At the time, I hardly gave it a second thought.
4
WE SPENT the morning after the concert, as always, reading the local papers in the hotel room. On this day, the reviews were unusual.
Actually, Humphrey only listened. Even learning to read English had been a terrific struggle for him. And though he had had more exposure than most to other cultures, his entire non-English vocabulary consisted of “hello” and “thank you” in two or perhaps three foreign languages. His non-verbal nature made things convenient for us, because we could easily skip over the main body of the foreign reviews without his being aware of it.
I wasn’t really fluent in Italian, though I knew. enough words to get the gist of things. Since Humphrey’s self-confidence had to be maintained, I denied myself the pleasure of translating aloud to him such passages as:
Throughout the concert, which seemed to go on externally, politeness only prevented us from holding our hands over our ears, or from flinging soft, rotten objects at the stage. Why such rage, you may wonder? Who is being hurt by this obtuse creature who plays the piano worse than a pig? I will name the victim: Music itself. Only a deaf man could fail to be offended to the deepest bowels by such wanton desecration …
And so on. Much like the reviews we had become used to in recent months—though these did have an exuberant Mediterranean piquancy. To shield Humphrey from such opinions had become an automatic response.
Though most of them began by deploring Humphrey’s performance, when it came to the encore they changed their tone, however reluctantly:
The anomaly was the encore, a curious piece attributed to Laszlo Magyar, which the young man played with something more than rudimentary musicianship. The fact that he is capable of playing with something approaching warmth and intelligence makes one wonder all the more why he should plow through the music of truly great composers as though it were so much dirt.
Perhaps the answer lies in the peculiar claims made about the composition, supposedly a “new” work by the pianist-composer who died at the turn of the century. The performer actually admits to having written the music himself the night before, in a kind of trance about which he remembers nothing. One could only laugh, were it not for the fact that Alexandra Nitpikskaya, Professor of Musicology at Moscow University, asserts that the music does possess an uncanny authenticity, well beyond the capabilities of the boy who wrote it.
In our humble opinion, the music did exhibit a fiendish, melancholy, calamitous brilliance that made us sit up and take notice. Where, indeed, did it come from?
“Read that part again,” demanded Humphrey, lolling smugly on Bridget’s bed. “I like that part.”
I kind of liked that part myself. But I would have liked it a lot better if I had received some credit, instead of having to watch Humphrey bask in unearned praise.
“You want to hear it again, Humphrey?” I said. “Okay, I’ll read it again. Oh, but look here! I think there’s something I accidentally skipped earlier on. Just let me read this first, before I—”
“Sam!” Bridget was carefully putting on makeup, but her reflection in the mirror caught my eye. She had been up earlier than anyone and probably had the reviews memorized. “I don’t think you skipped anything, Sam. And I’d like to hear that bit about Humphrey’s piece again, too.” She looked back into the mirror. “I don’t know if I myself would call it a ‘brilliant’ composition. More like serviceable, I’d say. But you have to admit that Humphrey did play it well, and that helped to put it over.”
The bitch! Coming up with the music was the trickiest part of the plan, our most vulnerable spot And I had done it; in fact it had worked better than we had hoped. Yet the only praise she had given me was that one cocked eyebrow in the dressing room the night before. Maybe I didn’t like her little scheme so much after all.
But before I had a chance to respond, Luc, whom she had sent out to track down more periodicals, burst into the room. “Look!” he said panting, waving one of the sensational Italian tabloids at us. “This isn’t even a local paper! We made the second page. And a picture, too!”
“Starlet Applauds Psychic Pianist!” screamed the headline. Underneath was a fuzzy picture of Humphrey in the dressing room holding my music. Beside him, the blonde was leaning forward to study the music, a posture that happened to emphasize her deep décolletage. The two of them, in fact, had so much plump flesh between them that Prendelberg was pushed almost entirely out of the picture, appearing only as a dark blurry line at one edge. Nor was his name mentioned in the caption under the photo, I was glad to see. The article raved on and on about how the starlet believed utterly in Humphrey’s communication with “the other side,” though it did devote a short paragraph or two to the Russian expert who agreed with her. Prendelberg was referred to in passing as “another pianist,” who happened to be the starlet’s escort. We were very lucky indeed that she had been there to lend some pizzazz to the occasion. And we were even more fortunate that Madame Nitpikskaya had been present to contribute a much-needed element of authenticity.
Still, it was a shock when the phone rang shortly after Luc’s arrival and we were told that she was downstairs in the lobby and wanted to come up at once.
Humphrey, who sat up expectantly, was eager to see her. Not so Bridget and Luc. The Russian had already done more for Humphrey’s career than we could reasonably have expected. All that was needed from her now was for her to go on believing and leave us alone. A closer examination of Humphrey on the home front would improve nothing and would only give her the opportunity to discover that something fishy was going on. Bridget’s first impulse was to get rid of her.
But she couldn’t As our most important ally, they owed her the common courtesy of inviting her up. And to turn her away when she already believed would only arouse suspicion. Bridget really had no choice, I was glad to see. For though I was a little apprehensive myself, I was also very curious to hear what else she might have to say about my composition.
“You go down and bring her up, Luc,” ordered Bridget. “And take your time about it.” Then she hastily finished her toilette while Humphrey and I raced around the room hiding dirty stockings and underclothes and soft-drink bottles and old newspapers and crumpled tissues—Bridget was neat on the outside but a slob underneath. As we heard the elevator clanking toward our floor she said, “I think you’d better keep out of the way, Sam, in the other room. We don’t want to confuse the issue.”
“Hey, hold on a minute,” I protested. “I have just as much a right to hear—”
“Do as I say, Sam,” she snapped.
“But it’s my thing, and I want him to stay,” asserted Humphrey, attempting to wield his newly restored importance. (This was the most publicity he had received for over a year.) “Why can’t he stay, anyway?”
“Because I say so,” said Bridget, in a voice like liquid nitrogen.
“And I don’t need any help from you, Humphrey!” I said, and slammed the door as I left the room.
As disappointed as I was, I could understand why Bridget wanted me out of the picture. I don’t think she was really worried that I would purposely give anything away out of resentment of Humphrey—it had been years since I kicked that photographer. The real reason was that she wanted to play down the fact that there was another member of the entourage who knew something about music, and who therefore could have written Magyar’s composition. And as it turned out, it would have been disastrous indeed if she had allowed me to stay.
Listening at the keyhole, I could hear much of what went on. The preliminaries were quickly dispensed with, and very soon the Russian woman was quizzing Humphrey exhaustively about his experience. Humphrey was as convincingly simple and obliging as he had been the night before. He was also a little freer with the imaginary details. (Did he really believe them, or was he aware that he was making them up?) I would love to have seen the look on Bridget’s face when he said, “I kind of felt like I was fighting against a … a force or so
mething, that wanted to take me over and use me, and … it was using music to get at me, so I just gave in, and after that, I don’t remember anything.”
I could hear papers being rustled. “You don’t really believe there’s anything more to this than Humphrey’s imagination, do you?” Bridget said.
“Maybe yes, maybe no. Controlled research only way to know. But first … I have little test we can do here and now, please.”
“Oh, how interesting.” Bridget’s laugh was as warm as shattering glass. “If only we had more time to—”
“Will take only moment. I have pen and paper here. If you will please each write name.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, finally broken by Humphrey, who said, “Sure, why not?”
“Surely, you don’t imagine either of us could have … forged this,” Bridget said, sounding shocked and a bit insulted.
“I imagine nothing. Is unscientific. I only believe data.”
Of course Bridget could not refuse. Although if I had been in the room, with my own signature very much like Magyar’s on the manuscript, I don’t know what she would have done. I crouched by the door, once again forced to appreciate her amazing foresight as I listened to the pen scratching.
Then Humphrey said, “What about Sam?”
I winced, and very quietly began inching away. What an idiot Humphrey was! Maybe if I hid in the closet they could tell her I had gone out.
“Sam? Who is this Sam?”
Now the silence was very long, and very unpleasant indeed. At last I heard Luc clear his throat, and Bridget started to say something.
But Humphrey did a very strange thing. He interrupted Bridget. “Sam,” he said. “Uh, Sam is … our cat.”
“Your cat?” said Nitpilskaya. She began to laugh. The others joined in merrily.
I didn’t feel like laughing. I was baffled. What was going on in Humphrey’s head? Was it possible that he suspected the truth?
“No, is not necessary to find cat,” the Russian woman said. “Now let me see here. Yes … yes, is as I thought. Signatures completely different. Music composed by another personality altogether.”
“But that’s just ridiculous,” Bridget said a little too vehemently. “I’m not sure it’s good for Humphrey to give him such ideas. Especially after all that embarrassing, vulgar fuss in the press, which I was hoping we could avoid.”
“Please,” said Nitpikskaya with authority. “Now I make offer. Please come to Soviet Union, to clinic in Moscow. Is center for study of psychic phenomena. Boy is very special. I beg you to consider.”
Bridget gracefully declined, explaining that Humphrey’s schedule was too full. In the end, she did allow the Russian to extract a hesitant “maybe,” just to get rid of her. Before she left, she again expressed her excitement about my music. It had been a successful interview, all- in all. Except that I was confused by Humphrey’s lie, and hearing him praised for my work made me angry.
I waited until the elevator was on its way down and then burst into the room. The sight of Humphrey bemused and gloating with self-admiration increased my irritation. “I don’t like being called a cat!” I snarled.
“Oh, shut up, Sam!” said Bridget. “He was only trying to help.”
Humphrey looked at me wordlessly, hurt and bewildered. His expression of wounded innocence was intolerably annoying. “But why did you do it, Humphrey? Why did you lie?”
“I just thought … maybe you were busy and wouldn’t want to come in and do that silly thing, just because of what happened to me. I didn’t want to make you mad, Sammy; that’s the only reason I said it. I’m sorry it bothered you. You can have one of my comic books.”
“That’s thoughtful of you, Humphrey,” I said, feeling a bit guilty. “But next time, just keep your mouth shut in the first place, okay?”
The next day the picture of Humphrey and the blonde showed up in a glossy gossip weekly that had one of the largest circulations on the continent. That was fun, and it was very nice that Bridget’s little idea had worked so well. But it had still been Humphrey’s last concert. Where did we go from here?
Even Bridget didn’t know what to do next. We bickered half-heartedly. Only Humphrey remained buoyant, humming sections of “Yeller Gal” to himself and talking about it endlessly. It was a relief when he went to bed.
I was about ready to turn in myself, even though it was only nine-thirty, when the phone rang.
“Yes, what is it?” Bridget said listlessly. Then she brightened. “Yes, certainly … Well, hello, Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey is Humphrey’s agent, in London. It had been a while since we had heard from him.
“Yes … oh, you did? Good, I hope … no! You’re kidding!” She raised her eyebrows at Luc. “What do you mean, genuine? I … Oh, Geoffrey, don’t be silly. Humphrey just had a peculiar little fit, a sort of attack of creativity. I can’t help what they … Yes … Why that’s marvelous, Geoffrey.” She snapped her fingers at Luc, who rushed to fetch a pen for her. She began scribbling on the back page of a magazine. “Go on … what was that Milan date? Yes … yes, go on …”
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, watching her with my mouth hanging open, looking almost as stupid as Luc did. I quickly shut my mouth and picked up my book again, pretending to be indifferent.
“Of course you’ll hold out for as much as you possibly can, Geoffrey. This will support it, believe me. And a percentage too, like we used to get. Yes … yes, I’ll let you know. Thank you, Geoffrey. Very nice speaking with you.”
I put my book down when she hung up. “Well?” Luc and I said in unison.
“Milan, next week,” she said. “And after that, Geneva. It’s been years since we played Geneva!” She lifted her head triumphantly. “What did I tell you? I knew this would happen. We’re on the way again. Luc, darling, run and get us some champagne, or whatever they call it here. This is cause for celebration.”
But after the initial excitement, she quickly became thoughtful. I caught her eyes returning to me again and again over the rim of her paper cup. She was up to something.
She came out with it soon enough. “I hope you’re still full of ideas, Sam,” she said.
“Ideas? What ideas?”
“Music, of course. Humphrey needs a new encore, fast. I want him to make a bigger splash in Milan than he did here.”
“But I just finished the first one. And it wasn’t easy. Can’t he use it again?”
“He can’t keep trotting out with that same tired old piece. The audiences are going to want something new. It has to be immediate. It has to be a world premiere. That’s what gets people excited.”
“But what if I don’t have any more ideas? What if I can’t come up with another piece?”
She watched me as she sipped. “your! come up with one,” she said.
THERE WAS a great deal of confusion as we boarded the train two days later, between dealing with our baggage and fighting with the tourists. Amazingly, we did manage to get a compartment to ourselves, though an odd medicinal smell lingered in the narrow, airless space, and a package had been left behind on the dusty seat
“Sam, run and see if you can return this to whoever forgot it,” Bridget said. It was easy enough for her to be gallant when I was doing the legwork. “Hurry, the train’s about to leave.”
The package was wrapped in old yellowed newspapers. I picked it up and raced down the corridor to the doorway at the end of the car. The train was already pulling away, but I waved the package at the people on the platform and called out, “Anybody leave this? Anybody want this?”
Heads turned, but no one claimed the package. I unwrapped it slowly as I meandered back through the creaking, swaying corridor. When I saw what it was, I stopped outside the door to the compartment
Bridget rapped on the glass, and then Luc pulled open the compartment door. “What happened, didn’t anybody claim it?” Bridget said. “Sam! What’s the matter? What is it, anyway?”
“It’s a book,�
�� I said. “In English.” I felt like throwing the thing out the window.
“Speak up, Sam! What book is it?” she demanded.
“The Secret Life of Laszlo Magyar.”
5
“BUT IT’S such a weird coincidence,” I said for about the tenth time, as the train rattled through the gritty environs of Venice. “Who left it here? I don’t understand it. It’s … I don’t like it.”
“It’s a lucky coincidence, if you ask me,” Bridget said. The train wailed in D minor. She was excited about being on the road again and was not going to let herself be unnerved by a mere book—especially a cheap, shoddy edition like this one, which was obviously worth nothing. “After all,” she went on, looking at her nails, “it can’t do you any harm to learn a little more about our famous ghost, can it?”
She was right about that Anything else we claimed to be Magyar’s would have to undergo at least as much scrutiny as the last piece had, and I could no longer afford to be so recklessly haphazard about putting the music together. The more I knew about Magyar, the less likely I would be to make some stupid blunder that would give everything away. But it was hard for me to believe that finding the book was only a coincidence. It was too neat. On the other hand, who could have known that we would be sitting in this particular compartment? It was impossible to explain, and it made me uncomfortable. Still, there was nothing to do but read the book, an English translation of a work originally published in Austria.
I was still reading when we reached Milan.
Magyar was illegitimate, naturally, the son of a Hungarian count and a gypsy dancer. Born in 1850, he grew up as a kitchen boy on his father’s estate. He was not a favorite of his father’s wife, the Countess, nor of his older half-brother, the legitimate heir. Little Laszlo saw his real mother only at infrequent intervals, whenever her tribe happened to show up in the neighborhood, and they had to meet in secret. But she exerted a powerful influence on him.
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