by Noel Hynd
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. He looked back down at the pictures of the dead woman.
“Is it a case from fifty years ago?” he mused. “Or is it a case from this coming autumn? You’re a beautiful woman, Diana, and whether you think so or not, I’m convinced that Rolf feels you’re in his way. I’m worried about you. Tragedy has a way of repeating itself.” He paused, then continued. “Why don’t you move out, Diana? Or go stay with your parents for a while?”
She looked back at him.
“Why don’t you go to hell?” she said.
She got to her feet and left the table.
Thirty-one
Claire’s eyes rose as a weary Rolf Geiger came through the door to Brian Greenstone’s agency. Then her face lit with a smile. “Hi,” she said.
“Hello,” Rolf Geiger said in return. “Is Brian in?” he asked.
“He’s in,” she said. “Is he expecting you?”
“I said I’d come by sometime today,” Geiger said brusquely. “See if he can see me now.”
Rather than pick up the phone, she stood, turned and walked to Brian’s door. She wore a dark blue sleeveless short summer dress. Geiger gave it an eleven out of ten.
A moment later she reemerged. Rolf was still standing by her desk. She gave him a nod and a smile. Geiger was free to go on back to Brian’s office.
“Ah, the gods stroll insouciantly among the mortals again today,” Greenstone said by way of greeting. “Probably looking to wreak havoc upon the earthy sphere.”
He indicated a chair where Geiger was to sit.
“Knock it off, Brian,” Geiger said.
“Oh, Cranky again, huh?” said Greenstone. “Well, it beats me. Young, handsome, about to become obscenely wealthy and you choose to be cranky. Right. Be that way. See if I care.”
Geiger settled into the chair.
“You wanted to confirm the musical program in London for the promoters, right?” Geiger asked.
“Yes. That would be wonderful.”
“Beethoven’s Choral Fantasy will open the program. Then Liszt’s Totentanz. The Emperor is the main piece I want to play so I’ll probably play it third, after the intermission. Or maybe I’ll take two intermissions. I don’t know right now.”
“Intermissions could be arranged later,” Greenstone allowed.
“I might even change the order of the program on the night of the performance. Depending on how I feel. Think they’d have a problem with that?”
“Well, you might want to let the musicians of the London Philharmonic know so that they have the music in the right order. I don’t think you want to play the piano solos from Totentanz in the middle of the Emperor. Aside from that, I doubt very much that they would have a problem. If you change the order of the works on the night of the performance it might be seen as quirky. But I doubt if anyone is going to run up onstage and stop you.”
“Okay. Good,” said Geiger nodding. “By the way, who’s conducting?”
“What?”
“Tell me again who’s conducting,” Rolf said. Greenstone blinked.
“Rolf, are you all right? The conductor was the first thing we arranged. We have one of the finest in the world.”
“So who is it again?”
“Heinrich von Sauer, grandson of the great pianist Emil von Sauer, as you know. He will fly to London just for this program, Heinrich not Emil, the latter being currently dead. “
“Von Sauer, huh? Who approved him?”
“You did. He’s already signed.”
“So we’re stuck with him?”
“Rolf! This was set a month ago, and even if it hadn’t been, you should jump at this. Von Sauer works with a piano virtuoso—that would be you, I believe; you are the piano virtuoso in this sentence—as well as anyone in the world. We are indeed fortunate to have him.”
“All right, all right. What venue are we playing?”
“Covent Garden, as you again well know.”
“Explain again why.”
“Because it’s there. I dare say, if it was a good enough venue for George Frederic Handel, it will suffice for you.”
“Why not play, you know, that other one? The big one over near the British Museum?”
“Is this a crude reference to the Royal Albert Hall, which is not near the British Museum, at all, but rather is in South Kensington?”
“Yes. I guess so.”
“Covent Garden has more cachet, and by osmosis, so might you, if you can behave your suddenly very dark destructive influences and do a sensational performance there.”
Geiger considered it.
“The Beatles played the Royal Albert,” said Greenstone, expanding. “McCartney before he was respectable. So did The Who. So did Rubinstein, so did Horowitz, Cliburn, and so on. That’s rather the point. I, or I should say we, since you and I decided this, we did not want any confusion over whether this was a pop or classical performance.”
“Uh-huh.”
Greenstone paused.
“Now that I think of it, you’ve played the Royal Albert, too,” he added. “At Easter 2001 in dark blue sequined jeans and a strawberry pink formal jacket. I recall that your shtick that evening was to weave seventeen separate leitmotifs from Jagger-Richard into a piano transcription based on the main themes from Parsifal.”
“I also remember I liked that stage. You know, I always also liked that line about how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall.”
“Bully. Fine. Come here quoting Paul McCartney any time it flips your switch, Rolf, but Covent Garden is set this time around. It’s rented and it’s ‘SRO’, which in your case means, ‘Sold Right Out.’ So this, like Heinrich von Sauer, is an indelible part of your future.”
Geiger looked away into the far distance, then his attention returned.
“It’s tough for me to tell you this, Brian, because we’ve been friends for so long. But I don’t like the way some of this has been set up.”
“What the hell are we talking about?”
“I’ve been paying attention to the musical program. I’ve left the business arrangements to you. And I’m not happy with some of your choices.”
“Is this about money, Rolf?”
“Partially.”
Greenstone leaned back at his desk and drew a deep breath to calm himself. His ample midsection rumbled slightly. His vast wall of patience was starting to crumble.
“Well, aren’t we the greedy little prick today?” Greenstone chided. Then he chose a rational conciliatory approach. “Look,” he finally said, “what’s gotten into you?”
“Maybe some common sense,” Geiger said. “I’m going to be playing three concerto-type works in one program. Shouldn’t I be compensated for it?”
“My boy. Let Uncle Brian put a few fiduciary things in perspective. You will be making a guarantee of one hundred thousand pounds sterling, or in terms that may sound more tactile to you, a minimum of one hundred fifty thousand dollars for this single performance. This is the highest guarantee ever paid to a solo performer in the United Kingdom for anything aside from the major outdoor arenas. Do I make myself clear?”
Geiger tapped on the arm of his chair.
“Clear, sure. But what about those outdoor arenas? Tell me again why we’re not playing Wembley or some big football stadium.” Greenstone stared at him uncomfortably.
“Have you suffered a blow to the head recently, Rolf? You are not yourself.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Brian. You see the issue here! Why am I not booked into a larger hall? The three tenors were pulling down a million dollars each at Giants Stadium in 1996.”
Greenstone was angry. But he chose his words carefully.
“First off, you are not a tenor. No one wants to hear you croak Gershwin or Puccini or Manilow or anything else. But they do wish to hear you play Beethoven. All that’s fine. But you and I decided early on that this tour was to be a class act. No stadiums, which are highly conducive to making money and negatively conducive to fine
music. This was to be the Greatest Pianist playing the greatest music, under circumstances under which the audience could hear the music and, if we are lucky, may even be in a position to appreciate it. Recall?”
“Sort of.”
Greenstone gave him a sigh and a hopeless look. There was irritation, but also concern.
“You’ve forgotten. You’ve legitimately forgotten?” Greenstone asked. “My God, Rolf! What’s going on with you? Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Geiger slouched slightly in his chair. He ran his hand across his face and then his hair. Greenstone studied his client and knew that something was badly amiss.
“And,” Greenstone continued, “if you don’t mind my saying so, you also look awful. You appear like you need a rabies shot, that’s how you look.”
“Lay off me, Brian.”
“Rolf, I’m seeing a lot of things I don’t like, to tell you the truth. I’m seeing Rabinowitzisms, which were unseemly enough with the original cast.” Geiger glowered at his friend and agent. Greenstone continued. “I know you have probably been practicing and rehearsing intensively until the notes are running out of your ears. But you have to come up for air a bit. You will not be able to start this tour and succeed upon it if you are dead on your feet before it begins.” Geiger looked up.
“Dead, huh? On my feet? What are you talking about?”
“A figure of speech. A metaphor, I submit.”
“I didn’t care for it.” Greenstone eased considerably.
“How’s Diana?” Greenstone asked. “I want to be reassured that your private life is tranquil. Is it?”
“Diana is okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Yes. Okay. Or well, Or fine. Or lousy. Or whatever you want me to say.”
“Rolf, are there any personal problems I might help you with?”
“Personal problems?”
Geiger seemed on the point of saying something else. But then something both curious and shocking happened right before Brian Greenstone’s astonished eyes. The light from the window that faced Seventh Avenue must have hit his client from a funny angle, because Geiger suddenly looked absurdly old. It was as if the pianist had aged half a century or more in a few seconds, his face morphed into a tangled twisted road map of lines and wrinkles.
Greenstone flinched in shock at what he thought he saw.
Then Geiger moved and the disturbing vision was gone, replaced by the haggard face of the younger man, riddled with concern and preoccupation.
Geiger moved to his feet without warning.
“I guess that’s everything,” he muttered. “I have to go practice. Keep me informed.”
“I will, Rolf.” Greenstone was left dazed.
“What did I come here for this morning?” Geiger asked absently.
“To discuss your music program. London. Opening night of the world tour.”
“Ah. Yes. Did we touch on that?”
“At length,” Greenstone said, his eyes locked on his client. “Choral Fantasy, Totentanz, and the Emperor, as the various spirits so move you.”
“Yes,” Geiger nodded. “Yes, that’s right.” He smiled broadly for the first time throughout the visit. “‘as the spirits so moves me.’ That’s a good one, Brian. Very aptly put. I like that.”
Then he turned and departed, leaving Greenstone in a state of worry and abject bewilderment.
“Hi,” Clair said as Geiger emerged from Greenstone’s office.
“Hello,” Rolf answered. “Hello and god-bye.” She smiled brightly.
“I’m going to lunch,” she said. “Will you go down in the elevator with me?”
He stopped and looked at her again. She was leaning over her desk, straightening some phone messages. He reconsidered his previous scoring. In that dress she scored maybe a fifteen out of ten. And best of all, no bra. He looked directly down her dress and admired her perfect breasts. Then her eyes rose and met his, catching him and she blushed. She smiled.
“I, like, don’t really care if you look at me,” she said softly. “I’m flattered.”
“I’ll ride down in the elevator with you,” Geiger said.
Claire took Brian’s messages into his office. Then she came out, grabbed her shoulder bag, and left the office with Rolf. They went to the elevator and waited in silence for a moment.
Each time his eyes settled on her, she smiled.
“Claire?” Rolf finally asked. “What are you looking for from me?”
She shrugged impishly.
“I’d like it if you came over to where I live sometime soon,” she said. She added, ‘I’d make you feel right at home. I’d do whatever you asked me to do.”
The elevator arrived as if on cue. It was empty.
A sixteen-flight descent in an aluminum room without windows. Claire chatted the whole way down. There were no stops, no other passengers.
Claire had a place down in Greenwich Village, she said, her first pad since leaving academia. It was on West Tenth Street, not far from where it intersected with West Fourth Street. The place was on the ground floor, one tiny bedroom, a bath, one small living room and a cramped kitchen with no food in it. It was an old rent controlled apartment, illegally subleased from a disreputable college friend.
They hit the lobby. Claire remained at Rolf’s side. And at his ear.
They were outside on the sidewalk.
“Which way are you going?” Rolf asked.
“Whichever way you are,” she answered shamelessly. Her smile was now as pretty as it was mischievous. She was about five-five and her hair was honey brown with a nice glow in the summer sunlight, even on busy West Fifty-seventh. They turned east and began to walk.
“I’m going to show you something that’s special,” Claire said. “Look at this. It’s me and my no-good ex-boyfriend.”
They stopped. Claire dipped into her purse and came out with a billfold. She opened it and found a picture of herself on the beach with a handsome young man. In the picture Claire was sitting with her guy on a red beach blanket. The sand was bright around them and so was the blue sky above. Claire was wearing oversize sunglasses, a big floppy straw hat, and a wide smile. Her breasts were bare and she wore a miniscule pink bikini bottom.
Claire had beautiful skin and no tan lines.
“Do you think my breasts are pretty?” she asked.
“Well, uh, yes. Of course.”
Claire let Rolf have a good look, giggled, and then tucked the picture back into her wallet.
“Claire, are you aware that I have a live-in girlfriend?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” she answered. “And I don’t care. If she’s dumb enough to let you walk around the city by yourself, I don’t feel sorry for her. So if you want to see more, come by in person,” she teased. “I mean, you were, like, making love to me with your eyes upstairs there, right?”
“Okay. Kind of,” he admitted.
“Then come and get me, big guy,” she said.
She leaned forward and kissed him, pressing her breasts to him as she leaned. At the same time, gently, her left hand brushed across his crotch. It had the intended effect.
Then she tucked a piece of folded note paper in his shirt pocket. “See ya,” she said.
He watched her walk away. The next thing he knew, he was unfolding the paper from his pocket and reading it. Her address and phone number.
He watched her disappear into the midday crowds on the street and watched the men whom she passed. Several of the men turned their heads to gather a second look at her.
He tucked the address back into his pocket, turned, and walked in the direction of East Seventy-Third Street, still trying to put the events of the past half hour in their proper perspective.
Thirty-two
Rolf sat at the piano in his town house and played the Dance of Death. Summer had progressed and London was only a month away. Each date of the tour was set now, from the September first opening in London to the final in March. Tokyo would be the last date o
n the tour and there Geiger would conclude with Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto, one of the most difficult and demanding pieces ever written. It was of this he thought as he practiced the Totentanz that allowed the ghost of Rabinowitz materialize again.
“Not a good idea,” the ghost said as he stood over Rolf. “Rachmaninoff Three. You are not up for it.”
“I am,” Geiger said. He played Liszt as he argued Rachmaninoff. “Or at least, I will be.”
The ghost gave a dreadful little snort. One of anger and contempt.
“Watch your fingering! Watch! Hands. Hands lower!” Rabinowitz growled like a disgruntled wolf. “You are striking single notes with a force that makes the instrument moan,” Rabinowitz said. “Look! There! You are jabbing at the keys!”
Geiger drew a breath and corrected himself. Sometimes he could see Rabinowitz. Other times he could only hear him. Sometimes the ghost appeared as a young man, one whom Geiger could recognize from the old photographs. Other times he would appear very old and highly cantankerous. And always contentious. But unable to be pleased at any age.
Meanwhile, in rehearsals, Geiger’s fingers danced along the keys. They danced as if they had never been set so free before. The Totentanz was as demanding piece as Liszt could have imagined. Geiger knew that he was playing it with fire and passion. And he believed he had the interpretation. His ears felt hyper-alert. The piece was turning into a magnificent effort.
The ghost stood by. His hands touched upon Rolf’s neck.
“Go away,” Rolf said softly during a hushed adagio passage.
“Make me.”
“I will.”
“You cannot. You need me.”
Geiger could not see behind him and did not care to look. But he sensed that a smirk rode upon the dry, dead lips of Isador Rabinowitz.
“Maybe occasionally now. But not forever,” said Geiger.
The fingers tightened on Geiger’s shoulders. They were designed to scare. To intimidate. The fingers that had made pianos sing like angels across the world were fingers that also suggested homicide.
“Forever,” asserted Rabinowitz.
Many minutes went by. Geiger thought he heard something. But Diana had gone to the gym. Or somewhere. She was spending increasing numbers of hours away from their home. They seemed to get along better that way.