by Flora Kidd
‘To play in the orchestra?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. Only Jewish musicians are hired, I think.’ Lenore read on. ‘He says he misses me and wishes we hadn’t broken up. He says we could live together out there.’
‘He’s not offering to marry you, though?’ asked Blythe.
‘No. He’ll never ask me to marry him, not unless I change my religion,’ said Lenore.
‘And would you?’
‘No, not now.’ She shuffled the papers together. ‘Oh, Herzel, Herzel you’re too late, you’re too late,’ she muttered.
‘What do you mean, he’s too late?’ asked Blythe.
‘I’m not in love with him any more and I don’t want to live with him. I’ve got over it.’ Lenore crammed the letter into the envelope.
‘Have you?’ Blythe’s eyebrows tilted sardonically. ‘Then why aren’t you looking better? Why aren’t you putting on weight? Why are you so strung up? You’re in a far worse state than when you came!’
‘I’ve had a lot on my mind,’ replied Lenore. ‘Practising for the concert. Rehearsing with Isaac isn’t easy, you know. He’s such a perfectionist. And then I’m really anxious about getting another orchestral job. The competition is keen, very keen, and orchestras are folding everywhere because of financial losses and cut-backs in government grants and subsidies.’
‘All the more reason why you should consider seriously staying here, earning your bread working for me and playing for the Northport Ensemble. Who knows, this series of concerts might be so successful the ensemble will be in demand to put on more concerts, and Jack Kanata might be able to start that summer music school and festival and you could teach at that.’ Blythe slid off the bed and stood up. ‘What time did you say that woman was coming today to interview you?’
‘Eleven o’clock.’
‘Well, it’s nearly that now, so I suggest you start making yourself look presentable. I presume you don’t wish to be interviewed in that old dressing gown with your hair all wild and woolly.’
‘No, I don’t,’ exclaimed Lenore, jumping to her feet as she remembered Valerie Baker’s casual chic. ‘What shall I wear?—oh, what shall I wear? Help me, Blythe!’ She flung open the wardrobe door.
‘What you usually wear for practice and rehearsal, I guess,’ said Blythe. ‘Why not those black slacks with a frilly blouse—the crimson one, I think. Red looks good on you and it photographs well. And pile your hair up on top of your head to show off your neck. And wear plenty of make-up to cover up those lines under your eyes, for God’s sake. You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?’
‘Not really,’ mumbled Lenore, who had discarded her dressing robe and was pulling on tailored black pants.
‘And my guess it isn’t just the concert or looking for a job that’s keeping you awake,’ said Blythe, sliding the crimson silk blouse off its hanger. ‘My guess is you’ve got a man on your mind, and if that man isn’t Herzel Rubin he’s Adam Jonson! You’re sorry you turned him down, aren’t you?’
‘No, it isn’t that,’ muttered Lenore as she took the blouse and began to slip her arms into the sleeves. ‘Oh, I don’t know what it is. I can’t stop thinking about him . . . when I’m not busy, that is. He seems to fill my mind. He haunts me. I don’t seem to be able to do what he told me to do.’
‘And what did he tell you to do?’
‘He told me to forget he’d ever proposed to me and. . . .’ Lenore’s lips trembled as she looked down to watch her fingers fastening the blouse. ‘He told me to stay away from him,’ she added in a whisper. Never would she get over the wound Adam’s words had inflicted on her sensitivity. ‘I’ve stayed away,’ she went on, ‘but I . . . I don’t seem to be able to forget. Not while I’m here.’ She raised dark anguished eyes to Blythe’s compassionate face. ‘So you see now why I have to go away after the concert?’
‘Yes, I see,’ agreed Blythe. ‘I warned you, didn’t I, warned you you’d soon fall in love again. Oh, Lenore, whatever am I to do with you? You can’t go on like this—you must see that. You can’t go on falling in and out of love all the time with totally unsuitable men. You’ll have to try and control your feelings somehow.’
‘Then perhaps I should get me to a nunnery, like Hamlet told Ophelia,’ said Lenore dryly as she began to pin her hair up. ‘That’s the only place where I won’t see any men, and the last place I’d find anyone like Adam Jonson!’
Ten minutes later she stepped into the lounge to find Valerie Baker and Jim Lorway already there setting up the camera and lights for filming the interview. Since their first meeting at Adam’s house she had met Valerie several times at rehearsals, but they had not talked privately. This morning the TV producer was dressed in a suit of fine cream-coloured tweed which had a straight skirt and a short loose jacket under which she wore a plain linen blouse the same colour as the tweed. As usual, about her neck she had tied, a colourful scarf in a cheeky knot. She looked what she was, competent and efficient, completely in charge of the situation.
‘We’ll talk for about twenty minutes and later I’ll edit the interview, take out of it what I think is suitable to fit in with the other interviews that I’ve done with Isaac and Jack, Willa and Douglas. I’d like you to sit on this couch here with that painting of a sailing yacht behind you and I’ll sit here beside you. Have you ever been interviewed for a TV programme before?’
‘No.’ Lenore sat down in the comer of the pink-covered couch and Jim came forward to clip the tiny microphone to her blouse.
‘Then just relax and try to be as normal as possible,’ said Valerie briskly, settling herself down and pinning a microphone on herself. ‘First of all. I’ll ask you why you chose to play the clarinet, then why you came to Northport and became involved with the ensemble, and lastly what your feelings are about the piece of music you’re going to play. Just answer me as if you were talking to someone you know well and say as much as you want. The more you talk the better—I’m just asking the questions to get you going. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Lenore nodded. ‘Should I look at the camera?’
‘No, look at me. The camera will be facing you anyway and will pick up all your expressions. Afterwards, since we have only one camera, we’ll pretend to do the interview again with me asking the questions so that Jim can film my face while I’m speaking. Later it will all be put together at the studio. Ready to start now?’
The camera lights were hot and bright, shining directly on her face and giving the impression that the day was sunny even though she knew it was cloudy and raining outside. Once she had answered Valerie’s first question about how she had chosen to be a musician Lenore found it much easier to answer the second question about why she was in Northport and how she had met Isaac and the other members of the music ensemble. But she was unprepared for the next question.
Her catlike eyes narrow yet bright with malice, Valerie smiled just a little as she spoke.
‘Now I’m told that it’s thanks to you that the ensemble has been allowed to perform in the beautiful eighteenth-century music room of the Jonson house, that you have a close friendship with the owner of the house, Adam Jonson. Is this true?’
‘I have met Mr Jonson, yes,’ replied Lenore cautiously, but she was unable to prevent hot colour from rushing into her cheeks and her hands twisted nervously on her lap.
‘Only once?’ Valerie’s eyebrows lifted in mock surprise.
‘No . . . er . . . we’ve met more than once.’ Lenore suddenly lost her temper. ‘Look, I don’t see what this has to do with your interview of me. I thought you wanted to know how I felt about . . . about the music and not . . . well, not about my . . . my. . . .’
‘Your relationship with Adam?’ suggested Valerie, still mocking.
‘I don’t have a relationship with him,’ flared Lenore, and turned towards Jim Lorway. ‘Is this still being taped?’ she demanded.
‘Sure is,’ he answered from behind the camera.
‘Then I’m not staying any longer to say an
ything else!’ she snapped, springing to her feet. Finding herself entangled by the lead attached to her microphone, she unhooked the small object from her blouse and flung it down on the couch. ‘And if you dare to show that part of the interview with me on TV I’ll . . . I’ll sue you!’ she added, glaring down at Valerie.
‘So it’s true,’ drawled the producer, who was still smiling a little as she looked down at the notebook on her lap.
‘What is?’ demanded Lenore warily.
‘You and Adam have had an affair.’ Valerie looked up suddenly and Lenore stepped back a pace, alarmed by the glittering hostility in the green-flecked eyes.
‘Look, if you two are going to have a fight I’m going for a smoke,’ drawled Jim, who had switched off the lights and the video-tape machine. He walked out of the room into the hallway, and Valerie rose smoothly to her feet to face the scarlet-cheeked Lenore.
‘What have you done to him?’ she whispered. ‘What have you done to Adam?’
‘I . . . I haven’t done anything to him,’ exclaimed Lenore in bewilderment. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, come on now, don’t play the innocent with me,’ jeered Valerie. ‘You got at him in some way, made fun of him, perhaps. Told him that his semi-blindness was making him crazy, suggested to him that he wasn’t normal.’
Lenore couldn’t help stiffening. Valerie noticed, and her eyes narrowed even more, while her mouth twisted.
‘So it was you,’ she drawled. ‘Well, I hope your conscience is strong enough to carry the burden.’
‘What burden? Oh, please will you talk straight? Will you stop talking in innuendoes!’ cried Lenore. ‘Has something happened to Adam?’ She remembered suddenly and vividly Adam threatening to shoot himself if she didn’t stay the night with him, and her cheeks went as white as they had been red, a complete withdrawal of colour which left her face looking haggard and haunted. ‘He hasn’t . . . he hasn’t. . . .’ she began, and broke off, because her throat closed up and her lips went dry, making it impossible for her to speak.
‘Yes, he’s decided to go through with the operation,’ said Valerie flatly.
‘Wh-what operation?’ Lenore gasped, her legs suddenly giving way so that she sank down on the couch.
‘Do you mean to say you didn’t know?’ exclaimed Valerie, frowning at her. ‘Didn’t he ever tell you?’
‘No, not about an operation. Only ... only about how he came to be half blind. I told you we ... we met only three times. We ... we hardly know each other. What sort of operation? What will it do?’
‘A very delicate operation to remove the pressure that’s causing the blindness. An operation with only a sixty-forty chance of success. Sixty against Adam surviving it, because it’s so delicate. One slip of the surgeon’s hand and his brain will be damaged completely, or he’ll die. Twice the operation has been suggested to him and twice he’s refused. Now, suddenly, he’s very determined to have it done because someone, and I guess it was you, has said he’s not normal.’ Valerie paused, her breath hissing through her teeth as she drew it in, then she leaned forward. ‘If Adam dies it will be your fault,’ she said in a cold hate-laden voice. ‘Somehow you’ve got to stop him from going to New York. Go today to see him.’
‘But... but he told me to stay away from him. He told me not to go and see him again,’ muttered Lenore miserably.
‘So I’ll leave it with you,’ said Valerie coolly. ‘Have a nice day,’ she remarked ironically. ‘It’s time Jim and I went over to the Caplans’ house to interview Willa. See you tomorrow at the concert.’
She went out into the hallway and a few seconds later returned with Jim to help him pack and pick up the video equipment. Lenore left the room and went up to her bedroom and closed the door. She sat for a long time thinking over what Valerie had told her, wondering if it was true. There was only one way to find out—go to see Adam and ask him.
In a few minutes she was dashing down the stairs again, wearing a zipped waterproof jacket over her blouse. Valerie and Jim had left, much to her relief, and she hurried into the kitchen where Blythe was working as usual.
‘Please can I borrow the car?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘I’m not going far, and I won’t be long.’
‘Keys are in the usual place,’ replied Blythe placidly. ‘How did the interview go?’
‘It was a disaster,’ replied Lenore, taking the keys from the hook where Blythe always hung them. ‘Valerie Baker and I got into a fight and Jim stopped filming us.’
‘A fight? About what?’ exclaimed Blythe.
‘My . . . well, my friendship, if you can call it that, with Adam Jonson.’
‘She’s jealous?’
‘You can say that again! See you later.’
The scent of newly blossoming lilacs was strong in the damp air. Soft grey rain blurred the view of sea and islands and the house on Pickering Point looked grey too and somehow withdrawn. Lenore ran up the front steps and rang the bell. Her heart was beating with excitement and the impulsive urge that had sent her hurrying to see Adam was still pulsing through her. She didn’t question that impulse. She had to see him alone before he went away to New York. She had no hope of stopping him from having the operation, but she had to see him again, be with him again before he left in case—-her thoughts swerved wildly away from the dread possibility, but she forced them back on track and made herself face up to reality—she had to see him again in case he died while he was having the operation.
The door opened a crack and Bertha Smith looked out.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘Mr Jonson—I’ve come to see him,’ said Lenore.
‘He ain’t here.’
‘Oh. He hasn’t ... he hasn’t gone away already, has he?’
‘I dunno where he’s gone. Went off with Albert in the truck somewhere. They’re always going off together.’
‘Do you know when they’ll be back?’ asked Lenore.
‘Nope. They didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. I know better than to ask either of them.’
‘You don’t suppose they . . . they’ve gone to New York?’ asked Lenore.
‘I tell yer I dunno know where they’ve gone. That all you want?’ Bertha was beginning to close the door.
‘Yes, I guess it is. Thanks,’ muttered Lenore.
The door closed and she went slowly down the steps, the desire to see Adam dissolving into disappointment and then into something very close to despair. He’d gone and she would never see him again, she was sure, for if the operation was successful and he recovered his sight he would never come here again. He would go back to his work as a news cameraman. And if the operation wasn’t successful . . . oh, it didn’t bear thinking about, and it might be all her fault. As Valerie Baker had so shrewdly pointed out, it would be a burden on her conscience for the rest of her life.
She drove back to the Inn, but she didn’t tell Blythe where she had been or why. Somehow she got through the afternoon and at four o’clock went off to Isaac’s house for a final rehearsal. Rose greeted her with an exclamation of concern.
‘Lenore, what is the matter? You look so, how shall I put it? Strung-up? You are anxious about the concert, maybe?’
‘A little.’
‘But you shouldn’t be. You play so well.’
‘Not well enough for Isaac, though,’ said Lenore, smiling at the violinist as he came out of the room where they usually rehearsed to welcome her.
‘That is so, that is so,’ he said, smiling back at her and taking hold of her arm affectionately to lead her into the room. ‘But it is not the technique I criticise. That is perfect—no, brilliant. It is the lack of expression. You must learn to let go and let your feelings come through, and I have thought how I might help you in this. You must think of this trio as a little love story. The story of the ill-matched pair, the viola and the clarinet. Can you do that?’
‘I’ll try. But please tell me more,’ said Lenore, intrigued by the suggestion.
‘Listen, then.’ Isaac picked up his viola and tucked it under his chin. ‘While we wait for Jack we will talk, you and I, through our instruments, the ill-matched pair. As you know, the main theme of the first movement is stated first by me on the viola in a most quarrelsome fashion.’ He played the time in a vigorous way, and the sonorous sound of the instrument did suggest someone who was snarling irritably ... in the same way that Adam had snarled at her when they had first met, she thought. ‘That is our hero, the viola, stating his position. He’s a real tough guy ... what you call these days macho. Now you, on the clarinet, our heroine, play the same theme, but more ardently because you are female. Go on—play it now, with the feeling in mind that you like him and want to know more about him.’
Lenore, who had lifted her clarinet from its case and had put it together, wetted the reed with her lips, then began to play. The notes fell on the air clearly as pure as a bird’s song as she remembered how she had felt when she had met Adam in his house, how she had tried to soften him. The memory grew, filled her mind, and the tone of the clarinet notes changed. They grew rounder and warmer, less disciplined, and when she came to the end of the tune and paused to take breath, Isaac clapped his hands in delight.
‘That’s it—that’s it! Now I know that you have experience of what I’m saying. Now you do not play like a sexless being. Always, Lenore, you must bring your experience of life into your playing. So we move on to the second movement, that is lighthearted, although there are some serious moments, and in the trio section the clarinet sighs forth its yearning appeal, getting an immediate and exceedingly bad-tempered response from the viola. You begin to understand how it is like a love story. Advance and retreat, proposal and rejection.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ muttered Lenore. ‘But how does it end . . . the love story, I mean?’
‘In the last movement, as you know, the clarinet is given pride of place with two glorious melodies . . . the female expressing once and for all her love, and for a while the two ill-matched companions quarrel with each other as the viola—our hero—refuses to admit he has been conquered by love. Then at last, all opposition is overcome and viola and clarinet, our hero and heroine, go side by side in amity.’