Fingers

by William Sleator

  Outside, the huge trucks grunted and belched in B major. Luc started to say something, but she silenced him with her hand. It was very hot in the dark, cramped room, and I could feel sweat trickling down my ribs. Bridget’s eyes were level with mine; she would not look away. The plan was preposterous and it would never work, but it was something new and it might turn out to be interesting. “Well … all right, I guess I could try it,” I said.

  “Good,” Bridget said crisply, turning away from me at last to reach for a cigarette. “You’d better start right away. The concert’s tomorrow, and Humphrey has to wake up with the music in the morning.” She checked her watch. “Isn’t it time for you to get him over to the theater, Luc?”

  They always arranged for Humphrey to have a day or two to practice on a new piano and get used to a concert hall; and it was Luc who supervised and escorted him. Humphrey could play the notes and memorize music when it was drilled into him, but he was hopeless as far as anything practical was concerned. As well-traveled as he was, he had never had time to learn how to handle money or get around unfamiliar cities or deal with strangers and foreign languages. They never let him out on his own. At the moment he was asleep in the next room.

  “But I never agreed to go along with this,” Luc said petulantly. He was obviously miffed that Bridget had chosen me to come up with the music. “We have to be very careful, if we really are going to go ahead with this implausible scheme. We could easily get ourselves into an embarrassing scandal. There are many considerations. We still have problems to solve.”

  “Yes? Go on,” said Bridget, snapping her lighter. “Out with it, Luc. We haven’t much time.”

  He scratched his stubble. “Well, which composer, for instance?”

  “Does it really matter very much?” she said impatiently.

  “Of course it does. Some would be easier to fake than others.”

  “Well?” She looked back and forth between us. “Any ideas?”

  Luc put his hands behind his back and stuck out his lower lip. He nodded. “Someone rather simple, of course, if you insist on letting Sam attempt it I think Haydn might be the best.”

  “Magyar,” I said Without thinking, just to disagree with him.

  “Magyar!” he sputtered. “But that’s preposterous. To try to concoct fake Magyar? They’ll laugh Humphrey off the stage.”

  “They already do. And I’m doing Magyar or nothing.”

  “Are you sure, Sam?” Bridget said, looking a little worried now. “Do you know what you’re talking about? Well?”

  But I was thinking. Laszlo Magyar, the wizard of the keyboard, the legendary nineteenth century Hungarian with gypsy blood who could play anything. The pianist who was rumored to have made a pact with the devil in order to achieve his superhuman technique. And who occasionally dabbled in composition by taking gypsy tunes and arranging them as splashy shallow salon pieces. Humphrey had played them often in the past, to great acclaim.

  “Well, Sam? I asked you a question.”

  “He’s perfect,” I said, feeling brilliant. “He didn’t compose much. We have his compete piano works in two volumes. People who know anything about piano music are familiar with all of it; they’ll recognize a new piece instantly.” I looked from Bridget to Luc. They didn’t say anything, so I went on. “You know how flashy his stuff is; even if they don’t believe it’s real, Humphrey will wow them technically. But his music is also simple. It’s just a matter of arranging a little tune and then tacking on big chords and fancy cadenzas. Everybody knows it’s just a lot of superficial tricks. That’s why we might get away with faking it. But to try faking somebody really great, like Haydn? Forget it.”

  “Well, Luc?” said Bridget.

  “Sam, go wake up Humphrey,” Luc ordered.

  “My pleasure,” I said, and left Suddenly I felt marvelous, better than I had in years. Let him whine and complain. I knew I was right, and that Bridget would let me do what I wanted. Now I was beginning to like her little plan very much indeed.

  Humphrey was still asleep in the dim adjoining bedroom. He was a soft mountain under the sheet, with a protruding foothill of a head topped by thick black curls. His blubbery lips opened as he snored. He slept with his hands folded over his chest, his enormous, oddly shaped hands with their broad flat palms and widely spaced fingers that thickened toward the first joint and then tapered curiously toward the nails. I reached over and poked one of them.

  Humphrey started, and his little eyes, set close together under one thick eyebrow, snapped open. Large though he was, his first reaction on seeing me hovering over him was to cringe away.

  “Time to get up, Humf,” I said melodiously. “Time to begin another wonderful day of practicing.”

  “Uhhh …” Humphrey rolled over. “So sleepy …”

  “I know you’re a growing boy, Humf, but ten hours of sleep ought to be enough.” I switched on the glaring overhead fixture and pulled open the window shutters, letting in the stifling Italian sunlight, the noise and the fumes.

  Humphrey put one plump arm over his eyes. “Uh, Sammy, it was such a pretty dream,” he said hoarsely. “A picnic, on a green field with flowers. And we were next to the water … So pretty. You, and me, and somebody else … Who was it?”

  “No Mama and Papa? You dreamed about getting away from them?”

  “No Mama and Papa. Just you and me and somebody … else. I can’t remember who. But we were all happy. Even you were happy, Sammy. It was nice to see you happy.” He took his arm away and gazed up at me with those naive little eyes.

  “Very pretty, Humf. But unfortunately Mama and Papa are still with us, and they’re not going to be very happy at all until they get you back in your place behind that keyboard.” I stepped back to the bed and pulled the covers off. His belly bulged out over the pants of his striped shorty pajamas, and the one button left straining to hold the shirt together was ready to pop off. I poked him on the threadbare thigh. “Up!”

  He knew enough not to complain or protest. He thumped sadly off the bed and I propelled him from the rear to the bathroom down the hall, then returned to Bridget and Luc.

  They were still in their bathrobes. Luc was pouting, but Bridget said quietly, “Go ahead with the music the way you want, Sam. Just be sure to let Luc check it over. He is the expert.” Luc was probably too dense to notice the sarcasm in her voice. She must have told him that I would be doing the tedious mechanical work and that his job would be to slip in the important professional details. Fine, let the slob think what he wanted. I still felt superior, for the first time in many a year.

  Soon Humphrey and Luc were off to the theater, looking like seedy twins in their rumpled, ill-cut black suits, yellowing, open-necked dress shirts, their large hands clutching beaten-up music cases. Bridget departed, chic and preoccupied in a blue linen dress, in search of a compliant doctor and a pharmacy.

  I stole one of Bridget’s cigarettes and watched myself smoke it in the mirror, trying to look tough in a black T-shirt and American denims. My father’s African genes had combined interestingly with Bridget’s Irish ones, leaving me with wavy black hair, a tawny complexion, rather full lips and slightly almond-shaped eyes. I basked in the pleasure of bearing no resemblance at all to Humphrey and Luc, until the cigarette began to make me feel sick. I squashed it out, hunted up some music paper, and got to work.

  2

  “NO, thank you, Mama,” Humphrey said as we were about to go out for dinner that evening. “I don’t need any pill. I feel fine.”

  Bridget reached up tenderly to stroke his forehead. “But Humphrey, my lamb, you look so pale and wan. This little vitamin pill will only make you feel better.”

  “But I feel good already,” Humphrey insisted, moving toward the door. “Can’t we go eat now? I’m starving.”

  Bridget, Luc and I exchanged a glance. None of us had expected any resistance from the usually docile Humphrey. The plan, in fact, had depended upon Humphrey accepting the pill without even thinking about
it. If the pill became an issue, he might remember it the next day. Then, gullible though he was, there was the remote chance that he would put two and two together and not fall for our ghostly explanations. And even if he did, he might mention the pill to someone else, which could mean catastrophe.

  Luc and I watched Bridget, who, as always, had the final say. For an uncharacteristic moment, indecision showed on her face as she stood there, poised, the gleaming red capsule in her outstretched palm. Of course she could very easily force him to take it, by accusing him of not practicing hard enough, not playing well, then getting Luc and me to back her up. But was it worth the risk of his remembering it? And was there another more devious way of getting the dope into his system? I could see her weighing and balancing, as we waited silently in the steamy little room.

  Then Humphrey turned back from the door. “Is something wrong?” he said, wide-eyed. “I thought we were going to go eat. I’m so hungry I can hardly stand it.”

  Bridget smiled gently at him and slipped the pill back into the pocket of her suit “Of course there’s nothing wrong, darling,” she said, reaching for Luc’s arm. “Shall we go?”

  The cramped cafe next door to the grimy hotel lobby was very likely the worst place to eat in all of Venice. But for practical reasons, it was the dining spot of choice for us that evening. We made our way past the hiccupping jukebox and arranged ourselves awkwardly at a tiny round table. When Humphrey settled his weight on the flimsy metal chair, it creaked in F-sharp major.

  Since the perfume of fishy grease was all-pervasive anyway, Luc, Bridget and I ordered frittura mista and white wine. Humphrey asked for three cheeseburgers and, as usual, a Coke.

  When the waiter returned with the drinks, our eyes zeroed in on Humphrey’s glass as though we had never seen the stuff before. But before Bridget had a chance to make her move, Humphrey snatched the glass and drained it in one gulp. “Nice and sweet,” he said approvingly, licked his lips and belched.

  “Ragazzo,” shrilled Bridget. “Per favore, una altra Coca Cola.”

  “For me?” said Humphrey, when the waiter pushed the second glass toward him. “Gee, thanks, Mama.” He reached for it.

  “Oh, Humphrey.” Bridget’s delicate hand shot out and pinned Humphrey’s massive one to the stained plastic tablecloth. “Wait a minute. It’s not good for you to drink it so fast.”

  “But I’m so thirsty, Mama. Please.”

  The veins stood out on Bridget’s hand as she held Humphrey’s in place; her furious eyes shot out a command at me and Luc. But Luc, shredding his paper napkin, his eyes darting around at the other diners, did nothing.

  “Humphrey!” I said, pointing at the street outside the store-front window. “Look out there. I just saw the funniest person go past.”

  “Huh?” Humphrey said without interest, his eyes on the Coke.

  “Oh, he’s gone now,” I said sounding disappointed. “Come on, Humf, let’s go out and look.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Humphrey, who would have spent his entire life without moving if he could have gotten away with it. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Oh, come on, Humf, he was so funny,” I said, reaching behind Humphrey’s chair. His chronic inertia had inspired me over the years to develop many effective little prodding techniques. With a squeal, Humphrey was on his feet.

  “Go on, Humphrey, dear,” Bridget said. “Sammy’s only trying to be nice. Your Coke will still be here when you get back.”

  Sighing, Humphrey followed me outside. Of course I had seen nothing, but I had to keep him out there long enough for Bridget to dissolve the Seconal in his Coke. I looked around quickly, but the usual colorful denizens of the area had unaccountably vanished. There were only a couple of totally ordinary looking people in the distance.

  “There,” I said, pointing at a little old man in black about a block away from us on the other side of the street. “Did you ever see that old man with the long hair before?” It was feeble, but it would have to do.

  Humphrey squinted in the direction of my finger. “No, I don’t think so,” he said.

  I looked back into the restaurant. Bridget was nodding at me. “But he looks so familiar,” I said. “I thought you would remember where we saw him. That’s why I wanted to show you.”

  Humphrey shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry, Sammy, but I just can’t. I wish I could help you.” He shook his head piteously, as disturbed as if he had failed to remember his own name.

  “That’s okay, Humf. Let’s go back inside.”

  “Have some Coke, dear,” Bridget said when we sat down.

  “Oh, sure,” Humphrey said. He picked up the glass and sipped daintily at it, then put it down, almost full.

  The waiter came back to drop off our food. The mixed fry was a pile of limp unidentifiable objects, lukewarm, though at some point they had been fried enough to blacken the batter. The three of us made little headway. Humphrey, however, plunged into his burgers with enthusiasm—and soon after that, drained his Coke. Bridget relaxed visibly, leaning back in her chair for the first time since she had sat down. A little prematurely, it turned out.

  After Humphrey consumed some pastries that looked about ten years old, and Bridget and Luc had dawdled rigidly over espresso, we were ready to go. The check had been paid, it was about half an hour since Humphrey had finished the doped Coke—giving him another fifteen minutes or so of consciousness.

  Then an English woman wandered in and recognized him.

  “Why I believe you’re that American boy who plays the piano, aren’t you,” she said, stopping beside our table. She was clutching the hand of a pale little girl of about ten in a big floppy hat. “You remember, don’t you, Sally? We saw him at the Albert Hall last year.” She adjusted her glasses and looked Humphrey over again. “Or, at least, I thought there was some resemblance …”

  “Oh, yes, Humphrey performed at the Albert Hall last January,” Bridget said brightly. She believed in public relations, and she was not going to let a fan slip through her fingers. “And he’s performing tomorrow night, here in Venice.”

  “How lovely,” the woman said, sitting down heavily at the table beside ours. “Sally plays the piano too, you know, and she just loves it. I can hardly tear her away, isn’t that right, Sally? Her teacher is Enrico Slogan; you’ve heard of him, of course. He thinks she’s very talented. He told me that …”

  Bridget listened politely, trying to appear interested, and looking frequently at her watch. Luc was now meticulously at work on my greasy paper napkin. And I had my eye on Humphrey, who was beginning to exhibit a quirky little smile. Every once in a while Bridget would rise, trying gracefully to get us out of there, but the woman paid no attention.

  “ … develops not only the artistic sense, but also a healthy respect for discipline, wouldn’t you say? But of course play is very important as well. Sally adores country walks and needlepoint and—”

  “What I love is mud,” Humphrey interrupted, smiling at the little girl.”

  “I don’t believe I caught that,” the woman said, laughing.

  “Mud, slime,” said Humphrey, his eyes blissful. “I always dream of taking off all my clothes and just wallowing in it. Don’t you?”

  Now Sally was alert. “Oh, yes,” she said in her perfect English accent. “I adore slime.”

  “Sally!”

  “We must go now,” Bridget said, standing up and pulling at Luc’s upper arm. “Humphrey’s had a tiring day.”

  Now we were all on our feet except Humphrey and Sally. “I love the way it squishes thick and warm between your toes,” Sally said.

  “It must be wonderful,” Humphrey said dreamily. “I never really did it, I just always wanted to. Mama, can we find some mud tonight?”

  “Luc and Sammy, will you help Humphrey, please?” said Bridget. She turned to the woman. “So nice to have met you. Please come to Humphrey’s concert. Teatro La Fenice.”

  “I’m afraid we’re leaving Venice tomorrow,” the woma
n said coldly.

  “’Bye, Sally,” said Humphrey, standing now, weaving slightly.

  Luc and I each took one of his arms and began maneuvering him between the tables. But he was bigger and heavier than either of us and listing unsteadily. “Scusi. So sorry. Scusi. Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Luc kept murmuring, as Humphrey bumped into people. Fortunately it was not a high class place, and the clientele appeared to be used to young men who had had too much wine. The only really sticky moment came when we reached a grandfather in an undershirt whose stomach prevented him from moving any closer to his table. We managed with difficulty to squeeze past him. But then Humphrey scooped up a huge handful of Linguine con Vongole from the man’s plate, dragged the dripping strands across the man’s bald head and slurped them up before we could stop him. The man’s veins bulged; but Luc dropped one or two lira on the table, and we got out of there fast.

  Humphrey lurched around the tiny elevator, laughing to himself, and I wondered if the creaking little contraption was going to make it. Once inside our bedroom, Humphrey sank down onto the floor and didn’t want to move. “Mud, just give me some mud to explore,” he sang tunelessly. I had to slap and pinch him like crazy to get him up into the chair at the little desk. He folded his arms on the desk top and rested his head on them. His eyes slid shut.

  Only to open feebly a moment later. “Sammy,” he mumbled. “Sammy, I remember now, I remember where we saw that old man. It was … he was …” His eyes closed again, and at last he began to snore.

  In the other room, Bridget was smoking furiously.

  “Well, at least Humphrey’s not a mean drunk,” I said.

  “Don’t be flip, Sam. Is he asleep? At the desk?”

  “He’s very neatly arranged, and I don’t think he’ll be moving for another ten hours.”

  “Well that’s a relief,” she said, sinking down into a chair. “I suppose we’re lucky. That very easily could have been a disaster.”