Spur of the Moment

by David Linzee

  “I didn’t. I’m just a professor. In fact this is my first donor party. Perhaps you could explain a few things to me?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Why is this event called Carmen’s Cornucopia?”

  “Well, aside from the allure of alliteration, you and the other guests are going to receive a bag of presents.”

  “Presents?”

  “Oh, T-shirts, discount coupons, that sort of thing.”

  “And why are you giving us these presents?”

  “So you’ll feel you’re getting something back for your donation, I suppose.”

  “But if it’s a donation, why would we expect anything back?” Without waiting for an answer, which was lucky, because she didn’t have one, he pointed between his feet. “I can’t make out the writing on these bricks.”

  She glanced down. They were standing on the Donor’s Walk. “It’s people’s names. Each paid one hundred dollars.”

  “Ah. And as they were coming in this evening, were they side-stepping to avoid treading on their own names?”

  “They’re not here tonight. This party’s for people who give buildings, not bricks.”

  “Which reminds me.” He pulled a rumpled copy of the evening’s program from his side pocket. “Our names are grouped under cryptic headings. Divas, impresarios, maestros—”

  “Divas gave the most. They get a private cocktail party with the stars of this year’s productions. Impresarios gave the second most. They get their own parking spaces right next to the theater. I forget what maestros get, but it’s all in the back of the book. It’s not meant to be cryptic. Everyone’s supposed to know.”

  “And why is that?”

  “SLO wants maestros to aspire to become impresarios, obviously.”

  “Oh. So the donors … are competing with each other for status? They’re not opera lovers, giving as much as each can afford to?”

  “No.”

  “That’s illuminating. Thank you. Because I was wondering, why hold this event at all? I thought the donors were giving because they loved to see good operas. So why not cancel the party, put the savings into the operas, and the donors could come see them, and that would be their reward?”

  “You’re having me on, aren’t you?”

  “It depends on what that means.”

  “People as naive as you’re pretending to be aren’t allowed to wander around loose.”

  He shrugged and smiled, charmingly. “Sorry, I was employing the Socratic method, which I shouldn’t really do outside the classroom. But this evening is confusing to me. I’d expect modern charitable giving to be constructed upon Western religious paradigms. Jesus said, when you give, never let your left hand know what your right hand is doing. And Judaism teaches that the intention is inseparable from the gift. If your intention is impure—if you’re giving just to be recognized—God will know and give you no credit.”

  Bert was her type, all right. Thoughtful, slightly askew. And the third finger of his left hand bore no ring. This evening had taken a turn for the better. She said, “Let’s get you a drink.” And herself another one. “Perhaps you’ll get up on a chair later and explain your thoughts to the party.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They stepped into the tent. She spotted Ray with his drinks tray and headed for him. He was talking to a guest, a large man in a loud madras jacket with brown hair spilling over the back of his collar. The man turned as they approached, revealing a bearded face. He gave a formal nod to her companion and said, “Mr. Stromberg-Brand.”

  Renata did not catch Bert’s reply. She was thinking that while in Britain a hyphenated name usually meant upper-class twit, in America it could mean only one thing: married. Her plan for a jolly evening with Bert collapsed.

  The bearded man was walking away and Bert was taking a glass from Ray’s tray. Renata restrained herself, because another unwelcome thought had just struck her. She had heard the name Stromberg-Brand before. Quite recently. But she couldn’t remember why it was important. Better not have that third glass of Chardonnay.

  When Bert turned back to her, she said, “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself properly. I’m Renata Radleigh. May I ask—”

  Bert’s eyes widened. “Sister of Don Radleigh? I wouldn’t have guessed. You’re not at all like him.”

  “We look quite different, true.”

  “Different in other ways, too, I would say.” He took her arm. “People seem to be sitting down. My wife’s over here, I see. Come along. Don will be joining us shortly.”

  By now she had remembered. The Stromberg-Brands were the stars of the evening. Saviors of Carmen. Don would expect her to sit with them, so this was all right. But somehow it did not feel all right. The playfulness had dropped from Bert’s voice, and he had a tight grip on her biceps. Feeling a cool ripple of unease in her belly, she allowed herself to be towed across the pavilion.

  They approached a table where a woman in white was sitting. Standing and talking to her was SLO’s General Director, Philip Congreve. He departed with a charming smile and a little wave to Renata. She was glad that he did not greet her by name, because he could never remember it. “Rebecca” was as close as he got.

  Bert said, “Dear, this is Renata Radleigh.”

  The woman smiled but did not rise or offer her hand. She said, “Helen Stromberg-Brand.” She would be the Stromberg part, Renata thought. Her hair was blond going gray and her eyes were a wintry-fjord blue. They exchanged how-are-yous, and then she asked, “What do you do?”

  Renata answered and reversed the question. She welcomed this forthright American conversation opener, because she was very curious about what Helen did. She had to be the moneybags of the family; philosophy professors did not get invited to fundraisers.

  “I’m a doctor. I do research at Adams University.”

  “I see. What do you research?”

  “UTIs.”

  “Urinary tract infections,” Bert supplied.

  “Oh,” said Renata with feeling. A few years ago she’d suffered through one, and vividly remembered the itch and burning, the constant need to go to the loo. Worst of all, every time she thought she’d got rid of it, the wretched thing flared up again. “Well, I hope you eradicate them.”

  “I will.”

  Renata stared at her. Americans did say the most extraordinary things. She was trying to come up with a response when Bert said, “I’ve asked Renata to join us.”

  Helen gave a curt shake of her head. “Don’s bringing someone.”

  “My wife never listens when people are introduced to her,” Bert said to Renata. Turning to Helen, he went on, “This is Renata Radleigh. Don’s sister. She’s who he was bringing.”

  Helen shrugged and said, “She doesn’t look at all like him.”

  Again Renata did not know what to say. There was no hint of apology in the woman’s firm tone. It sounded as if she suspected that Renata was an impostor. Ought she to produce some ID?

  Bert pulled out a chair for her, and reluctantly she sat down. She hoped that the Stromberg-Brands weren’t going to turn out to be one of those couples for whom arguing in private had lost its savor, so strangers had to be brought in and urged to take sides. She glanced sideways at Bert, who was taking a long swallow of his wine, glaring over the brim at Helen.

  She was talking to another table-hopper, an old man in a yellowing, puckered seersucker suit whom Renata recognized as the chairman of SLO’s board. Even sitting down, Helen Stromberg-Brand looked tall. She had a rather narrow and long-jawed but handsome face. Her hair was in one of those short, bouncy cuts that look as if you never have to comb it; you just have to visit the salon every other day. Her fingernails were manicured but unpainted. Her wrinkles were becoming lines of authority at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She was wearing a simple white dress that bared firm upper arms and looked comfortable in the heat. She gave off glints whenever she moved: her jewelry was plain and expensive, gold disks in her earlobes, a tennis brace
let on one wrist, a Rolex on the other.

  Renata attempted to chat with Bert, but he did not respond. Had he practically dragged her to this table just to ignore her? He sat very still, shoulders hunched, absently twirling his wineglass. It was empty, but when a waiter offered him a full one, he shook his head. He reminded her of a singer waiting for a big audition—his mood a mix of dread and determination.

  Renata felt a stab of alarm. Perhaps she ought to get word to Don that one of his donors needed tending. He was nearby, standing at the center of a knot of guests, relating an anecdote. They were all laughing, but not as hard as he was.

  As far as Helen was concerned, her morose husband might have been in Patagonia. She was fully occupied with a series of table-hoppers. From what Renata could hear over the background roar of conversation, each offered the same sort of compliments—pleasure to meet you at last, what a wonderful gift you’re making. One woman said something about UTIs, and it must have been a repeat of Renata’s remark, because Helen again replied, “I will.” She was one of those people, Renata thought, who did not agree with Emily Dickinson. They liked being public like frogs. Telling their name the livelong June to an admiring bog was just fine with them.

  Finally Don arrived. Dropping into his chair, he gave a smile around the table and said, “Ah, splendid. You’ve found each other.”

  Bert straightened up and locked eyes with Don. He was not smiling. Renata realized, with a tightening of her innards, that it was Don he had been waiting for.

  “So, Don. What’s next on the schedule?”

  “The general director’s welcome to Carmen’s Cornucopia. And thanks. Prepare to take a bow.”

  “Are we first on the list?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “But surely ours is the biggest gift.”

  Helen had seen off the last of the table-hoppers. People were taking their seats. She caught her husband’s words as she turned back to the table. “That’s enough, Bert; it doesn’t matter.”

  “Where we are on the list is germane. It will determine how long Don has to find his boss and tell him to remove us from the list.”

  Don frowned. “Remove you from the list? You mean, you want your gift to be anonymous?”

  “No. We want our money back.”

  “Ignore him, Don,” Helen said. Turning to her husband, she went on without dropping her voice, “We’ve already discussed this, too many times.”

  “This time will be different.” He leaned toward Don. “I’ve reconsidered the figure. Instead of three hundred and thirty thousand dollars , we are going to give you … nothing.”

  Don was visibly trembling. He said, “Bert, please. Let’s not spoil the evening. I’ll come over tomorrow morning and we’ll address your concerns, whatever they—”

  “My concerns? I’d tell you about them right now, but you don’t have time to waste. You need to find your boss. Because if he starts to thank us for our gift, you will leave me no choice but to stand up and tell him he’s in error.”

  “Stop this now, Bert. You’re embarrassing no one but yourself.”

  Ignoring his wife, he continued to gaze at Don. Now that the die was cast, he was enjoying himself. “Still sitting there? Then I will tell you about my concerns. I’d prefer to give the money to fight homelessness in St. Louis. Starvation in Haiti. In fact I can think of a hundred better uses for three hundred thirty thousand dollars than an opera.” Now he turned to Helen. “Can’t you?”

  Don was on the verge of panic. The whites were showing all around his irises and his mouth was hanging open, disclosing a thread of saliva connecting his upper and lower teeth. He started to rise. “Look, I’ll just tell Phil not to mention—”

  “Don, sit down,” Helen said. “I’ve made my decision. That’s that.”

  “But it’s such a puzzling decision, dear. Three hundred thousand dollars for an opera, when you’ve never so much as bought a ticket to one. In fact you’ve never been able to stay awake for a piece of music that lasted longer than five minutes.”

  Helen still seemed to be the calmest person at the table. In a quiet, even tone, she said, “Shut up, Bert. I’ll do what I want with my money.”

  He gave the gratified smile of a chess player whose opponent has made the move that created the opening he was waiting for. ‘“I’m just asking you to explain. Why does a person who doesn’t give a shit about opera want to donate three hundred grand to an opera company?”

  Helen did not reply.

  Don gave a jerky glance over his shoulder. Following it, Renata saw Phil Congreve rising from his chair. He was still talking to the woman seated beside him, but in a moment he would begin to make his way to the lectern.

  Bert had noticed too. He said, “Better go to your boss now, Don.”

  “Stay where you are, Don.” Helen said. She sounded a little less calm now.

  His gaze sweeping from one to the other, Bert said, “The Five Gables Inn. Last Tuesday afternoon. I know, and I’ll tell.”

  Helen stood. She picked up her handbag, which was slung over the back of her chair. Looking down at her husband, she said loudly, “I’m going home now. You are not. I want my house to myself tonight. Get on your fucking bike and pedal off somewhere.”

  She turned and walked away. The last Renata saw of her was her formidable profile. Her jaw looked as if it could cleave the Arctic Sea.

  Bert was staring at her back. The scene had been playing out according to his expectations, until this last move stunned him. After a moment of paralysis he jumped to his feet, so abruptly that his chair tipped over backward. Then he too left the tent, in the opposite direction from his wife.

  Renata looked around the nearby tables A couple of people dropped their gazes in an embarrassed reflex, but most seemed not to have heard. They were chatting, laughing, drinking. The hush had been only in her mind; conversation roared on. Across the tent, Phil Congreve was now standing at the podium. Smiling, he mimed tapping a glass.

  Her friend Ray, who was standing a couple of paces away, picked up an empty glass and a knife and started tapping. Clinking noises were arising from all over the tent, and conversation faded.

  She turned to Don, “Hadn’t you better tell Phil?”

  “What?”

  “Not to mention the Stromberg-Brands.”

  Don got unsteadily to his feet. But he didn’t head for the podium. He too left the tent.

  Chapter 5

  Renata was now alone at the table. An odd thought crossed her mind: how flat and disappointing real life was, compared to opera. If Verdi had written music for Carmen’s Cornucopia, this scene would have been an act finale quartet, with the four of them pouring out their opposed emotions, weaving a rich braid of sound. In opera, time when weighted with feelings and consequences slowed down. In real life, dramatic moments were wasted. They went by too fast, like car crashes. You sat there dazed, trying to figure out what had happened, but already knowing that it was going to cost a lot to mend.

  Come on, Renata. So much to think about, so much to do, and here she sat musing about her art. She rose and strode out of the tent as Phil Congreve’s amplified voice wished everyone a good evening.

  Out on the lawn it seemed very dark compared to in the tent. She blinked about her, half expecting to see Don and Bert rolling around on the ground, fists flailing. But there was no one. She headed for the parking lot. Now she could see the pale smudge of Don’s cream-linen jacket, far ahead. She quickened her pace and caught up with him just as he reached his car.

  “Don! Where are you going?”

  Surprised, he turned to look at her. “Helen’s. We have to talk.”

  “Oh, Don, no. Leave it till morning. What if he’s there?”

  “He won’t be. You heard what she said. She’ll be alone.”

  “All the more reason not to go there.”

  He was swaying with nervous energy. He pulled out his smartphone and began to finger it. This was a tic she knew well. When her brother di
dn’t know what to do, he would scroll through his contacts, desperately looking for the person who could tell him.

  “Don, let’s go home.”

  Without raising his eyes from the tiny screen, he shook his head.

  “Well, take me home at least.” If she could get him into the house, she could keep him there till morning, which would surely be for the best.

  He swore under his breath. Then he put the phone away and took out his car keys. The horn beeped, the lights flashed, and they got in. He pulled out of the parking space with a screech of tires; he always drove too fast when he was upset. Fortunately the streets of Webster Groves were quiet at this hour, and the house was just minutes away.

  “You can do without their gift if need be, can’t you?”

  He gave a humorless laugh. “Renata Radleigh, past mistress of the worst-case scenario. We are not going to lose the gift. You heard what she said. Anyway we can’t lose the gift. I’ve told you all this. Did it go in one ear and out the other?”

  “Someone will give you the money. SLO is a well-established company.”

  “Well-established opera companies go broke all the time. That’s what happened to Opera Oklahoma. They said, we can’t be your partners with Carmen after all. Goodbye, and here are the bills. No gift from the Stromberg-Brands, no Carmen. And you’re back in London, trying to get a job singing at a wedding or a funeral. Now do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand. But her husband seems determined to make trouble. What was he on about with the Five Gables Inn?”

  “No clue. Never heard of it.”

  “It’s that pretty little hotel in Clayton, remember? We’ve had drinks there.”

  “Yes, yes, but I have no idea what Bert was talking about.”

  “Well, he seems to suspect that you’re having an affair with his wife.”

  “That’s absurd. Bert’s problem is envy. His wife is so much more successful than he is, and he can’t stand it. You’ve no idea what it means to be a top medical researcher. She’s not some frump holding a test tube over a Bunsen burner. She’s an executive, running a lab with a dozen employees and a seven-figure budget. And this vaccine she’s working on may well win her the Nobel.”