While the Music Played

by Nathaniel Lande

  I hadn’t thought this way before, imagined the existence of such words, or rather such feelings that couldn’t quite be expressed, and Sophie had a different way about her, a way of making me understand something new. Already the world seemed a different place, more fragile but also full of possibilities. She was more than just a lovely girl. She was, I decided right there, on that spot in Prague, on that day, the most special person I had ever met, and I was—just as Hans said about music, about what it could do to you—I was taken to another place by the way she spoke. I wanted to write down her every word, to commit them to memory, carry them with me beside that photograph always next to my heart, so maybe her words would become mine. That memory box I had just created was already starting to fill up. I knew that Sophie could help me to understand the world, to feel happy, and maybe I could help her as well.

  Because of my brace, I tired easily, and this walk was starting to take its toll. Sophie took my arm.

  “I’m with you, Max. I’m right next to you.”

  My cheeks flushed. My classmates would tease me about having a girlfriend.

  “It’s our secret. Just ours, and only for us to know.”

  “When I saw your snapshot, I thought you were handsome. But you’re bold too.”

  “Am I like you imagined?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you these things, but you are,” Sophie replied, swirling around, her dress fluttering. “Yes, Max, I like you very much. There, I said it.”

  I had never been quite as happy as I was in that moment.

  I was floating on air, eyes closed, arms outstretched. I felt like dancing.

  “What are you doing?” Sophie asked, as she sat down in the shade on top of a stone wall.

  I didn’t have an answer. I sat beside her and held her hand. It felt as if it had always belonged there, and I inched closer to her. An elderly couple passing by smiled at us and jolted me back into reality.

  Sophie, ignoring them, whispered, “When you least expect it, something happens.”

  It was a profound message, I thought. Profound was a word that David had just taught me, and it perfectly captured what Sophie had just said, like words from my own teletype machine. Sophie was the message. She had just arrived, and I didn’t want her to leave. Ever.

  “I can speak to Poppy,” I said. “You can stay with us.”

  “In the castle on the hill?”

  “Well, almost.”

  “Is Poppy your father?” she asked, leaning toward me as she spoke, smoothing her skirt.

  “Yes! The Great Viktor Mueller.” I waved an imaginary ivory baton.

  “The same man in the castle? You call your father ‘the Great Viktor Mueller’?”

  “Of course. I call him great, because, well that’s what he is. He’s great, for sure! There’s no one like him. You will meet him, and you’ll love him too.”

  “I’d fancy that,” said Sophie, and hopped off the wall. “Onward, Max! We have your city to explore and so little time to do it.”

  We passed the concert hall, where I had spent so many hours watching Poppy rehearse, and it felt very personal to me.

  Sophie admired the building. “Just think how many memories are there, Max. I wish there was a concert right now, and if there were, I’d sit with you and Poppy in your box, and the lights would dim, and we wouldn’t have to say much, but just listen, Max. We could listen together, because it’s music that we both love—it’s music that holds us all together. The ancient Greek philosophers used to believe that, that music held everything together, and I think they were right. We’ll have to do that someday, Max, you and I.”

  “I think we can do that now,” I found myself saying with a confidence that I never knew I had.

  The National Theater had a stone foundation, beautiful, slender columns, and a stunning, slated roof absorbing the warmth of the sun, and was bordered by towering trees that seemed to accept the building as part of nature, as a natural landmark.

  Outside, a poster read, “tonight, johann strauss, conducted by viktor mueller.” There was a photograph of Poppy holding his baton.

  “Yes, that’s Poppy,” I exclaimed proudly.

  “Will we find him inside?” Sophie ran her fingers up a balustrade leading to an entrance hall.

  “We best go around back,” I said, leading her to the stage entrance.

  As we entered, a porter greeted us. “Hello, Max. You here to tune?”

  “Just to listen,” I replied.

  “Maestro hasn’t arrived, but the orchestra is warming up. You can take your friend to your usual seats.”

  I felt important and bursting with pride, and soon we climbed the marble staircase to Poppy’s box. We took our places in the blue velvet seats and stared down at the players who would take us on a glorious musical journey.

  “This must be your palace, Max.”

  “It’s my home.”

  “And what a lovely home!”

  We could see the musicians onstage warming up their instruments, starting and stopping and starting again to find and recapture a secure shared theme and then launch, as if by magic, into Wiener Blut.

  We sat in the dark, huddled together, Sophie and I, and she whispered, “Isn’t it wonderful, Max.”

  “Yes, I think that’s just what it is, Sophie.”

  “We’re musicians, Max, we hear and play every note.”

  “I have a secret to tell you, Sophie. I can tell the lady is just slightly out of tune.”

  “The lady?”

  “The piano.”

  “I didn’t hear it.” Sophie leaned closer to the stage. “You’re right, it’s just a shade off. How did you know that?”

  “I’m a piano tuner.”

  “You’re not!”

  “I am, Sophie. I’ve always had perfect pitch. Poppy is amazed. But it’s a gift that has always come naturally. I can hear an out-of-tune note a mile away. I carry these red felt ribbons with me, and they’re my tools. When I’m called upon, I slip them between the keys, and they help me register an accurate note and I apply my trusty tuning hammer. I carry that around with me too.”

  “I’m amazed. You mean you really tune pianos?”

  “Of course. I do all the best ones in Prague. And I’ll have to attend to the lady onstage before the next performance.”

  “Your piano is a she?”

  “Yes. A gentle, beautiful lady always residing in my father’s house.”

  This was indeed my father’s house, and it seemed as if the orchestra was playing for us, and for us alone.

  I noticed tears in Sophie’s eyes.

  “Why are you crying, Sophie?”

  “Because it’s so beautiful. I heard this waltz in Vienna, this simple, lovely melody. It was played by a street musician in a colorful costume with wild, multicolored ruffles. He had red cheeks and a top hat and an accordion. On the street there were German soldiers, smashing windows, beating people, and I hid in a doorway, just listening to the music, not wanting to see what was happening around me, to my city. A few people stopped for a while and then carried on along their way, doing whatever they were doing, heading off to wherever they were going, and the man just kept on playing. But it was the strangest thing, he simply wouldn’t stop, even though some of the German soldiers tried to push him away. But his music prevailed and in time seemed to soften them a little and I saw a tear in his eye. And I wept, too, because I felt the same—a mixture of terrible sadness but also some kind of happiness that this was possible, that this could happen, the music could carry on through all of this. This happiness and sadness, they seemed to be companions, even friends. Max, with words and music, we can make a difference. I believed that then and I believe it now.”

  Sophie took my breath away. Again, I was stunned into silence. I felt happy, but I could also feel that it was a fragile thing, thi
s happiness, a fleeting moment. I had a strange knowledge of something just then, like a shadow behind me, just out of sight, and I thought of all the parties and the wonderful meals and the walks with Poppy and the talks with him and Hans and the games of football with David and the concerts and everything that seemed beautiful and everlasting, and I knew that the feeling I had right then with Sophie, a feeling of happiness and safety and the sense of belonging and all the good memories, along with the moment that contained it, would pass and I wondered what else would pass along with it. And what would come next?

  Outside, the afternoon was edging toward evening. We walked to Old Town and visited a shop called Madam Belinka, where Sophie admired a straw hat with a long, colored ribbon.

  “It was made for you,” I said, and I bought it, along with a pair of white gloves, with the crowns I earned from my job. They belonged together.

  As much as I hated to end the day, we finally headed back to meet Hans and Edith, just as the sun was setting upon my beautiful city. My mother’s city and today ours as well.

  When we left for the station, Hans gave Edith a crystal paperweight, hoping she would feel better.

  “I can’t accept anything so dear,” Edith protested.

  Hans smiled. “Please think of it as a housewarming present for your new home.”

  He only gave away things that he liked himself.

  Shortly later, Hans helped us load the luggage into a taxi and we headed back to the station. As Sophie and Edith took in their last glimpses of Prague, I turned to Sophie and whispered, “If you ever need anything, just let me know.”

  “I will, Max, I will. And you do the same.” Her sky-blue eyes were brimming with tears, like soft rain falling on a sunny day. “We must keep writing. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me now.”

  She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. It took all the effort I could muster not to blush.

  Inside the station, she gave me a handful of hard candies.

  “Something special from home,” she said. “I’ve been saving them for you. Something to remember me by.”

  I hadn’t expected anything from her. “Sophie, I …”

  “Goodbye, Max. And thank you,” she said, reaching out and touching my hand as we walked down the platform. Why was she going?

  I gave her one of my red-felt tuning ribbons. “Hold it dear. I’ll collect it someday.”

  She took it and put it next to her cheek and boarded the train with her mother.

  “Don’t leave,” I whispered, my words chugging in perfect cadence with the train. Please don’t leave, please don’t leave, please don’t leave. And she was gone.

  That night, Sophie was the only thing on my mind. I reread all her letters. With her beautiful face and musical voice attached to the words, it was like reading them for the first time. In my dreams, I took her to places that Poppy had told me about. We could waltz in a ballroom with an orchestra playing. We would run over a beach by the seaside, the endless white sand trailing behind us. We would hear Beethoven together at the concert hall. I was lost, lost forever somewhere beyond my thoughts.

  I had discovered that loving someone is like falling down a flight of stairs—each step tumbled into another feeling, headfirst and upside down, until I was almost dizzy, and when I hit bottom, I knew that each dizzying step was taking me where I wanted to go. I didn’t ever need to make my way back upstairs again.

  Staring at the ceiling, I planned our perfect trip until I finally drifted toward sleep and, closing my eyes, I had a final glimpse of footprints in the sand before a wave swept over them.

  Sophie and I belonged together.

  THE GREAT

  VIKTOR MUELLER

  There’s a saying in Prague that every other Czech must be a musician, and my father, though German, was no different. As the conductor of the Czech Philharmonic, he loved to perform. Everything he did, from how he spoke to how he carried himself, revealed that he longed to be an actor. He was a natural master of disguise, slipping easily from character to character, a talent that amused everyone around him. He would be a bent-over old man one moment, a flamboyant magician the next. David, Hans, and I would laugh until we cried, watching him play so many roles. He always seemed more alive in those moments; the loss of my mother less sharp, his delight in the moment more vibrant.

  From my seat on our sofa, I imagined him as a real wizard, someone who could levitate ten feet off the floor and always land gracefully on his feet. He also could do just about anything. He was my Poppy, but even I occasionally called him the Great Viktor Mueller, even in his presence. He was like seltzer water, bubbling over, refreshing, larger than life. He could speak in rhyme, sing in colors, and see unlimited possibility in the world around him. He was a traveler carrying endless surprises in his bag of tricks.

  The Great Viktor Muller always had a distinct sparkle to him. He took great pride in his heritage, in his adopted city, Prague, as well as in Berlin, the city of his birth. Berlin was a city of poetry and music, he told me over and over. A fine violinist and an inspired conductor, he applied his talents not only to music but to drama. His productions of famous operas were the talk of Berlin and Prague.

  He and his best friend, Hans, were sitting in the much-loved Municipal House café one afternoon, when he saw my mother for the first time. He swore to himself then and there, If I am ever properly introduced to this woman, I promise I’ll never look back. They met that day and he kept his word.

  Like all great performers, Poppy was a fantastic teller of tales. One of my favorites was his story of “The Distant and Mysterious Man.” It began as a bedtime story, but as the years passed it would be part of our walks and mealtimes, and sometimes when I was younger and taking a bath, Poppy would sit on the side of the tub and tell an amazing tale over the gurgling water and soap bubbles. I eagerly awaited each new installment.

  The Distant and Mysterious Man was named Armand Duval, and he lived near the Arctic Circle, just beyond the Hungarian border. Gypsy music played there, under a red-and-blue sky called the Northern Lights. Armand was magical, and had long conversations with his faithful companion, White Dog. Their mission was to collect emeralds and give them to the poor. The emeralds they recovered were stashed in a concealed vault in the Russian sea. The two of them traveled on a steamer ship called Propensity of the Seas, and it moved silently, always clouded in fog. And White Dog would always save Armand from the most dangerous situations.

  On assignments to find emeralds, Armand was forever trying to outwit his archnemeses, the du Quetman Gang. Time and again, they would kidnap him and leave him to die, but each time, White Dog would rescue him, and the adventure would begin again. Armand always kept an emerald in his pocket for good luck. He loved to read and listen to music, and his favorite food was strudel.

  Poppy, I decided, must think emeralds are good luck. He carried one, just a small one, loose in his pocket. But what was luck anyway? Was Armand lucky? He wasn’t lucky to get kidnapped so often but was certainly lucky to have White Dog. Was luck something that just happened by chance, or was it a real force, perhaps something that could happen in the shape of a person? I wondered if Sophie was that person, that piece of luck. Listening to the tales of the Distant and Mysterious Man, I realized that the most frightening thing about luck was that you could lose it in an instant.

  There were other treasured times, especially when we stepped out of distant fantasy and hiked over hills to admire views of the city and sat on the banks of the Moldau, watching sailboats skim the water and dangling our feet in the cool river until evening, when huge quicksilver patterns mysteriously danced.

  Looking at them swirl, Poppy said, “They’re telling stories to each other.”

  “What kind of stories?” I asked.

  “Probably about everything they feel. Sometimes calm, then a storm comes along, stirs things up, but most of the time, slow and easy.”<
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  “Is that their story?

  “Everything has a story.”

  I looked out to the boats with multicolored sails. “They’re pretty, don’t you think?” I wondered if they were sailing somewhere or nowhere.

  “They’re always sailing to the land of somewhere,” Poppy said. He could read my mind. “To Camelot or Serendipity.”

  Serendipity. Where three princes sailed to a land of surprise.

  So often we fell deeply into pretending.

  On Sundays, Poppy and I explored the concert halls and parks near our home. Although we rarely talked about my mother on these days, I knew that we were both thinking about her, and I often imagined that she was there somehow, an invisible but powerful presence between us, keeping us moving and holding us together.

  They had met at a French bistro in Municipal House, where formally dressed waiters had ready smiles. Overhead, a spectacular art nouveau ceiling was decorated with Alphonse Mucha’s murals. Paintings of slender art deco ladies were everywhere in sight.

  I wondered if my mother was among them. The elegant landmark had been a gathering place for artists and writers, the glamorous, since its opening in 1912. It would not have existed without the concert halls upstairs, where my father conducted so often to such acclaim. Over glasses of frothy hot chocolate, my father and I enjoyed every moment together, and that mattered.

  We walked everywhere. Poppy would just wave his hand at me when I started to lag. I knew all the walking was to strengthen my legs, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. One day we walked twenty-five minutes to Wenceslas Square, along a wide boulevard, to the theater where Mozart first conducted his opera Don Giovanni. We stopped for a moment at a statue of Mozart, and Poppy stood next to it and began to sing.

  “Attention, everyone, the Great Viktor Mueller!” I announced to the crowd rushing past. With his cane, his straw hat, and his ruffled shirt, Poppy looked like someone special, even if you didn’t know who he was.