by John Gardner
“Howells-Duncan, she was double-barreled.”
“Howells-Duncan, then. Double-barreled. Mother was chairwoman of Friends of Manhattan Symphony, right? One year, almost exact.”
“You know it all, you tell it.”
“Come on, Lou. I’ve figured out how dangerous this is. Start talking.”
After a long pause, during which Maestro Passau continued to look out at the view, he began to speak of that time during the fourth decade of the century.
“I got myself a nice little apartment in a service building on Lexington. Nothing showy …”
“Not what I heard.”
“Later it was showy. Later I bought the apartment next door and had the place redesigned. Knocked down walls. To start with it was simple. Right and proper for associate director.”
“So what did you really do during that year? It ended with fireworks. Spectacular.”
“I worked. I learned the business.”
“Thought you already taught yourself the business.”
“Herb, being a good conductor doesn’t teach you how to run an orchestra. There’s more to it. The organization alone boggles the mind. Very difficult stuff. That I learned.”
New York in the thirties was a good place to be. There were still many people, cushioned by creative wealth—as Louis later put it—and these people wanted entertainment. Hollywood thrived and, strangely, so did both classical and popular music. Songs like “We’re in the Money,” and “Pennies from Heaven” cheered people up on the radio. Great orchestras, like the Manhattan, were in demand. Yet Louis Passau was not as happy as he should have been.
He came into New York like a lion and was, naturally, lionized. In the first six weeks he conducted seven of the ten concerts.
The reviews were outstanding. Passau was the great future hope of American symphony orchestras. He was invited to parties, got his name in the papers.
In particular, members of the management committee of the Friends of the Manhattan Symphony had him to dinner, or cocktails. Louis did not miss the significance of this, for the FMS was the driving force of Boris Androv’s orchestra: a cabal of very wealthy people who knew, enjoyed and loved great music enough to pay for it in handsome, tax-deductible, donations. Without the Friends the orchestra could not function, and Louis made an impact on the most influential—for the first six weeks.
In the Captiva apartment he gave a long sigh. “Funny, Herb, it was exactly six weeks. Boris knew what he was doing. Gave me my head, left me to sink or swim; then pulled the rug on me. Six weeks to the day. He was clever, Boris. Had class, a good safe background. A very acceptable man. Happily he didn’t know I had money.”
Boris Androv sat at his wide desk. On the wall behind him hung a single page from an original Mozart score, mounted and framed in gilt. A gift, two years previously, from the FMS, it was the only decoration in the room, if you did not count the conductor’s baton, fashioned in gold, and mounted on an ebony stand which stood on the desk next to a pair of telephones. Maestro Androv did not like clutter.
“Please sit down, Louis. We need to talk.”
In his still relative innocence, Louis imagined he was there to discuss the major concerts of the season. He understood how to deal with gangsters, yet somehow he thought of Maestro Androv as a pushover. Instead, he discovered a shark.
“You weren’t at the Howells-Duncans’ cocktail last night, Boris. You missed a great party.”
“So I understand, Louis. Mrs. Howells-Duncan was on the telephone this morning at the crack of dawn. You were apparently paying a great deal of attention to her daughter, Veronica. Louis …”
“A lovely girl …”
(“Herb, she was spectacular. Tiny waist, a figure you’d die for. Tits just right. Willowy, they called her in the gossip columns. Willowy blonde. Gossip columnists haven’t changed; they still use clichés.”)
“Louis, you’re going to have to understand these people,” Androv said, very cold, as precise as a Bach concerto. “Veronica Howells-Duncan is only eighteen years of age. …”
“Funny, I could have sworn she was much older. She has quite a head on her shoulders.”
“I don’t think it’s her head Mrs. Howells-Duncan’s concerned about.” Androv said it straight, no hint of amusement.
“Concerned?”
“Louis, she called me to express concern. Grave concern.” For the first time, Louis noticed the way Androv moved his body when he spoke. He also managed to express petulance with a little pout of the lips. He had already discovered that Maestro Androv had no sense of humor.
“Why would she … ?”
“Express concern, Louis? Wouldn’t you express concern if you had a daughter of eighteen who was monopolized at a party by a man almost twice her age? A man whose background is not known. …”
“What d’you mean?” Passau had started to get a little testy.
“I mean, Louis, that you’re an unknown commodity. Especially to an old family like the Howells-Duncans. There was a small problem, I understand, with Harriet Markus-Cohen.”
“Harriet’s a grown woman.”
“Unfortunately, Miss Markus-Cohen is a grown woman, Louis. Grown women talk. Mrs. Howells-Duncan told me she was not going to let her daughter be put at risk, like Harriet.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Boris.”
“Well, the story is that you and Harriet Markus-Cohen had started a … how can I put it? … a relationship.”
“Boris, I’m a full-grown man also.”
“Then, as a full-grown man you’re going to have to learn some social graces, Louis. The people who support the Manhattan are what the newspapers rather commonly call ‘old money.’ They have breeding and lineage. You have to understand that I am a third-generation Androv. I would be quite acceptable—I am quite acceptable—to these people. I would be welcomed into their families as a son-in-law. My father was a banker of considerable reputation.”
“And my father was …” Passau blurted in anger.
“Your father was exactly what, Louis?” Androv had assumed his most chilling, ruthless, persona. “Nobody knows what your father was. You, on the other hand, are a gifted orchestra conductor. But that’s all. These people—people like the Howells-Duncans, the Lowells, Bridges, the Markus-Cohens—they are a different matter. They will admire you. Pay money to hear the orchestra under your baton but, never, never, will you be one of them. They’d as soon welcome a Hollywood producer into their midst as yourself. You have to understand that they would never allow you to cross that great social divide and become part of the family.”
“Who said anything about becoming part of any family, Boris?”
“That’s another facet of the same problem. It appears that you suggested some kind of liaison with Veronica Howells-Duncan. Her parents have absolutely forbidden her to see you on her own. It’s left a nasty taste in the mouths of some of our most important benefactors. You’re going to work, Louis. Work, and keep your head down. As director of this orchestra—which I built with my own acumen and hard work—I am telling you that you will now refuse all invitations to parties. You’ll be too busy, in any case. You’ll be rehearsing the orchestra night and day. You’ll also be spending time on the organizational side. You’ll get to know everybody in the Manhattan, from the juniors who handle scores, to the drivers. I’ll see to it. And, if you don’t like it, you can give me your resignation—now.”
In fact there were no invitations for some time after the first six weeks. No public invitations, anyway. In private it was a different matter. That very same night, after the meeting with Androv, Louis returned to his apartment and found a note, left with the porter. It was from Veronica Howells-Duncan who wrote—
My Dear Mr. Passau,
I am afraid my parents do not consider me a grown woman at the age of almost nineteen. For some ridiculous reason they have forbidden me to see you in private, as we arranged last night. I simply think you should know this, before I c
ome to your apartment, as we discussed. I am taking no notice of their restrictions. You are a talented and brilliant man, and I would like to see more of you.
“And she did see more of me, Herb. She saw just about every inch of me.”
Herbie nodded him on, which meant he was urging him back to the second half of the 1930s. It was “What then?” time again.
Louis Passau was not going to take the obvious snub lying down. Well, some of it he took lying down, because two days after Androv had outlined his future, Veronica Howells-Duncan became his willing lover, just as Harriet Markus-Cohen had done—and continued to do—together with the wife of one of the younger members of the FMS and a redheaded waitress who worked at a deli just down the street.
For several months, Passau juggled his full and agile sex life. It took some juggling, because Androv, true to his word, made sure that every hour of every day, and often well into the night, his associate director was occupied. Louis, to be fair, had never been afraid of hard work. He had learned many tricks on the streets of New York and in the clubs of Chicago. In reality, the upper crust of New York society, plus the pretensions of Boris Androv, were nothing to him. He decided to fight in a more subtle manner for he realized that he had made a grave social gaffe.
The likes of Veronica Howells-Duncan, Harriet Markus-Cohen and the FMS wife—the dark and nubile Sue Lee Howard, whose husband was a Texan, in oil—could teach Passau many things, and he was, as they said in theatrical circles, a quick study.
“You know, Herb, the best way to learn a foreign language is to learn from a lover,” he said in the present, with the rain teeming down on the Gulf Coast. “This is what I learned from those kind and generous ladies. I learned about things other than music. Silly things, but things that appeared to matter. You ever notice how some Americans are more class-conscious than the Brits? It was the same, in Russia, believe it or not. But, then, people had more to lose in Russia.”
The silly things included such banalities as food, wine, the way to dress, the books to read, the artistic events to attend. In those early days, Passau had thrown invitations to private viewings and theatrical first nights into the wastepaper basket. Now, he attended the more prestigious of these. Usually he went alone, and his clothes gradually altered from the flashy and somewhat vulgar to those of impeccable taste.
He would see his lovers at many of these events. He would acknowledge them, but never speak with them, or show any close friendship to any one person.
Passau knew how to take hints. Though he was rarely seen in public with a woman, he did lunch and dine at the best places, always tipping handsomely. Maître d’s, waiters and doormen remembered him and greeted him by name, and it was duly noted that he dined with big names in the world of music. He met people like the Gershwins, Maestro Koussevitzky and, on one occasion only, Toscanini himself.
Passau told other stories of those meetings. Oscar Levant, pianist and wit, close friend of the Gershwins, had once commented, in answer to Louis excusing himself from a lunch date because of the pressures of work—“So little time, and so little to do.”
He would often see Androv at private viewings and, when there was no concert to conduct, at first nights, or across a crowded restaurant. The Director of the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra treated him with an almost off-hand disdain at first, but, as the months went by, he was forced to acknowledge his associate director, if not as an equal, at least as a colleague. After six months, Androv actually allowed Passau one concert to himself.
They performed the Tannhäuser overture, Chopin’s Fantasia on Polish Airs, and Sibelius’ First Symphony, which was relatively unknown to New York audiences. The press was ecstatic. The New York Times actually asked why Maestro Androv was keeping his treasure off the podium. Others were later to follow suit. There had been over fifteen minutes of applause after the Sibelius which, one writer claimed, was the musical feast of the year.
Androv remained cool—if anything a shade cooler—and with reason. Passau had not watched and learned from those hard Chicago gangsters in vain. He saw through Androv’s facade towards the end of the summer, but he was also concerned about one aspect of his own love life. Veronica Howells-Duncan was not only getting careless regarding their secret, but also began to suggest they come out into the open. “Please, Louis, I’m sure my parents will treat you differently. They were so enthusiastic after the concert,” she told him one evening as they lay in bed after the main event, smoking cigarettes. “In fact, I think they’ve guessed we’re still seeing one another.”
The line, thrown away lightly, started the alarms buzzing in Passau’s head. “Why would you think that?” He did not look at her. It was six in the evening, his one afternoon off. In two hours he was due to oversee a rehearsal.
“Oh, I don’t know. Something my father said.”
“And?”
“Oh, after the concert he asked me outright if I had ever seen you again. … Well, Louis, after the row and all that stupidity … you know, when they said I was never to see you alone.”
Louis grunted, blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling, and turned his face towards her. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”
She smiled at him in the dim light of the room. “I was absolutely noncommittal, darling. But I really do think you should see them. I mean there’s no reason why we shouldn’t marry next spring.”
He had not planned on marrying next spring, or even the spring after that, and the conversation had taken what he considered to be an ominous turn. Certainly, Veronica would be a catch for him and, of all his lovers, she, undoubtedly, had become the best. After all, had he not trained her himself? Marriage to her could even push his career along, but another wife … ? The thought almost appalled him. In any case, he was certain that the powerful Mr. and Mrs. Douglas C. Howells-Duncan would fight to the last drop of their blood to remove him from their daughter’s life.
“Louis, you’re faraway. Penny for your thoughts.”
“Nothing. Nothing important, my darling. Nothing at all.”
“Then pay attention to me.” Her hand closed around him and she began the lovemaking all over again.
After she left, swearing her undying love, as ever, Louis dressed for the rehearsal. Androv was going to be there, and it was Androv who had become his real target. He had some definite ideas about the Director of the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra. No firm proof, but sound theories that, should he get his hands on proof, would put the fear of God into Maestro Androv. It would only be a matter of time before he set things in motion. Perhaps, he thought, it would be wise to begin soon.
As things turned out that evening, the ball was about to land in his court. Quite unwittingly, Boris Androv was playing into his hands.
“I’d watched Boris,” he told Kruger. “Watched him for months. He was clever, a born man of intrigue. …”
“Machiavellian,” Herbie said.
“That also. A brilliant musician, but I had a pretty good idea what else he was. I was not quite sure how he got away with it, but past experience told me he was involved in some pretty strange things.”
“Strange things?” Herbie asked.
“Well, not strange these days. Simple, Herb. I thought he was gay—not the best sexual preference in the 1930s.” He gave a little laugh, laced with irony. “I was wrong. It was worse for him than just being gay.”
In those days, the headquarters of the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra was in a big old concert hall in the East Fifties. Originally it had been built as a theater, but the investment corporation had run out of money before completing the project. Androv and his supporters had taken over the debt, finished the building, and made the first headquarters for the MSO.
That night they were rehearsing the Beethoven Ninth. Androv was to conduct it on the following Saturday—this was a Thursday in early September—and the great man sat in at the rehearsal. He had taken to doing this, and Louis knew exactly why. If he, Passau, rehearsed a piece first, with Androv on th
e sidelines, Maestro Androv would get the full value of Maestro Passau’s originality.
As they came to the exultant “Ode To Joy,” at the close of the piece, Louis remembered the first time he had heard it, with his teacher, the huge, boisterous Hamovitch, in New York all those years ago.
He glanced towards Androv and caught a glint in the man’s eyes. He could not say what it was, but he knew that the Director of the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra was looking at him in the same way some of the worst hitmen from the Chicago days looked at an unsuspecting victim. It was a cross between jealousy, hate and a secret knowledge that something catastrophically bad was about to happen. It was a look that chilled the blood.
He missed a beat, the orchestra and choir went slightly ragged, then recovered, but Louis Passau was holding one hand across his eyes, feigning illness. He swayed, and clung to the desk in front of him.
“You all right, Louis?” Androv was beside him, one of his pudgy hands wrapped around his associate’s left forearm.
“I feel faint, Boris. Maybe something has disagreed with me. I shall have to rest.”
“I’ll take over. Don’t worry about a thing, Louis. I’ll finish the rehearsal. Just go up to my office and rest. I’ll drive you home.”
“Maybe I should go home now.”
“No! No, don’t do that. I’ll take you. Another hour should see this finished. Just go to my office and lie down.”
He was too quick, too instant. There was even an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. Passau felt fine, of course, but thoughts flashed through his mind. Had Androv planned some revenge, similar to the food poisoning in Los Angeles? Why was he so concerned that Louis should wait for him to finish? Boris Androv was behaving in a strange and unusual manner, repeating that Louis should lie down and wait for him. He virtually told Louis that he must not even attempt to go home by himself.