The Brahms Deception

by Louise Marley

  All of these images jumbled together in his time-lagged dream, glowing, persuasive, as if to enhance the contrast with the darkness to come. When the dream shifted, it was sudden, a new scene, a different time. Even the light had changed, exaggerating the change of seasons within and without. Catherine was walking away from him across Columbus Avenue, her long hair fluttering, the silken strands lifting in the autumn breeze. He called her name, and this time, in his dream, she stopped and turned to face him. He ran across the street to her, but when he reached the other side it was Clara Schumann waiting on the sidewalk. Catherine’s short skirts had lengthened into Clara’s morning dress, sweeping the pavement with its heavy hem, crowding the parking meters with its wide crinolines. She was as pale as fog, her great dark eyes mournful, her lips white. She put out her hand, but even as he grasped her icy fingers they slipped away from him, and he couldn’t hold her. She sank down, her body dissolving, re-forming. She came to rest in a wheelchair, and he realized it was not Clara after all, but Erika. Erika said in a worried voice, “What was that song, Kris? The song about the girl on a swing? Why can’t we remember?”

  He knelt beside her chair to put his arms around her, and then found it was Chiara Belfiore he was embracing. She pushed him away, saying, “No, Kris. It is only the time lag.”

  He startled awake. His eyelids felt gluey and uncomfortable, and he rubbed at them. He sat up, letting the coverlet fall away, peering around for a clock to see how long he had slept. He couldn’t find the clock in the darkness. He fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table, and his fingers encountered the battered paperback Brahms biography. He vaguely remembered tossing it there—when? Not yesterday, or the day before.

  “God,” Kristian muttered. “What the hell day is it?” His fingers finally found the lamp, and he switched it on.

  He took the book into his lap, pushing his hair back out of his eyes with his free hand. The cover held the familiar picture of Brahms with the flowing white beard and those haunted eyes, the image everyone seemed to have of him. Kristian ran his fingers over it, thinking of the handsome young man in Castagno, with his smooth chin and thick blond hair. There was a portrait of the youthful Brahms somewhere in this book, when the Master was not much older than he himself. About the age, in fact, he must have been in 1861.

  Kristian flipped through the pages, looking for it. A section title caught his eye, and he stopped. He read the passage, then read it again. He had read it before, of course. He had read this entire book three times, expecting to transfer to observe Brahms, preparing to discover the meaning of p dolce and finish his dissertation. The book was full of his notes and bars of yellow highlighting dates and places and compositions. But this section, and its title, didn’t feel right. He remembered it, but it felt out of place, as if it had fallen into the book from some other source—it felt a bit as he felt right now, not knowing the day or even the year.

  The section was called “Mentors and Mysteries.” He read:

  Robert and Clara Schumann referred to their protégé, Johannes Brahms, as “the young eagle.” They were devoted friends until the end of Robert’s life. Brahms frequently visited Robert in the asylum when he was being cared for there, and during Robert’s illness he assisted Robert’s wife with her children and her domestic arrangements. After Robert’s death, he often visited his widow and offered her support and comfort. The frequent correspondence between Brahms and Frau Schumann in those early years is preserved. It stops abruptly about five years after Robert’s death. Clara Schumann had been an active concert artist all her life, beginning when she was only a child of nine years old, but in the summer of 1861 she abruptly disappeared from the public eye, canceling all her engagements, ceasing her efforts to edit and publish her husband’s work. Rumors abounded that she had abandoned her family to move to Hamburg to be with Brahms. He never admitted it, and in fact refused ever to speak of Clara Schumann again after that time. Any letters which they may have exchanged are lost. All that is known for certain is that Clara Wieck Schumann died in obscurity and alone, abandoned by family and friends, at the age of about fifty. Conjecture holds that the Schumann family refused to allow her to be buried with her husband. The location of her grave site is lost to history.

  Something about the paragraph made Kristian’s heart ache. He couldn’t think why. Surely he had known this for years, ever since he first fell in love with the ideal of Clara Schumann.

  But why had he done that? Clara Schumann had cut her career short, abandoned her family in favor of a short-lived love affair, and died in disgrace. Why would he imagine himself to be in love with the memory of this woman?

  He pressed his palms over his eyes, trying to think. He was having trouble knowing what was real and what was imagined. His dream had not helped, and he wished now he had refused Chiara’s sleeping pill. He remembered Braunstein and the layering—surely that was real. He remembered Chiara holding his hand as he got into bed, or—had she gotten in with him, made love to him through a hot afternoon?

  He groaned. Chiara. Was it Chiara he had dreamed of, or Catherine? Or—unaccountably—Clara Schumann, who turned her back on a blameless life, had ruined her reputation and abandoned her responsibilities, only to die in ignominy? God, his head ached.

  It can’t be right. Something has gone wrong. He got up from the bed, and groped in his duffel for his cell phone. On unsteady legs, he staggered across to his bureau and the bottle of water there. He poured some, and sipped it thirstily while he waited for the phone to ring in Boston.

  He steeled himself for the breezy message about the North Pole, but instead he heard “Hello?”

  It was such a relief to hear her level, un-time-lagged voice that he could have shouted for joy. Or wept with exhaustion. He restrained himself. He still had no idea what time it was. “Rik!” he said hoarsely. “Thank God you’re home!”

  “Kris? What time is it there? Of course I’m home.”

  “Rik, I’m sorry. I don’t have any idea what time it is. I don’t even know what day it is. Everything’s so—” Words suddenly failed him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think why he had called, what it was that was bothering him. Erika was the one he needed to talk to, he knew that, but—but why?

  “Kris? Are you okay?”

  He opened his eyes, and saw the Brahms biography with its broken spine, lying facedown in the jumble of his unmade bed. “Oh! Yes, yes, Rik, I’m okay. A bit time-lagged, but—”

  “Time-lagged? Is that what you said?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. I’ll be fine.” He reached for the book, and turned it over. “Rik, listen. Does this sound right to you?”

  He read the paragraph. She said, “What’s that from?” He told her, and she made him read it again. “I don’t—something’s wrong with that,” she said. “But I’m not sure what. It sounds familiar, as if I’ve always known this, but—”

  “You once said I fell in love with Catherine because she looked like Clara Schumann,” Kristian said.

  “I did, I guess.”

  “But why would I—what would make me think about Clara Schumann that way?”

  “Well, she wrote some very pretty music, didn’t she? I seem to recall some songs—”

  “Sure, her music. But why was she that important to me? Her career was so short. She’s no more than a footnote in history, really. Robert Schumann’s wife. Johannes Brahms’s mistress. It makes no sense.”

  “Kris, I don’t understand what you’re saying. I hardly know anything about her—nobody does, do they? Why are you asking?”

  “I know it sounds strange. Sorry, Rik, I just—” He tossed the book aside, and crossed to the bureau to stare at himself in the round mirror above it. His face seemed unfamiliar to him, as if it had changed as he slept. What was it? His own face couldn’t change! Time lag. Nasty.

  He gave his head a shake, and turned away from his reflection. “Never mind, Rik. Sorry to bother you.”

  “Are you coming home soon?”


  “I’ll call you later, let you know my plans.”

  “Kris—honey, you’re sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m sure. Don’t worry.”

  She snorted a laugh, and he laughed, too. For a moment, he felt a bit better. Once they had said good-bye, though, and he clicked off his cell, his unease returned. He looked at his phone, and saw that the time was just after midnight. Erika must have just gotten home, and probably understood perfectly that he should be in bed. Asleep. He should try to sleep some more, he knew that, but he was pretty sure that was hopeless.

  He showered instead, taking a long time under the hot water, washing his hair, soaping himself from ears to heels. He caught himself, at one point, staring at his own hands with soap foaming around his fingers and wondering whose they were. Time lag, he told himself. It’s just time lag.

  But when he wiped steam from the mirror with the flat of his hand and stood with his razor in his hand, looking at himself, he wondered. He knew it was his face, but it didn’t seem to quite . . . fit. Something about the mouth, the eyes . . . He wished Rik were here. She would know.

  It was past one in the morning when he gingerly opened his door, trying not to make any noise, and crept down the stairs in his stocking feet, the book under his arm. He went to the kitchen, and turned on the light. It seemed particularly harsh in the cold darkness, and it made him shiver and rub the goose bumps on his arms as he crossed to the refrigerator.

  He found a covered bowl of baby artichokes, marinated in olive oil and garlic. It was next to a plate of prosciutto and cheese. Pecorino, he remembered. Oddly, being able to recall the name of that hard white cheese made him feel better.

  He blessed Chiara, or whoever had left the food for him to find. He carried the food to the island, then opened cupboards until he found a plate and a water glass. There was a jug of red wine tucked under the rack of utensils, but he thought he had probably had enough at lunch the day before—even though he had tossed it all up in the street.

  He remembered that with perfect clarity, and it made his cheeks burn. He wished Chiara hadn’t been there.

  He pulled a stool close to the counter and opened the Brahms biography. He was flipping through the pages, his mouth full of prosciutto and cheese, when the kitchen door opened. Kristian looked up, and saw Max McDonald with a coffee cup in his hand. “Kris!” Max exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

  “I was. I did.” Kristian speared an artichoke with his fork and held it up. “Hungry? These are delicious.”

  “I know. We had them last night. I just came in for some coffee. My job to watch Frederica tonight.”

  “Not much happening there, I’m pretty sure.”

  Max gave Kristian an odd look. “No. There’s not. Why are you so sure?”

  Kristian, all at once, wasn’t sure of anything. He put down his fork, the pale green artichoke still attached, and stared at his plate. Did he even like artichokes?

  Max was beside him, without Kristian being aware he had moved. He put a steadying hand on Kristian’s shoulder. “Time lag?”

  Kristian shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He gripped the counter with both hands, shaken by a sudden panic. “It’s not that; it’s—Max, I think it’s the time line. It’s changed.”

  Max’s freckled forehead crinkled. “The time line? But they say that can’t be.”

  Kristian clung to the counter as if it could keep him in the right time, the right place. “They say a lot of things, Max. I don’t think they have any idea what can or can’t be.”

  “You may be right, Kris. But if the time line had changed—how would you know? Wouldn’t you just remember it differently?”

  “Yeah. That’s the theory.” Kristian let go of the edge of the counter, grateful that the room stayed the same around him, that Max still stood at his shoulder, that the Brahms biography lay where he had left it, open to “Mentors and Mysteries.”

  “Why are you worried about this?” Max asked. He leaned forward to look at the book. “Is there something in here?”

  “There is. Something that bothers me.” Kristian touched the book with his fingers, turned it over to look at the back, checked the cracked spine. Everything seemed to be as he remembered it, but . . . “Max, I’m really worried. This is worse than just Frederica.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just all—wrong.” Kristian looked up at Max. “Trust me on this. We’d better get Elliott out of bed, and Chiara. I have something to tell you, and we need to take some action. Before it’s too late.”

  It took a long time to explain to Max and Elliott about Clara Schumann and what Frederica had done. They sat around the desk in the transfer room, watching the clock tick away the small hours of the night. The building was eerily silent. Frederica barely seemed to breathe, and Kristian saw everyone glance at her from time to time. It was like sitting in a room with a corpse.

  Kristian told Max and Elliott what he had told Chiara. They stared at him in disbelief, and he told them again. Even as he repeated his recitation, he understood how bizarre it was. He wasn’t surprised by their wary looks. “I know you think I’m crazy,” he said. “I know how it sounds. But she did it. She moved into Clara Schumann’s body, and she didn’t come out again.”

  Max, with something like disgust on his face, stared across the room at Frederica, lying so still and silent beneath her web of wires and cords.

  Elliott, surprisingly, was less shocked. “I should have figured this out,” he said glumly.

  “I don’t know how you could,” Kristian told him. “I was there. I saw it. I still had trouble believing it.”

  Max shook his head. “I can’t figure it out. Even if it’s true, what’s her purpose? What can she do? Stay inside the zone forever?”

  “She doesn’t have to,” Elliott said. “She’s taken someone else’s place, and that person isn’t constrained by the transfer.”

  “It’s so—so medieval,” Max muttered.

  “Medieval?” Elliott said. His bare scalp wrinkled as he raised his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, medieval. It’s possession. Like, evil spirits.”

  “It must feel that way to Clara,” Kristian said. “She has no context. No way to understand what’s happened to her.”

  Max was shaking his head. “You don’t believe me,” Kristian said.

  “I don’t know what to believe, Kris. I believe you believe, if that’s any help.”

  Kristian spread his hands. “It’s what I saw, Max. I don’t blame you for being skeptical.”

  Chiara had hastily thrown on a pair of jeans and a sweater, but she hadn’t stopped for shoes. Kristian looked down at her small, neat feet. Her toenails were painted blue, and somehow he liked that odd detail. It helped anchor him in the proper century. Clara would never think of having blue toenails.

  Chiara had been frowning, trying to follow their swift conversation. When they paused, she said, “What are we going to do? I think perhaps we should hurry, before Dr. Braunstein wakes up.”

  Kristian said, “There’s only one thing we can do. I have to go back. I have to try to persuade her.”

  “I’m worried about you,” Max said. “I’m not sure it’s safe.”

  Kristian straightened, making an effort to look alert and capable. “Look, I know I keep . . . sort of blanking out—but I’ll be okay. I’m fine when I’m under the cap. I can rest afterward, when I . . . if I can—” He broke off. He looked down at Chiara’s delicate blue toenails again, and gripped the seat of the chair beneath him.

  Chiara was shaking her head. “I wish there were someone else who could go.”

  “Braunstein’s no good,” Elliott said sourly. “She’s terrified, and the screwup last time was the end for her. She’s afraid she’ll blow her mind.”

  “She just might,” Max said in an unconcerned fashion.

  “We can’t wait for someone else to come,” Kristian said.

  “Maybe it should be one of us,” Max sai
d tentatively, looking at Elliott.

  “We’re needed on this end,” Elliott said flatly. “And I haven’t been mapped.”

  “There must be many people who would like to transfer,” Chiara said.

  “They’re not here.” Elliott heaved a mournful sigh.

  “I am here,” Chiara said.

  “We haven’t mapped you, either.”

  “I want to do it,” Kristian repeated. “I have to do it.”

  Chiara said, “Because you think a—a book has changed?”

  “Chiara,” he said, “it’s not the book. It’s a life that’s changed. A woman’s life.”

  “We could call Gregson,” Max offered, a bit lamely. No one answered him.

  Kristian settled it, in the end, by standing up, carefully sliding his folding chair away from the desk, and walking across the room to the second transfer cot. “Let’s do it,” he said, hoping his voice sounded firm. “I can go now, and be back before anyone else is up.”

  He lost the next few minutes, but he found himself under the blanket on the transfer cot, with Elliott fixing the transfer cap onto his head. He must have convinced them. Even with the worry about time lag, it was a relief to see Max attaching the various monitors.

  Chiara had pulled a chair up next to Kristian. Her face was grave.

  He tried to smile at her. “See you later,” he said.

  “Kristian. Be careful.”

  “Everyone keeps saying that.”

  Max put in, “Now more than ever, Kris. If Frederica could do . . . what you say she did—she could do anything. We have no way of helping you if she tries to harm you.”