Apprehensions and Other Delusions

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’ll make sure you have a ticket to the first performance,” Vanessa promised as she started out the door.

  “Perish the thought,” said Nicola as a parting shot.

  * * *

  “Look at this!” Howard Faster exclaimed jubilantly as he hurried in from his lunch, the hotel door banging with the force of his entrance. “Mickey Resselot just brought them over.” He thrust half-a-dozen newspaper clippings toward Vanessa. “And there’s more coming.”

  “Fine,” said Vanessa distractedly as she continued to study the score in her hands. “I’ll look at them later.”

  “You’ve never had press like this!” he crowed, ignoring her preoccupation and putting the clippings down on the round table by the window. “Chicago! Cleveland! New York! Minneapolis! L.A.!”

  “And the concert is scheduled for Seattle,” said Vanessa with a slight smile. “Do you think they’ll all send someone to cover the concert? I doubt it. This is just the sensation of the week, something to talk about.”

  “So long as they do talk about it—in advance, yet—I don’t care if they cover the event or not,” said Faster, adding with a smirk, “There’s more: PBS may want to tape the concert if this keeps up.”

  “Isn’t that aiming a bit high?” Vanessa asked, putting the score aside with a suggestion of exasperation. “I can’t concentrate with you bouncing off the walls.”

  “Of course it is! We should be aiming high, with all this lift! Besides, I’ve had feelers already, and that means someone there is thinking about it; I’m just following up. You know, I think I’m going to see if A&E wants to put in a competing bid. If nothing else, that should add to the excitement.” He gathered up the clippings again. “You could finally get the break you’ve been working for!”

  “On a gimmick,” said Vanessa.

  “Not a gimmick, on a hook. A hook, Vanessa. There’s a big difference.” He took one of the three chairs in the small parlor of her suite and pulled it up to the table. “You can get attention because of the history of the forte-piano, but if you can’t deliver the music, it’s nothing but a flash in the pan.”

  “Too bad Dziwny didn’t have a flash in the pan, literally: if only his pistol had misfired,” said Vanessa. “Thirty-six, and just beginning to hit his stride. He could have done some wonderful things if he’d lived. Think of the waste.”

  “You can say the same of Mozart, or Bellini,” said Faster.

  “They died of natural causes, albeit prematurely, and Mozart had a long career, longer than many others, because he started so young.” Vanessa picked up the score again. “Dziwny was just finding his way, getting his composition feet under him.”

  “Is it true his name means strange?” Faster asked.

  “Or wonderful,” said Vanessa. “They made a great deal over the significance at the time.”

  Faster considered this. “I think I’ll mention that in the next press kit. It could give us a little mileage now, too.”

  Vanessa shrugged. “Do we need to clutch at straws that way?”

  “No, we don’t, and we’re not,” said Faster. “But it’s an interesting historical note, and that makes it worthwhile.”

  “If you think it’s important—it doesn’t seem that way to me,” she told him while she made a point of giving her attention to the score. “This transition from B-flat to G-minor is sneakier than it looks. You can say it’s obvious, but there’s a ninth in the arpeggio that makes all the difference.”

  Faster gave up. “Okay, Vanessa. Okay. I won’t take up any more of your time. It’s about time for lunch and getting ready. You have to be ready to leave for the concert hall at seven-thirty, remember, and the Toronto Star is sending a reporter over at four this afternoon; you can’t afford to be in the bath.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Vanessa, not entirely truthfully.

  “And after the concert, we’ll have a late supper and you can have a look at what they’re saying about the Dziwny forte-piano, and your concert.” He gathered up his material and started toward the door. “You got to make the most of this, Vanessa. You’re not going to have another chance like this, and you know it. I’m your manager. I’m not steering you wrong on this. You have a real chance here, and you need to make the most of it.”

  “Yes. I know,” she said. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Faster in affectionate exasperation.

  But Vanessa responded seriously. “I want to do this right,” she said, her feelings burning like a banked furnace. “I know it’s a big opportunity, and I don’t want to blow it. I have to be true to Dziwny and his music. And that means preparation.”

  “You mean getting lost in it,” Faster corrected her.

  “You may think that if you like,” she said with an assumed coolness that fooled neither of them.

  “Okay,” said Faster. “Have it your way.”

  * * *

  The Dziwny forte-piano had been restrung and carefully tuned; it sat in the center of Vanessa’s practice studio behind her house, smaller than her Baldwin concert grand, but more intriguing. She approached it carefully, wanting to get to know it well. Its tone was soft, almost liquid, and it responded to Vanessa’s expert touch with sweetness and clarity. She practiced diligently, keeping her attention focused on the sound the instrument produced. As much as she wanted to be subsumed in Dziwny’s music, she had to give more notice to the character of the forte-piano, to learn its strengths and weaknesses so that she could show off its range when she finally performed publicly on it. The bass was more vibrant than in many forte-pianos, and she began to use the low notes to support the upper melody in a more deliberately contrapuntal manner than she had done at first. Suddenly she felt the piece begin to open up to her—the instrument revealed more of the composer’s intent than she had thought possible. The Handel variations went on from a playful scherzo fugue, the theme in the mid-range of the instrument, into a rocking, six/eight lullaby, left hand echoing the right in melting, lyrical phrases, each playing with the theme of the fugue until the two melody lines blended into a stirring restatement of the theme. Vanessa could almost smell the hot wax of burning candles and the heavy odor of attar of roses over sweat that must have been present when Dziwny played. Half-closing her eyes, Vanessa imagined the ballroom of Schloss Lowenhoff with its painted wall panels and the small audience in their fancy clothes. The Graffin would be sitting in the front row, the Graf next to her; she would have a shawl around her shoulders, since it was winter and Lowenhoff was draughty. The candles would waver a bit because of that, and that would add to the dramatic impact of the concert. There would be the quiet shuffling of the audience, and the occasional inevitable cough. She went on playing, finishing the last, grandiose fugue with a flourish that was unlike her usual pristine style.

  “Very nice,” said Faster from the door behind her.

  Vanessa blinked, feeling slightly disoriented, and coughed to cover her confusion. “How does it sound?”

  “It has a pretty big voice for a forte-piano,” said Faster. “And a lot more complexity than I’ve heard before.” He cocked his head speculatively. “Have you thought about where it would be best to record the CD? I think a live hall would be better than a studio. More ambient sound, don’t you think?”

  “It’s possible,” she said, suddenly as tired as if she had been playing for twice as long as she had been.

  “How’s the program going?” Faster asked.

  “I haven’t run through the whole thing yet,” she said. “I need a little more time with the instrument before I can figure out how to pace myself through the pieces.” It was an excuse, she realized as she said it.

  “Is this going to be a problem?” asked Faster, looking a bit worried.

  “Oh, no,” she said, a trifle too quickly. “It just takes familiarity with th
e works. This isn’t like programs we do now, and I have to accommodate the difference.”

  “How do you mean?” Faster sounded dubious.

  “Well, if this program were being performed now, it would probably be the Nursery Songs first, then the Grand Toccata and Fugue, and then the Six Fugues on Themes of Handel, because it demands the greatest virtuosity, and the work is the most musically interesting as well as technically challenging. Fugues Five and Six in particular, are real showpieces, meant to impress the audience.”

  “Then why did Dziwny perform the works in the order he did? Does anyone know?”

  “Well, the style of concerts was different then, and the Grand Toccata and Fugue was newer; most of the audience hadn’t heard it before, so it made for a greater finish then than it would today,” said Vanessa, adding a bit more awkwardly, “also, assuming Dziwny intended to kill himself, he wanted a work that gave him the opportunity, and it exists in the fermata, and the long thematic statement in the left hand. He had almost forty seconds to draw his pistol, aim, and shoot.”

  “So you think he planned the program around his suicide?” Faster looked a bit disgusted.

  “It certainly seems to be the case,” said Vanessa, her face showing no trace of emotion. “I don’t know when he decided to kill himself, but he planned the concert at least a week before playing it.”

  “Ye gods,” said Faster. “What a plan to carry around with you for a week. I would have thought he did it on the spur of the moment, something impetuous, but you think he could have set it up well in advance.”

  “It’s possible,” said Vanessa, getting up from the fortepiano. “I need a break. Come with me. I’ll put water on.”

  “Or open a bottle?” Faster asked. “Some of that Pinot Grigio?”

  “Sure,” said Vanessa as she coded the alarm and opened the door. “Thirty seconds to get out.”

  “Coming,” said Faster, moving past her with a wink. “You take good care of that.” He waited while she locked the door; following her across the small, green yard to the rear door of her house, he pondered how to bring up the most recent request he had received about the Dziwny forte-piano.

  “Well, I can’t afford to have anything happen to it, can I?” she asked as she went ahead of him toward the house.

  There was a mud-room that was mostly used for garden storage just inside the back door, and a good-sized pantry, then the handsomely remodeled modern kitchen with its island range on the central diagonal of the room, and double ovens against the wall. At the end of the island was a bar, three stools in place for informal dining, and Vanessa motioned to one of these. “Sit. I’ll get the wine as soon as the kettle’s on; I’ll be right back.” She grabbed the kettle and filled it at the sink, then set it on one of the six gas burners and lit it. For a long moment she stared at the yellow-tipped blue flames.

  “Something wrong?” Faster inquired.

  Vanessa shook her head. “No. No, I’m just tired.” She bustled out of the room and returned with a bottle, two stemmed glasses, and a corkscrew, all of which she thrust at Faster. “Here.”

  He took them all and set about opening the bottle. “I had a call from Shotwell today.”

  “Not more money,” Vanessa said at once. “Until I start getting receipts from concerts, I’m on a budget.”

  “No, not more money.” He pulled out the cork and sniffed it, then poured wine into the two glasses. “Someone’s approached him about the forte-piano.”

  “Oh, God,” she exclaimed, her heart sinking, “He’s had an offer to buy it.”

  “No,” Faster assured her. “Nothing like that. A parapsychologist wants to run some tests on it.”

  “A what?” She stopped in the act of taking down her favorite teapot.

  “Parapsychologist. He’s supposed to have a pretty good reputation for psychometry.” He held one of the wine glasses out to her, feeling abashed.

  “And Shotwell’s interested?” Vanessa was incredulous. She took the glass, but paid no attention to it.

  “Apparently,” Faster said drily. “He’s accepted a hefty fee from the guy.”

  “I’m surprised Shotwell didn’t try to find a psychic,” said Vanessa nastily.

  “Now, now,” Faster warned her as he lifted his glass.

  “Well, it smacks of the worst kind of sleaze, if you ask me.” She hurriedly turned off the flame under the shrieking kettle. “Sorry. I’m jumpy.”

  “Rehearsal nerves,” said Faster at his most understanding.

  “I guess,” Vanessa said without much conviction. In order to change this uncomfortable subject, she asked, “So who is this parapsychologist and what is he looking for in the Dziwny forte-piano? If it is a he?”

  “Yes, a he. Doctor Christopher Warren.” He waited for her to say something, then went on. “He’s actually pretty well-known, and his work is taken seriously. He’s got a couple books out, and he’s on the lecture circuit.”

  “Doing what? Psychometry?” She drank a little of the wine and then poured some of the hot water into the teapot to heat it. “I’m sorry. That was bitchy.”

  “No problem. You’ve had a hard day. You’re allowed to blow off a little steam.” He watched her while she got down the canister of tea. “Do you think you could use a day off?”

  “No,” she said. “Why?”

  Faster shrugged. “I just thought it might be easier to let Warren do whatever it is he intends to do while you’re out, is all.”

  “You might be right about that,” she said after a moment. “But I think I should stay around. I’m responsible for the instrument, and who knows what Doctor Warren might do if he’s left to his own devices.”

  “Okay. I’ll let Shotwell know and we’ll set the tests up,” said Faster. “How soon would you like it?”

  “I don’t like it at all,” said Vanessa. “But do as you think best.” She went to empty the water from her teapot, then set the kettle boiling again as she loaded in two measures of Dragonwell leaves. “Just give me a couple days’ warning.”

  “Will do,” Faster promised, pledging with his glass to make his point as emphatically as he could.

  * * *

  Cummings Hall was small enough to be called “intimate” by critics, seating five hundred twenty-four, all with clear sight of the stage. The Dziwny forte-piano had been put on the broad apron, and the tuner was finishing up his work as Vanessa arrived to practice.

  “Looks good,” said the tuner, removing his damping felts and giving the keys a cursory run. “Sounds good, too.”

  “You’ll be staying here, to retune?” Vanessa asked.

  “That’s the deal,” said the tuner. “I’ll be in the house-manager’s office, if you need me. I want to catch the game, if I can, while I have my lunch.” He strolled away, his attention no longer on the instrument.

  Vanessa went over to the forte-piano and sat down, remaining still for a short while, letting the place and its ambience sink into her. She frowned as she thought about Professor Warren, who would arrive in an hour. The last thing she wanted was a publicity-seeking loony poking around the forte-piano, but Shotwell had agreed, so she had to make the best of it. Flexing her hands, she began a few Czerny exercises, her fingers moving automatically with the familiar cadences. Satisfied, she took a little time to collect her thoughts, and then began to play. The Six Fugues on Themes of Handel flowed more easily than she would have supposed. Fugues One and Two came and went, and Three began with a simple theme in G-minor, and Vanessa let the music carry her. The hall whispered, and the forte-piano rang, a thrilling sound that seemed to fill the space.

  By the Fourth fugue, she was wonderfully lost in the music, apprehending Dziwny’s vision so completely that she was no longer aware of Cummings Hall, but felt as if she were at Lowenhoff, all those decades ago, caught up in a passion that h
ad no place to go but into the notes being played. The fugue unwound elegantly, the melody moving from bass to treble, then flitted through the mid-range only to emerge in the treble again in a dazzling display of talent and training. Starting the Fifth fugue, Vanessa was unaware that she was being watched. Her hands played as if the movements were a martial art and she their greatest exponent. The sound came out flawlessly, the repeated musical images piled one atop another into an astonishing edifice of patterned tones. Without pause, she launched into the Sixth fugue, playing brilliantly until she suddenly stopped in the middle of a thematic statement, as if she had lost track of the music.

  Trembling, she moved back on the bench and sat there, dazed and breathing hard. Her face was pale. She began to rub her palms on her skirt, nervously blinking as if she had finally become aware of her surroundings. Abruptly, she stood up and walked a half-dozen steps away from the instrument.

  “Why did you stop?” asked an unknown voice from the middle of the empty hall.

  Surprised, Vanessa looked up. “Who’s there?” she demanded sharply.

  “Christopher Warren. I was told you’d be expecting me,” came the answer.

  “Professor Warren,” she said with a hint of distaste. “I didn’t expect you so early.”

  “It’s after twelve,” he said, leaving his seat and coming forward.

  “I must have lost track of the time,” said Vanessa, only glancing in his direction.

  “The way you were playing, I’m not astounded to hear you say so.” He came up to the apron and held up his hand to her. “It’s very impressive.”

  “It’s a fine instrument,” said Vanessa, bending down briefly to take his hand. “I should probably get the tuner back here. The pitch is beginning to slip.” She started away from him toward the prompt-side wing.

  “Would you rather I go? I have some equipment to bring in, and I don’t want to disturb you.” Warren watched her pause. “It’s no trouble.”