Chapter 29
With that first glass of champagne, I allowed myself to slide under Sophie’s spell. Christmas wasn’t a depressing disaster anymore, but a warm celebration in her suite at the Hotel Sacher. On Christmas day, we dined in front of a crackling fire on wild turkey stuffed with chestnuts, mashed potatoes, green beans, and cranberry sauce. When I expressed my surprise at the obviously American menu, Sophie smiled broadly.
“I hoped you would like it,” she said. “The turkey was difficult, but the cranberry sauce was the real challenge.”
The dinner was my first glimpse of Sophie’s logistical talents, but it wasn’t long before I realized I had involved myself with a woman who had the ability to get whatever she wanted. When she set her sights on me, did I really have the option of saying no?
Of course I did, but she was delightful and undemanding, and she helped me forget my pain. She didn’t seem interested in words like “love” or “commitment.” The daughter of a successful coal broker, she had education, culture, and money, and she dedicated her life to the projects she chose. My career was the project she’d most recently selected, and the results of her efforts were immediate. Within a few weeks of our first meeting, Sophie had arranged for me to give a solo concert at Wigmore Hall in London.
I was amazed when she called to tell me about it. Performing as a soloist at Wigmore Hall was something I had thought about—every violinist thinks about it—but I had never taken any steps to make it happen. Sophie, apparently through means no more complex than a phone call and a verbal handshake, had raised my budding solo career to a new level.
She laughed when I expressed my surprise on the phone.
“It was easy,” she said. “Everything is easy when the time is right. I happened to call the day after Christina Neiswander cancelled. No one’s doing you a favor, Edward. You’re solving a problem for them.”
And as much as I would like to deny it now, Sophie was solving a problem for me. If Olivia couldn’t break things off with Jay the way she’d promised, why shouldn’t I form an alliance with Sophie? It was only a business relationship and a platonic friendship, after all. Sophie was married.
Finding out that Sophie had a husband was a relief. I felt far more comfortable believing she was unavailable. But as the weeks passed, and Sophie came to visit more than once, I learned that her husband hadn’t been part of her life for at least five years. They’d been separated since he moved to South Africa, where he worked for a German beer distribution company.
“I didn’t want to leave Europe,” Sophie said. “At first, Peter came back to Germany frequently, but it was just too far.” She shrugged. “I suppose someday we will divorce, but our finances are already separate, and there are no children to worry about. Unless one of us wants to remarry, it really doesn’t matter.”
By the time my parents arrived in Vienna for a quick visit in March, there was no denying our liaison had grown more personal. Sophie spent most weekends with me, and it was obvious to anyone who came to my flat that she didn’t stay at a hotel. We all went to dinner at a French restaurant downtown, and Sophie was eager to report on my blossoming solo career.
“We’ll try to be there,” my mother said when Sophie mentioned my concert in London, but my father remained silent. I knew he still hadn’t completely forgiven me for choosing my own career, even after all these years. He didn’t really wish me ill, but I knew beyond a doubt that my parents would not be in the audience at Wigmore Hall on the eighteenth of May. The only reason they were visiting me now was that it was an easy trip from Milan, where they had just attended a luggage show.
The August after our Christmas feast at the Sacher, nine months after I had last seen Olivia, I moved to Düsseldorf to live with Sophie in her many-windowed town house overlooking the Rhine. Sophie’s gentle but inexorable encouragement had finally given me the confidence to leave the Vienna Philharmonic, and there was nothing to keep me in Austria.
I sent Olivia the news on a postcard I had bought for her months before, when our future together had still seemed possible. It had a picture of Franz Schubert on the front, and I had selected it to remind us of our own “Unfinished” Symphony.
Dear Olivia,
I’m moving to Germany. I need a change, and I simply can’t wait any longer for things to be sorted out between us. I’ll call you when I know my new phone number, and I’ll send my new address, too.
I love you,
Ted
No one would consider that a terrible message, but it had no envelope. I realized the magnitude of my mistake the moment I dropped the card into a mailbox, but by then it was too late. Franz Schubert would arrive in Los Angeles bearing a message that could—and no doubt would—be read by dozens of prying eyes. Olivia would surely suffer, not only because of the message itself, but also because of what it implied. I had revealed our involvement and betrayed our secret affair. I could plead innocence, but in fact I had let my angry disappointment cause an injury that might never heal.
Meanwhile, Sophie made my life fresh and interesting. She woke up every morning with new ideas for promoting my career, and she worked tirelessly to make them happen. Before two years had passed, the former assistant concertmaster of the Vienna Philharmonic was an international star.
•••
In October 1988, two months after I’d mailed the Judas postcard, I wrote to Olivia again, this time on stationery placed inside an envelope.
Dear Olivia,
I hope this letter finds you and Teddie well. I am living in Düsseldorf now, and I wanted to send you my new address and telephone number. My solo career is really starting to flourish, and my schedule is keeping me hopping. I think about you often, Olivia, and I truly hope you are finding a path to happiness.
Love,
Ted
Kaiser-Wilhelm-Ring 33
Düsseldorf , West Germany
Telephone: 49.211.161245
She never called. She never wrote. Our long, hopeless love affair was over.
Chapter 30
Life was orderly and businesslike with Sophie, and I remember thinking that I would probably spend the rest of my life with her. Things could be a lot worse, I told myself. As a matter of fact, it was hard to see how things could be better. If we were more like business partners than passionate lovers, well, so be it. Life was a lot more peaceful than it would have been with Olivia, and the sex wasn’t bad.
About a year after I moved to Düsseldorf, my mother telephoned to tell me that Bill Cross had called her.
“You two haven’t done a very good job of keeping in touch,” she said. “It’s a good thing your father and I haven’t moved.”
It turned out that Bill knew I was living in Germany and he’d called my mother from Amsterdam to get my address. Three days later, I opened the front door and found myself face to face with my old buddy.
Bill didn’t look much like a lawyer anymore. He was tan, for one thing, and his thinning hair was slightly sun bleached. He was still wiry, but now he looked muscular under his hibiscus-patterned sport shirt.
“Spencer!” he cried, throwing an arm around my neck. “It’s been way too long!”
I had to laugh as he barged past me and began sizing up Sophie’s town house. Suddenly, he was my old high school crony again.
“Damn, Spencer, you always land on your feet.”
Bill crossed the polished hardwood floor and stood looking out the picture window over the Rhine. It was a perfect summer afternoon, which meant that all of Düsseldorf was out taking a stroll.
“I’ve always needed the ocean nearby to feel right,” Bill said. “But a river like that—it might almost be enough.”
He kept pacing while I poured two glasses of Mosel wine. Bill clinked his against mine when I handed it to him.
“To old friends,” he said, but he didn’t drink. He set the glass o
n the coffee table and started pacing again, stopping to stare at a Kandinsky watercolor hanging over the piano.
“Why are you here?” I asked, regretting my tone instantly. Bill laughed.
“Afraid I want to borrow money?”
“No, I just—” I began lamely.
“I know, Ted. You’re curious. You’re dying to know why I’m so tan.”
At last Bill finished examining every piece of art in the room, and we sat down on the leather sofa facing the river.
“I’m gay, Ted,” he said, taking a slug of wine. “Queer as a three-dollar bill.” He looked at me, but I had no idea what to say. “Did you hear me? I’m a homo.” I still had no clue how to respond, and we both just sat there for a long moment.
“Okay,” I said at last, “but why are you so tan?” Bill’s eyes met mine, and we both laughed.
“No more wife, no more corner office,” he said. “Just a boat and a boyfriend.”
Actually, the boat was a racing yacht that belonged to Craig Montegna, a client of Bill’s old law firm. He was the general manager of a fancy steak house chain, and when he wasn’t jetting around the world on business, he was sailing. Bill had given up his career in tax law when he moved into Craig’s waterfront house on Balboa Island. He still did legal work when he felt like it, but he spent most of his time being Craig’s first mate.
“Talk about landing on your feet,” I said.
“Yeah,” Bill said. “Looks like both of us have pulled gold rings. You’re an international celebrity, and I’m a happy-go-lucky boy toy.”
“So why are you here?” I asked again, but this time it didn’t sound so harsh.
“Craig just opened a restaurant in Amsterdam, and he’s scoping out Cologne,” Bill said. “So that’s why I’m in Europe. But I’m sitting on your sofa because I wanted to see whether fame has wrecked you.” He took another hit of wine. “Has it?”
“Fame’s a moving target,” I said. “I don’t feel famous.”
“Do you think Olivia does?” Bill asked. I shrugged my shoulders.
“Why do you ask?”
“She’s the most famous person I know,” Bill said. “Except I don’t know her. Not anymore.”
“I don’t, either.”
“But we sure did know her when.” Bill jumped up from the sofa, walked to the window again, and began to sing. “Don’t let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment that was known as—”
“Oh, please.”
Bill turned, and the descending sun silhouetted him against the window. I couldn’t see his face, only the black outline. “Where did we go wrong, Ted?” he asked.
“We didn’t,” I said. “This is as good as it gets.”
“I never get to see my kids. I haven’t seen my parents in years.”
“But you and Craig—”
Bill laughed sadly. “The honeymoon’s over. I’m just a guy in a gilded cage.” He moved to the bar and refilled his wine glass. Carrying the bottle to the sofa, he sat down next to me. “More?” he asked, and I held out my glass.
“How did we get so many goodies and still end up screwed?” he asked.
“Speak for yourself,” I said, but suddenly I couldn’t bear the thought of Bill seeing Sophie and me together. He’d realize easily that I was just a guy in a nice cage, too.
“Let’s go get drunk,” I said, and Bill hooted.
“You got it, pal,” he said, “but that should have been my line.”
Late that night when Bill and I parted, we pledged once again to stay in touch. Once again, we didn’t.
Chapter 31
A couple of months later, I came home one evening expecting to find an empty house. Sophie was meeting some old school friends for dinner, and I was planning to spend the evening catching up on correspondence.
As I hung up my jacket, I noticed a piece of paper lying on the side table in the entry hall. What could it be? I wondered. Sophie was the queen of tidiness, and she never left mail lying around in the open.
The page was creased from being folded in a business envelope. I flattened it out, and I didn’t have to read very far to understand what it was. Sophie and Peter, the precise German prose declared, were legally divorced.
I stared at the paper in my hand, wondering why the news seemed to matter. I had never met Peter, and after Sophie first told me about his existence, she rarely spoke of him. Their marriage had been extinct for years, and Sophie herself said there was no reason for a divorce. Their finances had long been separate, and they had no children to consider, so—why now?
A slight rustle made me look up. Sophie was standing in the archway that led into the living room. She was clad in a bathrobe, and her hair was pulled back starkly from her face. I stared at her. Her eyes were red, and her makeup was smudged. Sophie never cries, I thought, but—
“Hello, Edward,” she said softly.
“I … ,” I began. “You—”
“Peter asked for a divorce a few months ago,” she said. “He wants to get married.”
I had no idea what to say. Why was Sophie so upset? For that matter, why was my own stomach in a knot? I laid the paper back on the table.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sure whether I was apologizing for reading her mail or expressing my condolences.
“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Be happy. I’m free now.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. I moved toward her, and as I put my arms around her, her shoulders shook.
“Don’t cry, Sophie,” was all I could think to say. “Don’t cry.”
We stood there silent for a few minutes. Gradually, Sophie’s shoulders stopped quaking. She raised her face to mine.
“We’re both free, Edward,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my throat tightening.
“I mean we can get married.”
I stared at her. Sophie had never mentioned marriage before. I had always assumed she wasn’t interested in it, with me or anyone else. I looked away, then back, but Sophie wasn’t giving me a way out. She had proposed, and she was waiting for an answer.
But what should it be? Was there any good reason not to marry her? Our life together was good. I liked and admired her; she had practically created my solo career; and we were terrific business partners. Why, then, couldn’t I just say it?
Yes, Sophie! Nothing would give me greater happiness than to be your husband.
The words formed in my head, and I even opened my mouth. But maybe I just wasn’t cut out for marriage. Whatever my failing, all I could do was stand there and watch clouds move across Sophie’s face.
“It’s all right, Edward,” she said at last. “I already knew.”
“No, wait,” I said. “I’m just—I’m still surprised. Give me some time.”
“No,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “Consider my suggestion revoked. I’ve never been happy with less than a hundred percent.”
“Sophie the perfectionist.” I looked straight into her eyes, and I spoke before I could stop myself. “I love you, you know.”
It was the first time I had ever said those words to her. I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because Sophie smiled.
“You chose the perfect time to tell me,” she said.
She reached up and placed her hand on my cheek.
“I love you, too, Edward,” she said, and then she paused, searching my face. Tears formed in her eyes, then spilled over. “But it’s not enough, is it?”
Chapter 32
That summer I was in Toronto, where I was performing at Massey Hall. After my final bow, I returned to my dressing room. On the way, I passed Sophie, who was engaged in rapt conversation with Richard Schaumberg, a cellist with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. He was younger than me by nearly a decade, and he was just beginning to get noticed in the international music wor
ld. My own first encounter with Sophie flashed before my eyes as I watched her take Richard’s hand in her own.
Sophie didn’t return to our hotel room until four the next morning, and later that day she informed me that she would be staying in Canada “for a week or two.” I returned to Düsseldorf alone, and I immediately began to make plans to move back to the United States.
As I packed my things, I was amazed at how little I owned besides my clothing and my violin. A few boxes of books and files were all I had to ship. I didn’t even own a car. I’d always driven one of Sophie’s. It’s almost as if I have only been camping here all this time, I thought to myself as I waited for the truck to take away my small stack of possessions. Almost as if I had never really moved in.
Just before I left Germany, Sophie sent me a telegram from Toronto to tell me that she and Richard Schaumberg were engaged. I was a little surprised that she had informed me of her plans by wire, but I quickly realized what her message really meant. I replied immediately to assure her that her house was already free of my presence, and that I had left my keys with her brother in Kaiserswerth.
Although my plan was to settle in New York, I decided I might as well visit my parents before embarking on a house hunt. My mother was delighted when I told her I’d be staying for a week. It had been at least a decade since I’d spent more than three consecutive days at the house on Mulholland Drive.
I arrived on a Wednesday, and Mom had made so many plans I felt like I was back in high school. She was most excited about the barbecue she had planned for Saturday night.
“The Halls are coming,” she told me happily. “They live in Rancho Mirage now, but they’re in town visiting Karen. Isn’t it great that they’re here when you are?”
“Karen’s still got a husband, doesn’t she?” I asked. She’d written me about her marriage to a UCLA philosophy professor about three years earlier, and I’d heard about the birth of twin daughters about a year after that.
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