The Brahms Deception

by Louise Marley

  It was what parents did, in the end, wasn’t it? One way or another, parents had to allow their children to go forward with their own lives. It was the thing Friedrich Wieck had failed to do with his daughter Clara, and they had suffered years of estrangement because of it. He had molded her, controlled her, managed every aspect of her life. He had even written in her personal diary, put down the things he wanted posterity to remember about his gifted daughter. He had done everything he could to shape her into the creature he wanted her to be, and yet, in the end, Clara had left him, broken with him so she could marry Robert and live her own life. It was the natural way of things.

  No child in the world had ever taken the path she was on, of course, but that was her special gift. How could she regret it?

  Hannes paused at the gate to gaze out over the twelve houses nestled so snugly into the hillside. The scent of bread baking overlay the perfume of roses, an enchanting blend that made Frederica’s nose twitch and her mouth water. Daringly, she put her hand on the iron latch and lifted it.

  Hannes said, “Do you think we have time for a stroll before breakfast?”

  “Why don’t you go and see, Hannes? Ask Nuncia, and I will wait for you here.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  She smiled up at him, tilting her head. She loved the way he looked at her, his eyes resting on her face as if he would never tire of seeing it. All her life she had seen men’s glances skitter away from her. It hurt. She had never grown used to it.

  This was far, far better—and it was Brahms bending his admiring glance upon her, holding her arm as if he couldn’t bear to release her. It was a dream come true. Of course, she had been forced to make it happen. There had been no magic wand causing everything to fall into place, no innocent girl turned into a sparkling princess, but that didn’t matter now. He was here beside her, and that was all she cared about. She was not a princess, but perhaps being Clara Schumann was even better.

  She patted his arm, liking the way her white fingers looked against the dark wool of his coat. “I’m quite sure, dearest,” she murmured. “I feel perfectly well.”

  She waited, her hand on the cool iron of the garden gate, until his tall figure disappeared through the French windows into the salotto. When she was sure he had gone into the kitchen, she pushed the gate open and put one slippered foot outside the garden.

  She knew where the zone ended. She could see the place just ahead, perhaps three steps from where she stood, the place where she had first arrived, where she took her first look at Casa Agosto and the wonders of 1861. She held her lace handkerchief in one hand, picked up her long skirts with the other, and moved forward.

  They had impressed this upon her in her preparation for remote research. They had explained the physics that made it work. She hadn’t paid much attention to the science, but she understood its effect.

  Except that everything was different now. She had taken a daring step, changed the rules. It only remained to see how much power she had acquired.

  She took a step, then two, and paused. She felt steady, calm. Stable. She took a third step. The same.

  She put out her foot for the fourth step, but she did it gingerly, as if she were dipping her toes into the sea to test the temperature. Warily, she set that foot on the ground.

  She felt it. It was a little bit like an electrical current, too faint to sting, but strong enough to make her toes and heel tingle. She kept her breath even, her eyes fixed on the chestnut grove for which Castagno was named. She put her weight on the foot, and brought the other to rest beside it.

  The tingling ran up through her ankles and her thighs, her shoulders. It ran down her arms, and out through the tips of her fingers. Then it was gone. As if it had never been, the sensation passed.

  The sense of triumph that flowed through her was nearly as profound as the jolt of the pulse she had felt earlier. She could do this. She could, in fact, do anything she wanted to do.

  The sense of freedom made her giddy with excitement. She looked down toward the town of San Felice, and off over the green hills, where the medieval city of Pistoia waited and, beyond that, Pisa. She could go to those places, see their historic buildings. She could travel with Hannes to Hamburg.

  She spun to face the house, intoxicated by that thought. She could go to Hamburg with Hannes. She gazed at Casa Agosto, lying so quietly in its little square of garden. She pressed the handkerchief to her lips, struck with wonder at the possibilities. She turned the other way, daring another step, feeling nothing amiss. She gazed hungrily down at the road that led to San Felice, on to Pistoia, surely straight to the train station, where trains could carry her anywhere she wanted to go. Hamburg . . . but she had to consider these things. To think. There would be consequences. . . .

  She turned again, in a swirl of skirts, and saw Hannes standing in the French windows watching her. He said, “What are you doing, Clara?”

  She gave a light laugh, and tripped easily back through the gate, closing it behind her. “Looking out into the chestnut grove,” she said. “One day, perhaps, we could have a picnic!”

  She hurried to him, and took his arm, holding it close to her, pressing her breast against it. His arm tensed, and then, as if he was making an effort, it relaxed again. She smiled up at him. “Aren’t you hungry, Hannes? I’m starved!”

  She thought perhaps his smile was a bit restrained, but he said, “Yes, I’m hungry, too. Come, Nuncia is ready.”

  “Oh, good. After breakfast, I must write a letter, and have it ready when Claudio comes.”

  “Letter to whom, Clara?”

  “To the children. Just to say I miss them.”

  He smiled approval of this, and the slight tension in his face relaxed. He took her hand and tucked it under his elbow as they turned toward the kitchen.

  Despite the espresso he had drunk, Kristian fell asleep almost at once, the heavy sort of sleep that comes at the wrong hour of the night, that brings formless dreams and restless wakings. The ringing of his cell phone jarred him out of one of those strange dreams. He sat up, groping for his jeans to dig the phone out of the pocket. He glanced at the display. “Rik! Where’ve you been? I’ve been worried about you.”

  Erika laughed. “Kris, don’t be silly! I’m right here.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Everything’s fine. How about you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Did you retrieve her for them?”

  “No. I—it’s really weird here, Rik. It’s not what I expected. Strange things.”

  “What’s weird? Did you go to 1861?”

  “Yeah—three times. And I need to go again.” He gave her a brief sketch of the situation, then added, “Frederica Bannister’s parents are here. They showed up yesterday.”

  She made a dismissive noise. “I don’t know why they weren’t there the moment she didn’t wake up.”

  “Well, the Foundation—I think they were trying to put off telling them.”

  “Cover it up, you mean.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “How are they keeping it out of the news, Kris? I haven’t heard a thing here. Those protesters are still picketing in Chicago, but mostly people are just laughing at them.”

  “Unless someone lets something slip, I guess no one’s asking questions. We’re pretty far out in the country here, and I’m sure everybody on the staff signed a contract to keep quiet. The PA and the transfer tech are both from Chicago, and they want to keep their jobs. They’re not going to talk.”

  “Who else is there? Sounds like a lot of people.”

  “Just the two from Chicago, the Bannisters—and this Italian doctor. Chiara Belfiore.” He described Chiara to her. “She’s pretty young to be a doctor, but she knows her stuff.”

  “She sounds nice,” Erika said, with a hopeful tone in her voice.

  “She is.” There was a little pause. He said, “I suppose I should go down and see what’s happening.”
>
  “Wait; first tell me what it’s like—in 1861, I mean. Did you see him?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said fervently. “I did see him. It’s—that part is everything I’d always hoped for. You can’t imagine how real it all is!”

  “When you get back, I want to hear every detail.”

  “You will.”

  He was about to say good-bye, but Erika said, “Kris, wait—why did you go back three times? What about time lag?”

  “I feel fine.” Mostly. “Listen, Rik. She’s there. She doesn’t want to come back.”

  “She doesn’t want to?”

  “I told you it was weird.” He heard her draw breath to ask another question, but he forestalled her. “Are you doing okay? Has Dee Dee been there?”

  “I’m fine; I told you, Kris. I’m not the one messing around with time travel.”

  “But Dee Dee—”

  “Will you stop trying to be my mother?”

  “I’m not!”

  “You are. Don’t.”

  He bit back another retort. There was too much distance between them to be arguing.

  She chuckled. “Let’s talk in a couple of days. Be careful, Kris.”

  “Yeah. I will.”

  “Oh, Kris—one more thing. Do you remember the little Lied you played for Catherine’s first recital, the encore? It might have been a poem about a swing—I don’t know, I have this image in my mind of a child on a swing, but it might just be random. It would be perfect for one of my students. I’ve racked my brain, and I can’t come up with it.”

  “Sure, it was—” Kristian broke off, pressing his hand to his forehead. “Damn, what was it? I should know this.”

  “You’re probably tired right now. Do you have a program around here somewhere?”

  “It was the encore. It won’t be on the program.”

  “Was it Clara Schumann? You were preparing your dissertation topic then.”

  “It probably was. I wish I could—” He should have been able to recall it. It crossed his mind that time lag could have erased the title from his mind, but he didn’t dare mention that. “Can’t come up with it. Sorry, Rik, I’ll have to think.”

  “Don’t worry about it now. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.” When Kristian broke the connection, he stood for a moment, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. It made no sense that he couldn’t remember the song. Maybe he really was time-lagged and couldn’t tell the difference.

  He sighed, and tossed his cell phone onto the jumble of sheets and blankets. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He really did feel pretty good, he thought. Chiara had been right. He had just needed some sleep.

  He showered, washed his hair, brushed his teeth, and had a quick shave. When he was done, he dug through his duffel for a clean shirt. He pulled on his jeans, thinking if this went on much longer he should really find a laundry somewhere.

  He went down the stairs and directly into the transfer room. Chiara was sitting, as she had promised, beside Frederica’s cot. Frederica had not moved an inch that he could see. He crossed the room, and pulled up a chair. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning.” Chiara gave him a tired smile.

  “I can sit here,” he said impulsively. “Why don’t you go to bed?”

  She nodded. “I will soon. Thank you.”

  He looked down at Frederica, lying there with such apparent innocence. Frederica, who had health and family and money. It was impossible not to think about how such advantages could help Erika.

  “What is it?”

  He glanced up. “I was just thinking about my sister. She called.”

  “Tutto a posto?”

  “I think so. She says she’s fine.”

  “If she says she is fine, Kris, then she is fine.”

  “But she always says that, even though sometimes she can’t walk, even with her cane.”

  “You would not want her to stop trying.”

  “No.” He thought of Clara Schumann, a prisoner in her own body. Erika was a prisoner, too, and both circumstances filled him with impotent anger.

  “What is it?” Chiara asked. “Why does that make you angry?”

  His voice sounded tight when he said, “Chiara, you see too much. It will wear you out.”

  She smiled, and touched his arm. “I am fine, too, Kris.”

  He released a breath. “It’s all—I feel helpless. I can’t help Erika, and I can’t help C—” Oops. “Frederica. If only they’d let me do what I could!”

  “It is interesting to me,” Chiara said, lifting her hand from his sleeve. “I know that it was supposed to be you who would transfer to 1861. You could be angry about that. Be resentful. But you care so much about bringing Frederica back.”

  Kristian knew his eyelids flickered, and his gaze slid away from her. He had always been a terrible liar. Could never fool Erika. “I just—” He shrugged. “It isn’t right. And her parents are so upset.”

  Chiara said, “Oh, yes. They are very unhappy,” and let it drop. He had the distinct impression, though, as she turned away from him, that she knew there was something more. It was his chance to share the burden. He said, “Chiara—”

  She looked back at him. “Yes?” Her brows rose, and she was ready to hear what else he wanted to tell her. The words were on his lips, about to be spoken, but the door to the transfer room opened, and they died away.

  Bronwyn Bannister stood there, her hair mussed, her pale face looking naked without lipstick or mascara. She stared across the room at her quiescent daughter and quavered, “Oh, God. She still hasn’t woken up. When will Dr. Braunstein be here?”

  Bronwyn insisted on sitting with her daughter. Chiara, at last, took herself off to bed while Kristian went to the kitchen in search of something for breakfast. He pottered around, making coffee, finding bread for toast. As he sat alone at the counter, he stared blindly at the gray day beyond the window, and pondered.

  There was something he was missing. There was a clue that things were even worse than he had thought—than they all had thought. He kept seeing Clara Schumann, stiff with shock. He saw her the next day, leaving the kitchen with Brahms, her step faltering when she—that is, Frederica—recognized him. He thought of the Bannisters, and the protesters, and the singleminded Lillian Braunstein on her way to Italy.

  What did the missing song—the one Erika had asked about, and which neither of them could remember—what did that have to do with any of it? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew, somehow, that it mattered.

  He should leave. He should pack his duffel, say a quick farewell to Chiara and Elliott and Max, and call a taxi to take him to Pisa. There was nothing else he could do here. They wouldn’t give him more time, not after three transfers. His dissertation was further away than ever.

  Yes, he should get away from here, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let Frederica get away with it. He couldn’t allow her to steal Clara’s life. It offended every principle, every moral stance, he believed in.

  And why couldn’t he remember the song Catherine had sung for an encore? Erika was right. It was something about a swing—but he couldn’t capture it.

  The kitchen door opened, and he turned, hoping it was Chiara. Her clear dark gaze and matter-of-fact manner were the only things that seemed stable in this bizarre world of shifting time lines and confused people. Everyone seemed to want something different, and he felt he could hardly hold on to what was real.

  Bronwyn Bannister.

  He pushed back his stool, and stood up. “Mrs. Bannister,” he said.

  “Mr. North. Will you speak with me? Please?”

  “Of course I will. Please call me Kris.” He gestured to a stool. “Would you like some coffee? I made a pot.”

  She looked as if coffee wouldn’t be the best thing for her, but he didn’t know what else to do for her. Her eyes were hollow, and her skin was the color of old parchment. She nodded, and
took the proffered stool.

  “There’s some orange juice in the fridge.”

  “Thank you.” He found two glasses, and then the glass jug of juice in the Sub-Zero. He set the glasses on the counter and filled them, fetched coffee cups, cream and sugar, spoons. All the while Bronwyn sat staring at her folded hands before her. He couldn’t help the thought that even Erika in her wheelchair would have found something to do to help, but he tried to quash it. Every line of the older woman’s body spoke of misery.

  She said, when he sat down, “I hope you got some sleep.”

  “I did, thanks. Did you?”

  She didn’t seem to hear his question. “There’s no change in her at all.”

  “I know.”

  Her eyes, pale blue with pale lashes, came up to his. “Mr. North—”

  “Kris, please.”

  “Kris. Yes.” She took a trembling breath. “First, I should apologize for—for pointing at you the way I did. It was horribly rude.”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” he said. “It’s a difficult situation for everyone.” He felt a bit like a bug on a slide under the glare of the overhead light and this woman’s intense gaze.

  “Isn’t there something more you can tell me? Something you saw—some hint of what happened to her?”

  He wanted to squirm, but he made himself sit still. Telling Bronwyn Bannister wouldn’t help anything. Or anyone. It would only make things worse.

  He got up to refill his coffee cup. He lifted the pot, and turned to offer Bronwyn more, but she hadn’t touched her cup yet. She hadn’t touched the orange juice, either.

  “I don’t know how to explain, Mrs. Bannister.” He returned to the counter and sat down again. “The transfer process is—”

  She put up a narrow hand. “Don’t tell me about the process, please. I’ve heard it so many times I could recite it myself.”

  “Yeah. I’ll bet you have.”

  She unfolded her hands, and wrapped them around the coffee cup, but she still didn’t drink. “I didn’t want her to do it,” she said.

  “No?”