The Brahms Deception
Page 19
She felt, suddenly, shy. It was absurd, of course.
She had been married. She had borne eight children. She was hardly a naïve girl, no anxious maiden. But it had been five years since Robert’s death. There had been so much loss, such terrible worry, such an enormity of things to plan and organize, she hardly felt like a woman anymore. She felt more like the wheel of the train that had carried her here, endlessly spinning round and round, overcoming one obstacle only to come immediately upon another.
At last, after Hannes had finished his pipe and banked the fire, he held out his hand to her, and drew her up the steep staircase. She tried to let all her worries fade into the background, like that same train clacking through villages, steadily moving forward until the houses and churches and stations dropped away behind it. She had denied her feelings for so long, and Hannes was so young and strong and sweet.
She was self-conscious about the marks on her stomach from childbearing, the smallness of her breasts, the slightness of her hips, which seemed never to widen despite carrying so many babies. She didn’t light the oil lamp waiting on the dressing table. She undressed in the gentle light that came from the stars twinkling through the Italian night. She pulled her lawn nightdress over her head, and crept beneath the blankets, shrinking back against the pillows in a confusion of eagerness and anxiety.
Hannes felt no such restraints. He came naked to bed, and drew her into his arms without hesitation. He did not hurry her. He murmured endearments, calling her his angel, his sweetheart, reminding her that he had always loved her, that he had waited for this since the first day he met her. He kissed her and stroked her for a long time, holding her close to his long body, twining his fingers into her hair, pressing his lips to her breasts, first one and then the other. He kissed her throat and her cheeks, and stroked her hips with his fingers, first lightly, then with more urgency, until her breathing grew shallow and hungry and desire vanquished inhibition.
She had known only Robert in her life. Hannes was utterly, intoxicatingly different, so new to her that it was as if she had never been bedded before. He did not thrust urgently, as Robert had. Hannes, as she opened herself to him, filled her slowly, deliberately, so that she found herself rising to him, seeking more of him, accepting all of him, and still wanting more.
She was profoundly glad they were alone in the house, with no one to hear them. At her moment of release, she cried out in a way she never had. Hannes, sweet Hannes, gave a low, happy laugh, his face buried against her breast. Tears came then, streaming down her cheeks to soak her hair. Great, embarrassing sobs shook her body, but Hannes held her, cradled her as if she were a precious child. She could not remember ever having been held in just that way. It was perfect.
The first week of their idyll sped by, each day a shining moment of happiness that passed all too soon. Their nights in the little bedroom at the top of the stairs were a gift to be anticipated, savored, remembered. She was still shy, but she came to him eagerly, and he never failed her. She refused to think of the swiftly flowing days, or to measure the halfway mark of their time in Casa Agosto.
But now, with half of their stolen days still left to them, this disaster. Clara had no doubt she was being punished for her wantonness, for her faithlessness to Robert’s memory, for her selfishness. She had no right to this happiness with Hannes, and God had seen fit to take it from her, to allow a demon to possess her. She yearned for her children’s faces. She longed to be safely back in her modest home in Berlin. She feared she would never see either again. The demon would not release her, and it was a bitter judgment on her soul.
Kristian woke when the Vespa in the parking lot came to life and buzzed off down the drive, signaling the departure of the night guard. He got up, and peered through the blinds to see that the rain had intensified, dripping from the eaves and from the chestnut trees beyond the parking lot. From this vantage point, the twelve houses of the village were invisible, but he had a sudden yearning to see Casa Agosto, to watch the rain slide down the terra-cotta tiles of the roof and glisten on the ancient stone wall.
He took a quick shower, and dressed in his last fresh shirt and the same pair of jeans. He found the Pendleton sweater in the bottom of his duffel and pulled it out. The Brahms biography came out with it, falling open on the rag rug beside the bed. He picked up the book, closed it, and laid it on the bedside table. When he pulled the sweater on over his head, a glance in the mirror assured him it looked just as professorial as he had feared. “Well, Rik,” he muttered, with a wry grin at his reflection. “You were right. It’s cold in the wilds of Tuscany.”
Erika was often right. She had been right about Catherine, though he didn’t think he had ever admitted that to her. She had warned him after meeting Catherine only once, saying, “That’s a girl who thinks only of herself, Kris. Watch yourself.” He should have known Rik, who taught young people all week long, could be trusted to assess someone. Even Catherine Clark.
He pattered down the stairs in his sneakers, and peeked into the enormous kitchen. It was deserted, although someone had thoughtfully left a carafe of coffee and a stack of cups on the metal counter. He poured himself a cup, and carried it down the hallway to the transfer room.
He let himself in as soundlessly as he could, and closed the door softly behind him.
There were only two people there. Frederica, of course, as still as death. And Bronwyn Bannister, sitting beside her daughter like a stone angel beside a tomb.
She glanced up. “Oh!” she quavered. “Mr. North! I thought you had gone home.”
Despite everything, her distress touched Kristian, and he spoke gently. “I probably should. What I really want to do is go back to retrieve your daughter.”
Bronwyn half-rose, then sank back into her chair. She was so tall and thin as to be nearly gangly, Kristian thought. She looked the way he supposed fashion models did, with long bones and neck and fleshless hands, the fingers festooned with heavy diamond rings. It was hard not to let his glance flicker between Bronwyn and her daughter, comparing.
In any case, Bronwyn Bannister would not have noticed. She watched Frederica breathe as if her own life depended on it. “I wish they would let you,” she murmured. “She must be confused. Lost.”
Kristian pulled a chair up beside hers, and sat down. He couldn’t think what to say to her. “Maybe that’s it,” he said. “She could be confused.”
Bronwyn’s weary gaze rose to his, then dropped again. “If you could help her find her way back, I—,” she began. Her voice broke, and she let the sentence die unspoken.
“It’s possible,” Kristian said quietly. A silence stretched between them. The machines clicked and whirred, and the lights of the display above Frederica’s head shone steadily. When Bronwyn gave a shuddering sigh, Kristian had to ask, “Are you okay? Have you slept?”
She passed her hand over her eyes. “Dr. Belfiore gave me something. I slept a few hours.” When she dropped her hand, he could see the effort she exerted to focus her eyes on his face. “And you, Mr. North?”
“I’m—” Time-lagged. But he didn’t dare say that, not to anyone. “I’m fine. I slept a bit, though I’m still on Boston time.”
She said, with incongruous courtesy, “Boston is a lovely city. Frederick and I have visited several times.”
Bet you never went to Angel’s Bar.
She gave her head a shake, as if trying to wake herself. “This all seems like a nightmare,” she blurted, her lips trembling. “It was supposed to be so simple. Eight hours. She should have been home in Chicago by now.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t want her to do it.” She turned her head away from him, as if ashamed. The papery skin of her neck crinkled, and he saw how hollow her jaw was. “I just wanted—wanted her to stay home. I didn’t mind the music so much, but—” She turned back suddenly and fixed him with a pleading gaze. “Was that so awful, to want her to have a—a normal life? A husband, children, friends?”
“You probably understand her better than I do,” Bronwyn said. “I suppose you also love Brahms.” She shook her head, and he thought he had rarely seen anyone look so sad. “I don’t even like Brahms,” she said, half to herself. “I don’t like any of the Romantics. I much prefer the Baroque composers, or even Renaissance—Gabrieli. Thomas Tallis. Palestrina, especially.” She spoke swiftly, as if, having been so silent, the words had piled up inside her and now spilled every which way. “The music of the Renaissance is so orderly. You know where you are when you listen to Palestrina; you know what’s coming. You don’t have to brace yourself—” She glanced back up at him, and a faint, embarrassed color tinged her thin cheeks. “Oh. I do apologize. You probably love the Romantics.”
“Yes.” Clara Schumann. “But it’s okay. Tastes are different.”
She sighed, a soft, sad little sound. “I could never do anything right for my daughter,” she said. “Not even with her music. She just doesn’t want any of the same things I did.”
Kristian looked down at Frederica’s face, at the stillness of her hands, the lifeless attitude of her body. Frederica, where are you?
“It was different with her father. They’re more alike than she and I are—but I suppose that’s not unusual.”
“No. I guess not.”
“Frederick is so ambitious. He loves his board meetings, overseeing his companies, being in charge.” She paused, and her tongue slipped surreptitiously over her pale lips. “I never wanted to be in charge of anything.”
Kristian couldn’t think of an answer. A silence stretched between them. When she broke it, it was as if that was the polite thing to do, even in this bizarre situation.
“What about your father, Mr. North? Are you alike?”
“Kris, please,” he repeated automatically. “I didn’t know my father.”
“Never?” Her narrow eyebrows rose briefly, but then dropped, and she seemed to lose interest in him. “Frederica is much closer to Frederick than to me. He wanted her to do this. When she told him about it, they both—” She broke off, fingers to her lips as if to stem the flow of words. The diamonds on her fingers flashed, and the glance she cast in his direction seemed oddly furtive. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that you, I mean—”
“Right,” he said. He couldn’t help the flatness of his tone. He could feel sorry for Bronwyn Bannister, but not for Frederica, nor, by association, her father. Frederica had put everything at risk. It was not just that she had harmed Clara. She had endangered the entire transfer program, the future of remote research. She had twisted her father’s influence to her own ends without the slightest regard for anyone else. It was unforgivable. He made himself say, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Bannister. I understand.” But he didn’t.
He said, only half-understanding he spoke the thought aloud, “You must wish now that she hadn’t been chosen for the transfer.”
Bronwyn Bannister said frankly, “I do. I can’t help that, Kris. I’m her mother.”
He nodded. This, at least, he understood.
She lifted a hand, and let it fall. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “That sounds so cruel.”
“Life,” he said shortly, but not ungently.
“Yes.” She chewed at her lip for a moment, gazing down at her unconscious daughter. When she lifted her eyes to Kristian’s, she said, “What about your mother? Is she worried about what you’re doing?”
“My mother died when I was fourteen.”
“Oh. That’s terribly sad.” Her eyelids fluttered, and he thought—again—that there was something that she knew, something she couldn’t speak of. “I’m very sorry. That’s an awful age to lose a parent.”
“Thanks. It was hard, but I have my sister.”
An odd look of hope crossed her face. “I’m so glad!” she whispered in a choked voice. “At least you’re not alone.”
He couldn’t think why she should care all that much, but he let it pass. A moment later the door opened, and Frederick Bannister strode in. He had showered and changed, and looked businesslike and efficient. His impatient step faltered when he saw Kristian sitting with his wife, then sped as he hurried down the room toward them.
“Mr. North. I thought you were on your way home.”
His tone made Kristian’s skin prickle. He lifted his chin, and met Bannister’s gaze directly. “Nope.”
Irritation flashed across Bannister’s face. Kristian allowed himself a small smile when he saw it. “There’s nothing left for you to do here,” Bannister said.
“Frederick!” whispered his wife.
“Not for you to say,” Kristian said. “I might be needed.”
“Lillian will be here shortly. She’ll take care of everything.”
“I don’t know,” Bronwyn said. “Don’t you think it would be better if Kris stays? Just in case—I mean, Lillian may not be able to wake Frederica, either.”
“She’d damn well better,” her husband growled. “And she knows it. I’ve made that perfectly clear.” He took up a position next to Kristian’s chair, and pointedly folded his arms.
Kristian had been ready to move, thinking of going to the kitchen in search of breakfast, but now he sat back in his chair, crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, and gazed at the blank wall opposite him as if he had all the time in the world. He supposed he was being childish, but Bannister’s attitude rankled. He wouldn’t lose his temper, he promised himself he wouldn’t. But he wasn’t going to take orders, either, not from Bannister, not from Lillian Braunstein. He was far past that. He was the one person here with nothing to lose.
Frederica sifted idly through the post, forwarded from home. There was a letter from Clara’s agents, and one from Robert’s publisher. There was a letter from Marie. She opened this, and scanned the lines without enthusiasm. She would have to feign interest, she supposed. Clara had been devoted to her children, obsessed with them, really. She, Frederica, avoided all children whenever she could. Perhaps, she thought, she could foist them off with a letter, an explanation that her plans had changed. Marie was nineteen years old, after all. She would spend all her life managing her mother’s affairs. It wouldn’t hurt her to start a little early.
Hannes had left a calendar open on the writing desk, a pretty calendar festooned with painted flowers and vines, elaborately illuminated letters. As Frederica laid the letters down, it caught her eye. Four days! It startled her. She had been here, in 1861, for four whole days. And nights. The thought made her lips curl with remembered pleasure.
Other thoughts chased it. She imagined her father threatening Lillian Braunstein with a lawsuit. She could see the two of them, Lillian with her blunt, cold face, her father furious and demanding. Her mother—well, she didn’t really want to think about that anymore. It was too bad, but she could never have been the daughter Bronwyn had dreamed of. Perhaps it was just as well to make a clean break, like this.
Frederica looked down at her dress. It was a modest gray muslin, sprigged with tiny, muted flowers. The underskirt was also gray, a shade darker. Hannes had complimented her on it this morning. She had only smiled and smoothed the dress over her hips as she gazed into the mirror. Clara’s clothes were all so dark. They were depressing. She thought she would have to do something about that. How did one find a dressmaker? she wondered. She would like to have something made in white, with colorful flowers, and perhaps something in a vibrant red, with matching beading, or perhaps lace. She allowed herself a silent laugh. How delighted Bronwyn would have been to see her daughter take an interest in clothes! How sad that she would never know.
Frederica pushed the letters aside. Beneath them was a sheaf of manuscript paper, covered in notation. It wasn’t in Brahms’s hand. She picked up the top folio and saw Clara’s name, in n
eat, small letters, at the top. She was not expert in Clara’s bibliography, but she thought she knew all of her songs. There weren’t all that many of them. She wasn’t completely certain, but she thought she remembered something in one of Brahms’s letters, begging Clara to resume composing after Robert’s death. She had an idea Clara never had, yet this composition was dated May 1861. She must have just begun work on it.
The title was “Das Mädchen auf einer Schaukel,” not an unusual subject for a Romantic composer. Frederica carried the sheaf of music to the fortepiano. She sat down on the bench, and arranged the pages on the stand. As she began to feel out the music, frowning a little over the handwritten notation, she forgot for a moment where she was, and why. She was a musicologist, and this was a new piece of music by a composer long lost to the world. It was exciting to discover it.
It was a short piece, strophic, with the text of the poem written beneath the staves. Frederica had never been a great sight reader, and she played it through hesitatingly, puzzling out the chords, the inner voices. She played the melody with her right hand, then tried the whole piece again, with more ease. By the third time she had mastered the chord progression and she could hum the melody as she played. She began to fill in some of the empty spaces, places where Clara no doubt meant to add passing tones and changing notes, flourishes of embellishment, little patterns of countermelody. Frederica went back to the writing desk for a pen and an inkpot. Feeling confident now, she began to write in notes here and there, completing the chords, inserting accidentals.
She was scowling over a difficult progression when she felt it.
In the past day, Clara had lain quiescent, so still Frederica could almost believe she was gone. There had been no struggling, no resistance. But now—now, as Frederica began to change the little Lied, to alter things, Clara began to flail. She fought Frederica’s control weakly, like a kitten believed drowned, but which clung to life enough to kick and bite and claw. None of its efforts were strong, but they were persistent, and irritating. It was impossible to focus on the music.