“Not a bad idea,
Stani.
Men are wearing those elegant
Spanish boots everywhere these days.
Manny, can you recommend a boot maker for us?”
She gave Stani's shoulder a comforting little
pat, as Manny wrote down the name and address.
“Don't worry, if you don't like them, you won't have to wear them.
And you might as well get used to people
talking about your looks, Stani.
You
can't hide anymore.
You're
gorgeous.”
Putting a hand on his flaming
cheek, she laughed softly.
When all was
said and done, Stani admitted that the boots were a success.
They were even comfortable, and he opted to
wear them most of the time.
Somehow, he
said, an inch or two made him feel far less insignificant, to which Peg laughed
until tears rolled down her cheeks.
The
idea that he had ever felt insignificant at all was beyond comprehension.
Working to
alleviate his shyness, she took him with her everywhere, introducing him to her
wide circle of acquaintances, hinting at how important he would soon be in the
world of classical music.
Now when he
walked into a room, Peg could see the admiring glances of women of all ages,
and she encouraged him to chat, even to flirt with girls who looked at him with
open interest.
She learned that he had
never had a girlfriend or many friends his own age for that matter.
Even as a child, he’d been privately tutored
without the benefit of playmates.
No
wonder he was so shy, she told him, growing up in such a bubble.
Now that he was meeting new people, he was
displaying a surprisingly charming personality along with the impeccable
manners she suspected were a direct imitation of Milo Scheider.
Peg watched
Stani rehearse, making suggestions on his posture and gestures onstage.
When she suggested he move more to the music,
and demonstrated her ideas, Stani laughed.
He would move gently as the music dictated, he said, but he would not
waltz about the stage with his violin for partner, the way Peg had done.
They practiced his entrance, striding
purposefully on stage, firmly extending his hand to the conductor,
acknowledging the orchestra.
No more
slinking to his mark, she insisted, as if he expected to be asked to leave the
stage.