I lost the thread of what he was saying more than once, and it was only toward the end that I realized his speech had been carefully crafted. It was the women’s turn now, Annette Essipoff and Teresa Carreño: “Essipoff moved her fingers and wrists so beautifully, she was marvelous to watch . . . Carreño hammered the keys like a Valkyrie, masculine and forceful . . .” He spoke in a hushed, deep voice, the way he always did when he had something important to say. Then he fell silent, looked at Margaret, who bowed her head, then at us, pausing for a few seconds before raising his voice once more.
“We are gathered here today not merely to celebrate Margaret’s birthday, although that is reason enough, but because in this modest dwelling something extraordinary has taken place. Something momentous, if I may say so, although, naturally, you must judge for yourselves.”
Chapter 8
That summer had started promisingly. April rains had given way to a sun-soaked May, and I had kept to my plan of going to more live events than the year before, especially those that took place in the open air. The first week of June the Lee Konitz Quartet played in Tompkins Square Park, and the weekend after I saw an old Hitchcock movie on the big screen in Bryant Park. I went by myself both times and enjoyed being alone in the crowd, but Simone invited me to The Tempest in the Delacorte Theater in Central Park in the middle of the month. She had bought two tickets at a charity event and wanted to show her gratitude for my support over the previous weeks. The worst was over, and yet understandably the accusations had taken their toll. When I glanced at her in profile as we stood in line, I noticed she had lost weight.
We didn’t speak about her problems that evening, and I did my best to lighten the tone of our conversation. In May, following a two-month inquiry, the medical council had cleared her, and although this was reason to celebrate, we were both aware that she was guilty of making a serious error. The council had said as much but concluded that it was wishful thinking rather than any intentional deceit on her part that had gotten her into hot water. As her superior, Hofsinger hadn’t taken part in the inquiry, but he made it clear that he thought Simone had gotten off lightly. She knew from the start that he was prepared to fire her if there was the slightest possibility that her actions reflected badly on him, and she had the impression that he had been secretly hoping the medical council would give him reason to do so. I think she was exaggerating, but he certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to give her the sack if he thought it necessary.
Simone had been in charge of the patient, a man in his mid-thirties who had been in a coma for many years, and had deduced from the images that he might be less brain-damaged than previously assumed. Before taking things any further, she showed the images to Hofsinger and me, and we both thought she had a point. Simone is cautious by nature, a level-headed scientist, and she made it clear that she saw no reason to be overly optimistic, although, naturally, she thought it correct to run more tests on the patient.
Two weeks later the speech therapist Simone had hired to assist her handed in his first report. Although it wasn’t nearly as categorical as his later comments about the patient, the report was still big news, for in it the speech therapist claimed that the patient had twice shown signs of attempting to say something.
With hindsight, Simone should have stopped there, instead of taking the man at his word, although in her defense, they had previously worked together and she trusted him. I hardly knew him, but he certainly didn’t come across as a flake. He was short, sprightly, and immaculately dressed. He wore glasses, his graying hair neatly combed to the side, and he spoke slowly, even under pressure. People with a grudge against Simone would later maintain that the prospect of finally getting attention had clouded her judgment. However, those accusations were unfair: Simone had been successful in her work, coauthoring several articles and assisting with others, although admittedly she hadn’t gained much recognition yet. But it was only those who disliked her who said such things, and indeed her mistake only emboldened them.
The speech therapist would sit with Simone’s patient in front of a computer screen and help him place his fingers on the keyboard. At first, the messages were short and simple (hi, thanks, my name is Stephan), but then he began to describe his feelings in detail. His descriptions were of course harrowing, and moved everyone in the lab. TV and newspaper interviews followed—with Simone, the speech therapist, and the patient’s family, who believed he had been rescued from hell. His wife explained how her life had fallen apart after she lost her husband, and his daughters wept openly in front of the cameras as he wrote on the computer screen how much he loved them, and how hard it had been for him not to be able to tell them that for so many years. Simone did her best to shield the family from the media, but everyone was so thrilled that it proved almost impossible to remain silent.
The shock came when it was discovered that the speech therapist, not the patient, had manipulated the keyboard. One could debate endlessly whether the therapist had acted deliberately, but the conclusion reached by the medical council based on psychologists’ reports was that this wasn’t the case: somehow the man had convinced himself he was doing the patient’s bidding. Of course, Simone was devastated, and the resulting media coverage was unforgiving. The scorn of some of our colleagues was even worse. I did my best to limit the damage, and stood up for her within the department. I also managed to persuade the editor of a well-known science journal to refrain from publishing a malicious article about the mishap, written by a respected colleague, just before the issue went to print.
The media frenzy soon died down, but the appearance of the article would have had lasting consequences for her career. She was therefore extremely grateful for my support, although too distraught to tell me so at the time. She was given three weeks’ leave, and traveled over to France, where she spent a few days in Paris before visiting her parents in Cassis. We exchanged e-mails daily while she was away.
I now ask myself if this was a warning sign. She has always been a strong advocate for her patients—Anthony sarcastically calls her Mother Teresa when he’s annoyed with her—but I never thought her advocacy would cloud her judgment. Instead, I blamed the therapist, who had most likely fooled not only Simone but himself as well. I left it at that.
I told her she owed me nothing when she invited me to see The Tempest, although I was grateful to her, of course. She had bought good seats, in the middle of the upper circle. We arrived early, and gazed at the empty stage and the trees circling the open-air theater, reaching to a sky tinged with red. It was warm, but Simone had come prepared with a scarf in her bag. Before we left the lab, she had suggested I wear a light sweater, or at least take one with me. Some people considered her bossy, but I appreciated her concern, because I tend to be absent-minded and doubtless wouldn’t have considered the evening chill.
I noticed the woman with the white shawl the moment she appeared in the circle. She paused for a moment, looking around, then nudged her male companion, saying something to him. I assumed from looking at her that this was her first time there. She had her back to me and I could barely make out her profile, and yet strangely my heart missed a beat. I waited for her to turn around, edging forward in my seat, but then the boy in front of me stood up, and by the time he sat down again, she was already descending the steps in search of her seat. When she sat down, her companion leaned toward her, pointing at the stage. She nodded, and they chatted in a relaxed manner which suggested they were good friends. I tried in vain to make out from their gestures how close they might be.
I didn’t realize Simone had been saying something until she prodded me.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
The Tempest has been a favorite of mine since we performed it at St. Joseph’s. I was fourteen at the time, and played Ariel, the spirit who assists Prospero by means of magic and trickery. I was surprised how much of the text I remembered. The production at the Delacorte had received rave reviews and those who didn’t have time to stand in line f
or tickets all day were fighting over them online, paying hefty prices. Simone was clearly pleased to be able to invite me to such an event, and I was ashamed that I barely managed to concentrate on the play. I tried, from the beginning, but my eyes kept wandering down the circle, lingering on the cheek, which I could see if I tilted forward slightly.
For the first hour we enjoyed daylight as the sun slowly disappeared, a blue shadow spreading over us. I kept glancing down the circle but could no longer see her, and I found myself eagerly awaiting intermission.
I didn’t usually behave like this. I had lived with a woman once, many years before, but only for a short time. She was a doctor as well, a hematologist, both beautiful and talented. We got along well, but she said she felt I didn’t love her. It was a damning judgment and yet I couldn’t really argue, as I hardly felt anything when she announced that she was leaving me. I imagined I might miss her at first, but instantly saw the advantages of living alone. She was hurt, and I didn’t begrudge her parting words the day I helped her move out. She said she thought I was incapable of love, that I needed help, that it was about time I took a good look at myself. It was unlike her to talk that way—she was usually restrained and understanding, and I felt guilty that she had lost her composure. She regretted that I didn’t attempt to defend myself, and said that if anything it confirmed her fears.
Since then I had been guarded in my dealings with women, and didn’t rush into things. My relationships didn’t last long, seldom more than a few weeks, and even when they appeared to be going smoothly, at the slightest mention of future plans I would withdraw. The women could read the signs, and I regretted when these affairs ended. I was fully aware of my limitations.
And so I was completely unprepared for the feelings roused in me that evening during The Tempest. They terrified me, and I tried to ignore them, without success. When Ariel appeared onstage in the guise of a harpy, I knew it was nearly time for intermission. I started to shift in my seat and rose to my feet the instant the applause died down.
It had turned cold, as Simone had predicted, and we decided to warm ourselves with a cup of hot cocoa. We edged our way through the crowd toward the exit, and from there down to the concession stands selling refreshments on the platform behind the seats. I glanced about as we descended the circle steps, and again as we reached ground level, but saw no sign of her. Simone would sometimes tease me about how distracted I could be, and I tried not to let it show while we waited in line.
We finished our hot chocolate and Simone went to the restroom. We were being called to our seats, so I eased my way through the crowd to the entrance.
I saw her when I was still at the bottom of the steps. She was a little ahead of me and had wound the white scarf about her neck against the evening chill. Her dark hair was caught beneath the scarf, and I watched as she eased it loose, tucking it behind her ears with slender fingers and light, nimble movements. A gap appeared between the people in front of me, and before I knew it I had slipped through and was standing beside her as we reached the seating area. Then, strange as it might seem, I became calm; my heart stopped pounding and the chattering voices around me died down, until it seemed that the two of us were standing there alone.
I have often wondered whether I would have dared to approach her had the man behind me not pushed me, causing me in turn to bump into her. I like to think I would have followed my urge (I was going to say “desire,” but that’s not the right word), although it is against my nature. I dislike pushiness and find men who chase after women they don’t know tasteless. My friends in Cambridge used to make fun of me sometimes for being a prude, but that had no effect on me.
She had been holding an envelope, which she dropped on the floor. I noticed the words The Juilliard School printed in one corner. We stooped at the same time to pick it up.
“I apologize.”
We both seized the envelope and she smiled as we straightened up.
“Thank you,” she said.
Her voice was bright, her dark eyes warm and kind, her smile so friendly I couldn’t help but feel profoundly at ease. We had reached the level where our ways parted and yet I instinctively followed her down the steps.
“Let’s hope it has a happy ending,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“For Prospero and his family,” I said.
“Are you concerned for them?”
“Is it possible not to be?”
She laughed.
“I haven’t seen the play for so long, I don’t remember the ending,” she said.
She sat down. Her companion was waiting for her. I gave him a sidelong glance. He was wearing bright green trousers. I sensed from their behavior that they weren’t lovers. It was probably wishful thinking, and yet I felt relieved.
I scarcely took in the second half of the play. I was reflecting on how easy it had been to talk to her, the woman whose name I didn’t know, whom I had never seen before, and how good it felt to know she was near me. I thought about her eyes, her dark hair which she brushed behind her ears, her effortless gestures. She expressed such an open cheeriness that I was almost taken aback. It was as if nothing bad could happen if she was around.
I made sure we approached the exit at the same time.
“A happy ending,” I said.
She nodded with a smile, and her companion and Simone looked at me as one.
“We literally bumped into each other during intermission,” she explained to the man.
“My name’s Magnus,” I said.
“I’m Malena,” she said.
They walked ahead of us down the stairs. On the bottom step I noticed that she paused for a moment, then she turned around. We looked at each other for a split second; that was all.
Chapter 9
When Vincent finally broke the news, there was a look of concern on Llewellyn Hunt’s face. I saw his wife glance at him as though unsure how to respond, but then she smiled and joined in with Kleuber’s applause. Ellis’s expression remained inscrutable; he was clapping as well, and I noticed the ring on his thick finger as his fleshy palms came together. For my part, I was confused, as if I were still sitting outside in the car watching the crows above the misty football field, straining to hear Malena’s voice the day she came to see me.
Vincent announced that over the past four years, Margaret had been secretly recording some of history’s greatest piano work, enough material for twenty-four CDs, which he proposed to bring out one after the other. The recordings had been made under his direction there at the house, in my old room, which was currently filled to the rafters with all sorts of equipment. Margaret’s range was astonishing, he said, for she had recorded both lyrical and melancholy works, epic and grandiose pieces, works that required speed and strength, others where each note must be given the freedom to come alive by itself before the next note is played.
“During the past four years,” he explained, “when most people assumed Margaret had retired for good and expected never to hear of her again, we have recorded all the Goldberg variations, all Beethoven’s and Schubert’s piano sonatas, all Chopin’s and Liszt’s works for solo piano, and many more by Schumann, Scarlatti, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Mussorgsky, Mendelssohn, Saint-Saëns, and, of course, Rachmaninoff.”
He might have been referring to a world-famous pianist who had suddenly vanished from sight but was now ready to make a triumphant comeback, much to the joy of her admirers who had lamented her absence all these years. But the fact was, my mother had never fulfilled her potential, or rather, she had never received the recognition which she and Vincent felt she deserved. Many things, and people, were to blame, most notably the cliques controlling the world of classical music behind the scenes, who had systematically prevented her from enjoying the acclaim she was due. It was they who kept her from giving recitals in the most prestigious concert halls, they who wrote disparaging reviews about her in newspapers and magazines, although without being too harsh, for that might arouse suspicion,
they who awarded grants to other pianists, not half as good as she, they who took every opportunity to push her aside, knowing that she was indomitable and served no one but art, no matter who they were, what position they held, or what the consequences might be.
This is what I heard most days at the house in Allington, in that room where Vincent was now so eagerly talking about Margaret’s return, in the kitchen, or coming from their bedroom when they thought I was asleep. They would try to contain themselves when I was around, but the house isn’t big and their conversations would frequently end with Margaret bursting into tears, screaming, and howling.
“It’s so unfair, so horribly unfair!”
She would vent her anger on Vincent, whom she accused of being too soft, incapable of putting up a fight. I remember a conversation they had one evening upon their return from London, where Margaret had given a couple of recitals at a tiny concert hall in Chelsea. The first had been attended by a music critic from The Guardian, a man who had reviewed Margaret five years before and whom she considered stupid and spiteful. Vincent, however, insisted that although much of what he had written might be considered misguided, on the whole his review had been positive.
“Positive!” Margaret cried when they arrived back from London. “Positive!”
Vincent kept every review, every article, and knew all the important ones by heart.
“He said your playing was inspired,” he insisted.
“In parts,” she protested. “Inspired in parts.”
Silence.
“And you suck up to that little fool, thinking it will do some good!”
It seemed my father had met the critic during intermission and taken the opportunity to praise one of his recent reviews of Arnold Bax, an obscure British composer of modern music who Vincent believed deserved more recognition. He probably thought he could kill two birds with one stone, as he attempted during their pleasant conversation to suggest that the critic might repeat the same exercise with Margaret, who, like Bax, hadn’t been given the respect she deserved.
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