“I did. I got over it.” Mostly.
“Do you feel bad about Miss Bannister?” Emma’s young face was innocent and hopeful as she waited for his response.
Kristian had to look away for a moment. “I feel terrible. Her mother—I should say, her parents—were devastated.”
“They won the lawsuit, though.”
“Hardly compensation for losing their daughter.”
“If you could, Dr. North, would you go back again?”
He schooled his features carefully before he looked back at her. “No. I had my chance, and I’m grateful. But I wouldn’t do it again.”
“Do you oppose further remote research?”
“On principle, no. In practice, yes.”
She tapped her chin with the pen. “You think they might be right then. About changing the time line.”
It was the question he had been afraid of answering, all this time. The dangerous question. He had planned his answer with caution, and with no reference to the song neither he nor Erika had been able to remember, nor the vague impression he had that the biography of Brahms had something odd about it. He put his back to the window, and faced the little recorder. He wanted to make sure this was clear.
“Until we know what happened to Frederica Bannister,” he said, “I think Congress is right to put a hold on remote research. Whatever it was that went wrong”—Poor Clara!—“it could happen again. We have to know how to prevent it.”
She thanked him, asked for a couple of minor details, then gathered up her recorder and microphone and left his office. He glanced at his watch, and gathered his notes for his next lecture. The interview had gone well, he thought. That was good, because he wouldn’t be doing another. He had already published his dissertation, and he was contracted to write three articles on Brahms. When he finished those, he intended a series on Clara Schumann. It was enough. It would have to be enough.
He tried not to think of his empty apartment, his solitary weekends, the long quiet evenings. There were concerts, of course. Recitals. Cocktail parties. Still, in moments of honesty, he admitted to himself that he was lonely.
A ghost made very poor company.
He had seen Clara Schumann several times since that night in the apartment in Boston. It was safer to think of her as a ghost than as an effect of time lag, but sometimes it seemed to him he had never fully returned to his own century. The months he had spent working on his dissertation had been marked by unnerving moments when Brahms’s youthful face swam before his eyes, when the dusty air of his carrel filled with the scent of roses. He often dreamed of that brief moment when he held the real Clara in arms that were also real. They had not belonged to him, those arms, but the sensations were vivid in his memory just the same.
At Juilliard he had been lucky to get a dorm room on the ninth floor of the Rose Building. He shared it with a theater student who seemed to more or less live full-time with his girlfriend in Soho. Kristian liked being alone, as he spent all his spare time on the dissertation. One day, when he had been struggling to describe Brahms’s feeling about p dolce for hours, he pushed away his computer. He turned off all the lights in the room, and went to lie on the floor in front of his CD player. He put in a CD of the A-Major Quartet, and tucked a pillow under his head. He closed his burning eyes, and tried to let the darkness and the strains of the music soothe him.
As the music played, he couldn’t help remembering Clara at the fortepiano in Casa Agosto, her slender fingers flashing as she played through the score. His heart twisted with longing for that little salon, for the picture the two of them made together. He knew Erika was right and that he had to accept that Clara, however ideal she might have been, had been gone for a very long time. It wasn’t right to feel that the women he saw around him were somehow pale and dull in comparison.
The problem was that—for him—Clara was right there. She lived and breathed, just on the other side of the veil. It seemed if he could reach out, find an opening, a window through time, she would smile at him again, hold him in her slender arms, kiss his cheek once more.
He thought of trying to find the other researcher who suffered from time lag, to learn if he had the same experience. Did he imagine he was back in Versailles, long to see the Hall of Mirrors, yearn to listen to the French of the seventeenth century?
Kristian wondered if Frederica had lost herself this way, trying to hold on to the wrong century, then unable to find her way back to her own. It wasn’t scientific. It wasn’t even logical. Still, Kristian couldn’t banish the feeling that he had one foot in 1861 and the other in the twenty-first century. Despite his assurances to Erika, he didn’t know if it would ever pass.
The quartet came to an end. Reluctantly, Kristian opened his eyes and sat up.
She was standing beside the window, as she had before, although it was a different window this time. She looked different, too—her hair was brushed into a heavy coil at the nape of her slender neck. Threads of silver glimmered in it, caught by the glow of the city lights. Her dress was black, with jet beads on the bodice, and the skirt was wider. Her face was—
Older. She was older than she had been when he last saw her.
Her jawline was a bit softer, her eyelids heavier. Her mouth, that small, sweet mouth, drooped the tiniest bit, and her waist was ever so slightly thicker than he remembered.
His throat dried, and his heart thudded. He croaked, “Clara!”
She turned her great eyes on him, and gave him her wistful smile. Her gesture was different this time, a hand to her throat, a slight, sad shake of the head.
Kristian leaped to his feet, but before he could cross to the window she was gone.
He saw her again in Boston, when he’d gone home to meet Erika’s fiancé. He was a reporter who had been charmed, on that very first day, by the handsome blond girl leaning on her cane, taking questions for her brother. His name was Zachary, and Kristian liked him a lot. He reminded Kristian a bit of Max McDonald, with his lanky charm and ready humor. The three of them had spent a pleasant evening, going out to dinner, ending up at Angel’s for a drink before Kristian left them and took a cab back to the apartment.
He let himself in, and stood for a moment in the doorway, looking around at the dilapidated woodwork, the worn carpet, their disreputable furniture. He allowed himself a moment of nostalgia, then had to laugh. Erika would live in a much nicer place with her Zachary. There was no point in lamenting this old apartment, except that they had lived there so long. It held memories of their mother, but they could carry those with them.
He sighed, and shucked out of his leather jacket. As he tossed it over a kitchen chair, he laughed again. The first thing he planned to do, before he went out to take up his new position, was buy a better coat.
The apartment seemed particularly empty without Erika. Even her wheelchair was gone, folded and stowed in Zachary’s hall closet in case she needed it. She had been walking so well, ever since her trip to Italy, that it had been gathering dust here ever since. Chiara had been right—Rik had needed a little confidence in her abilities, and flying alone to Italy had evidently given her that. Kristian glanced into her neat bedroom on the way to his own. She had stripped the bed, emptied her closet, cleared out most of her things. She had one foot out the door already.
But then, so did he. He went into his own room, as usual not bothering with the light. He undressed, and slid into bed to lie with his hands behind his head, staring up at the stained ceiling as he had so often done over the years. Something ached in his solar plexus, something lonely and hard. He was happy, he told himself. Happy for Rik and Zachary. Happy he was about to defend his dissertation and be done with the damned thing. Happy about going to teach at the University of the Pacific.
But as it always did, ever since it all happened, his thoughts turned to Brahms, to Frederica, to Casa Agosto, and Clara. He sighed, and was about to close his eyes when he felt it. He knew she was there. Slowly, gingerly, he turned his head on his pillow.
There was no mistaking it this time. Clara, standing with her back to the light from the street, looked as she had in the Lenbach portrait, when she was nearly sixty. The lines of her face were softer, the shadows under her eyes more marked, the folds above them deeper. She wore a shawl, with a white collar just visible above it, and she held it around her with her hands as she gazed down at Kristian. Her eyes smiled at him, then swept away, gazing out into the distance, yearning for something. He was tempted to follow that gaze, but he felt certain whatever she was looking at was something only she could see, and he didn’t want to miss an instant of her presence.
He said, very softly, “Clara.”
Her smile grew, and her eyes returned to him, caressed him with a look that was at once shy and maternal.
“I don’t know if you’re really here,” he said, in German. “Or if I’m there with you.”
Her lips parted, but before she could speak she disappeared. It was nearly as abrupt as the transfer; one moment she was there, and the next she was not. Kristian pressed his palms to his temples in frustration. What was happening? Why was she changing, aging? Perhaps it wasn’t time lag at all. Perhaps she was, after all, a ghost.
He didn’t see her again until he was installed in his Waterfield Square apartment, walking distance from the university. The apartment was depressingly modern and almost antiseptically clean. Its ceilings were unstained, its walls newly painted. The carpet was spotless and the kitchen well-appointed. It was as different as it could be from the ancient Boston apartment he had called home for so long.
It felt sterile. He did his best, hanging his picture of Brahms opposite the old portrait of Clara, putting up a couple of posters of Rhine castles, splurging on new towels and sheets and a few kitchen things. Still, as he settled in before the term began he found himself avoiding going home to it whenever he could. He hung out in the faculty lounge and the student union. He accepted all invitations to coffee or lunch. When he finally returned to the apartment at the end of the day, it was with reluctance. Even the air seemed temporary, transitory, as if it blew through the empty rooms and out again, leaving no scent of familiarity, no aura of warmth or welcome.
His lectures were ready. He had his class lists. His syllabus was complete, and he had filled out every form, answered every question, arranged his books in his office. The last day before the term began, he stood in the apartment gazing out at the artificial pond beyond his window. The late-summer evening light softened the harsh angles of the building and the parking lot beyond. The water shimmered gently under a slight breeze. People in shorts and tank tops—people he didn’t know—moved here and there. There was nothing left for him to do but wait until morning.
Restless, feeling oddly unsatisfied, he turned to go to his bedroom.
She was standing between him and the bedroom door, a dark, heavily dressed figure, utterly out of place in the midst of stainless steel and glass. She seemed to look around, as if searching for something. He caught his breath, but before he could move or speak she was gone.
He stood staring for a long time at the spot she had occupied, while the light faded outside and his rooms grew dark and chill. At last he sighed, shook himself, and went to bed. He wished he understood what it all meant.
Two days before the Christmas break, Kristian was just leaving one of the lecture halls with a little group of students clustered around him. He was in the midst of answering a question about the essay he had assigned for the beginning of the next term. He looked up, and saw Catherine Clark lounging against a wall, her long hair draped over one shoulder, a shoulder bag dangling beside her hip. She saw him, and smiled.
He excused himself from the students, responding to several holiday wishes as they parted, and strolled toward Catherine. When he reached her he said, “Catherine, this is a real surprise. What are you doing in Stockton?”
She straightened, and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I’m doing Giovanni in San Francisco. With Octavia Voss. Didn’t you know that?”
He grinned. “I’m a Brahms man, remember? Not Mozart.”
Her lips were red, and even fuller than he remembered. She pouted, and said, “Oh, Kris! Even if it’s me singing Mozart?”
He laughed, and took her arm. “Come on, Catherine. Let’s get some coffee, and you can tell me why you’re here.”
They turned to walk back down the corridor. It was nice to walk beside her, to remember how graceful she was, how tall, how her hair floated in the slightest breeze. The little cluster of students was still standing around the door of the lecture hall, and they watched with curiosity as Kristian and Catherine passed them. Catherine giggled. “Surrounded by girls as always, I see.”
“Just students.”
“They’re still girls.”
He shook his head, smiling. “No, students. Believe me.” He turned her toward the faculty lounge. “So, San Francisco Opera? That’s a great gig.”
“It is. Even greater because of Octavia. She’s been very nice to me.” She gave a rueful chuckle as they went into the lounge. “Well, she’s nice to everyone. But still.”
“You’re singing Zerlina, I imagine.”
“Yes. For now.” She gave him her characteristic beneath-the-eyelashes glance. “But I’m watching everything Octavia does. I’ll be singing Donna Anna one of these days.”
“I’m sure you will.”
They had the lounge to themselves. Most of the faculty had already left campus for the holiday. The coffeemaker was empty, but Catherine shook her head at Kristian’s offer to make some. They settled into two armchairs at one side of the room. “You look beautiful,” Kristian told her, in all honesty.
“Thank you.” She set her bag down on the floor at her feet, and tucked her feet under her, leaning against the arm of the chair as if she meant to stay awhile.
Kristian leaned back, watching her. He understood now, he thought, how she did it. The studied carelessness of her pose, the droop of her long lashes, the quirk of her scarlet lips—it was both calculated and effective. It was a performance, an outstanding one.
He couldn’t help thinking, by comparison, how natural and unaffected Clara Schumann’s charm was. And Chiara Belfiore’s.
Still, he liked looking at Catherine, and he liked remembering the music they had made together. He thought he just might run into the city and see her performance in Giovanni. “What can I do for you, Catherine?” he asked.
“Believe it or not, Kris,” she said lightly, “I’m not asking you for anything.”
“No?” He smiled, and raised an eyebrow.
She laughed. “I know, I know! For a change. But I mean it.” She played with the ends of her hair where it had fallen in an ebony sweep over her shoulder. “Actually, I came to apologize.”
His smile faded. “Apologize?”
“Yes.” She unfolded her legs, showing a lovely expanse of smooth thigh, and leaned forward to take his hand. Her fingers were long and cool, the nails perfectly shaped and tinted a pale pink. “Yes, Kris, I was awful to you. I’m sorry.”
He looked into her dark eyes, and had to fight a moment of vertigo. Not now, he told himself. Don’t do this now. It was just that her eyes were so very like Clara’s.
She misunderstood his silence. She withdrew her hand, and pulled back into the chair like a child being chastised. “You’re still angry! I don’t blame you, but . . . I wish you could—”
“No, no,” he said hastily. “God, Catherine, I was over that ages ago. We were so young. I was miserable, but I didn’t handle it very well. You couldn’t have been expected to understand.”
“I know you were miserable,” she said softly. “And I wasn’t helpful at all. I was just thinking of myself.”
“You really don’t need to apologize. Although—” He laughed. “It did me a lot of good to apologize to Dr. Underwood! I felt a lot better after that.”
She smiled. “Well, now I’ve done it, too. Are you going to accept?”
&nbs
p; “Of course.” He glanced at his watch. “Catherine, I’m sorry, but I have one more lecture, and it starts in fifteen minutes. It’s great to see you, but you really didn’t need to come out here just for this.”
“I did.” She lowered her eyelashes, and when she looked up he saw that her eyes sparkled with mischief. There was none of Clara’s melancholy in Catherine, however much she might resemble her. “You wouldn’t take my calls,” she said.
He laughed. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Everything was moving so fast.”
She nodded, and pushed herself up out of the chair. “You never spoke to anyone about your transfer till this month.”
“How do you know that?”
“There was a copy of the journal in the rehearsal room at the opera.”
“Oh, I see.” He stood, too, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “That’s how you found me.”
“Yes. I’d been thinking about you. I always think about you.”
Kristian felt a little knot of something, hurt or sadness or disappointment, unravel somewhere inside him. It made him laugh out loud.
“What?” she demanded.
“I think you mean it,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I think you do.”
“Yes,” she said soberly. “I do mean it. And it’s been lovely seeing you.”
She put out her arms, and he hugged her. It felt good, like an embrace from a friend. Nothing stirred inside him, no desire or yearning. There was just that release of something tight and painful, the pocket of misery he hadn’t known was still there.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “Good luck with Giovanni.”
She kissed his cheek, and bent to pick up her bag. He walked her to the door. As she turned toward the exit of the building, she said, “Wait, Kris. I almost forgot. Do you remember the song we did as an encore for my senior recital? It was German, I think—Schumann, maybe? Some sweet little thing about a girl on a swing—for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was. And I can’t find it anywhere.”
The Brahms Deception Page 33