Two-Part Inventions Read online

  If she were to play for a pianist like Dawson in two years, if she were ever to play for an audience at all, she must find a way to get over her fear. Her friends all bemoaned their anxiety, but Suzanne’s terror, she knew, was different. It would not permit the life she had dreamed of since childhood. Watching the master class, she couldn’t deny that any longer.

  The last to play was Laura Duvenek, also a star student with great expectations. She was a narrow reed of a girl, unprepossessing in looks, with stringy blond hair, and unlike the boy students, she hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion but wore a drab everyday shirt and skirt with shoes that were down at the heel. She’d have to get someone to fix her up before she appeared on a New York stage, Suzanne thought. But it was evident from the start of Haydn’s Sonata in E Flat Major, one of the simpler ones, that she was the most accomplished of the three. Dawson stopped her only once, in the first movement, the allegro. He suddenly leaped from his seat and onto the stage. “No, wait, stop right there. You’re losing the shading, the nuance. It’s those triplets. They’re much too slow.” He was excited; he practically shoved her from the bench and played the passage with the triplets, and at his quicker pace they were entirely new, brilliant, rousing. He got up and waved her to the chair.

  “Now you. Do what I did.”

  Laura did not seem disconcerted in the least, or troubled by the several hundred people focused on her. She played the passage again, and the triplets at the rapid speed took on the luster that had been missing. She stopped and looked up at him, without the slightest hesitation. “Like that?” she asked.

  “Yes. Precisely like that,” he said, smiling, and returned to his seat. She played the rest of the sonata uninterrupted, and Anthony Dawson returned to the stage and praised her as he had not praised the others. The audience applauded, but Laura seemed indifferent to anything but Dawson’s words. If only I could be like that, Suzanne thought. But not look like that, she added quickly, in case any nameless gods of music students could hear her prayer.

  What with the headiness of Juilliard, her new friends and teachers, that old affair with Philip shrank to almost nothing. A childhood incident. She had a couple of brief flings with fellow students—Simon, for one—but they all knew it wasn’t serious; it was recreation, a relief from the weight of their studies, and less intense than the studies. She barely thought of Philip at all; the grief he had caused her dissipated. She and Elena never mentioned his name. He was not even history, for history is remembered and recorded. He was obliterated.

  After a year of commuting up to Morningside Heights an hour twice a day on the subway—such a waste of precious time—Suzanne persuaded her parents to let her live close to school. She found a room for rent in an airy apartment facing the Hudson River, belonging to the widow of a Juilliard professor. Mrs. Campbell was mild and unobtrusive and spent most of her time painting watercolors of Riverside Park scenes and volunteering in the local church’s preschool program. She liked having a music student in the apartment and charged a low rent, which she made even lower when Suzanne agreed to take on some errands and household tasks. Best of all, she had a grand piano in the living room and said Suzanne could use it whenever she wished, so she didn’t have to worry about signing up for practice rooms—there were never enough. Suzanne was content with her simple room—narrow bed, desk, bookcase, and chair—and she hung bright Dufy prints on the walls. She was even more content with school, despite its occasional terrors. Her turn in the master classes with visiting pianists had not yet come, but it would; there was no evading it. Still, she would remember those years at school and in Mrs. Campbell’s apartment as the happiest of her life: There was work she loved and did well, and despite her fears, extravagant hope.

  “I’m as good as most of them,” she told Richard breathlessly on the phone. She had so much to do, was always in a rush. “I’m probably one of the best. There are a couple of guys who are really good, and also this one girl, this Russian, the one I met back in high school. She’s the one who took my boyfriend, I told you about that. But now we’re close friends. She might be slightly better than me. But a tiny bit on the splashy side.”

  “It’s not a competition, you know,” he answered. “Or shouldn’t be. You’re there to study. In the Olympics there’s only one gold medal. But there’s room for all different kinds of pianists. If you’re any good, and you know you are, you’ll do fine.”

  He was wrong, she thought. He was the one sounding innocent now. Of course it was a competition. Getting into Music and Art had been a competition, playing in front of three stone-faced teachers, each taking notes on a clipboard—she could remember the scratching of their pens—and then another competition to get into Juilliard. The halls here were lined with bulletin boards posting notices of contests. Everyone talked about the contests—how they ranked in importance and prestige, which they should enter and when they would be ready, which recent graduates or even the few current students had won and were already embarking on recitals. Winning a major or even lesser contest assured you of a year or so of bookings, not to mention the goodwill, however transient, of eager managers and a welcoming public. You had to win something, no matter how obscure, or at the very least be a runner-up, to get started. The competition never let up. Didn’t Richard know that? B+ was not good enough.

  Her final year was the most pressured. She, along with many others, was preparing to enter the contests. There were so many, she could hardly keep track of them. She dreaded the auditions, but Mme. Kabalevsky insisted she try, if only for the experience. She said if Suzanne could overcome her stage fright, she would be sure to win sooner or later. And with all that, Juilliard was in the midst of a major move, three miles downtown to Lincoln Center: There were the disruptions of instruments being crated and loaded onto vans, of cartons of files stacked in the hallways, and the students’ anxiety about what the new quarters would be like. Suzanne and her friends were glad they would be completing their studies in the slightly seedy but appealing neighborhood uptown, adjacent to Columbia University and Riverside Park, where in all seasons they loved to walk, watching the river and the passing boats. In winter sometimes the ships stayed in the same place for days, clogged by ice floes, and in summer small pleasure crafts, sailboats, even sailfish, would skim by, and the occasional kayak.

  Juilliard’s home in Lincoln Center was above a huge stone plaza, relieved only by the fountain in the center. It was surrounded by buildings housing a theater, the opera, and the ballet, and the faculty all welcomed this. But the upperclassmen were dubious. “Slick,” Elena called it, over and over, her word of greatest opprobrium, and Suzanne tended to agree with her. “We’ll be the last living relics of the good old days,” Simon Valenti said, putting his arm around Suzanne; she couldn’t tell whether it was nostalgic camaraderie or if he hoped to resume the very brief affair they’d had early on. She hoped it wasn’t the latter. She had succumbed in a moment of lassitude. He was very attractive, she had to admit, with his long lanky body and shock of black hair almost like an Indian’s; when she got bored it had taken several weeks to extricate herself.

  “No, there’ll always be the teachers,” Elena said, glancing at the two of them with slightly raised eyebrows. “Madame Kabalevsky will be here forever, and so will Mr. Schell and Adele Marcus and most of the others.”

  Elena won the Tchaikovsky Competition right before she graduated. And though they were still good friends and she tried not to be envious, Suzanne couldn’t help thinking, Always a few steps ahead. Everything came easily to her. Not only a new high school, but a new country. A new language. She sailed through it all as if a benevolent breeze were propelling her. It would probably be that way forever, Suzanne thought. She might as well get used to it.

  During her first few years out of school, Suzanne remained in Mrs. Campbell’s apartment and took odd jobs accompanying singers, playing for dance classes, teaching—anything that could bring in some money. Meanwhile, she returned to studying wi
th Cynthia and occasionally took a lesson with Mme. Kabalevsky, to prepare for still more contests. For two of them she had to make a hasty trip abroad, so short and so marred by anxiety that she hardly felt she’d been away. Her stage fright interfered with the auditions. She would start out brilliantly, and the judges would straighten up and scrutinize her, sometimes making notes. But after a few moments the loathsome panic would grip her, and no matter how hard she tried to control it, using the mind games Mr. Cartelli and Cynthia had taught, it would get the better of her, so that by the end she was trembling and struggling to stay in control. Even so, she played remarkably well, but never as splendidly as the first few minutes had promised.

  Then finally she did win one, three years after she graduated from Juilliard, not the most distinguished but still a respected one, the Busoni Competition in Bolzano, Italy, which Alfred Brendel had won in its first year. The panel of judges this time was wiser than most. As in so many contests in the arts, often the winner was of the satisfies-all-and-delights-none variety—it was a risk to choose an erratic, unpredictable unknown. But this time Suzanne had managed to dazzle the judges enough to make her a topic of prolonged discussion. Nothing mediocre about her, the notable pianist Aida Rinaldo said—she’s either brilliant or paralyzed by fright. I’d go for that one over ordinary competence any day. It happened that La Rinaldo, as she was known, had suffered from stage fright as well and had undergone a series of treatments, from Rolfing to hypnosis to psychoanalysis, in order to overcome her fear. Her insistence won the others over. “We have enough decent pianists all over the place,” she said. “Let’s take a chance on someone special. If she doesn’t work out, I’ll take the blame.”

  Now, thought Suzanne, maybe the life of her fantasies would begin. The concert in Bolzano flew by like a dream. And as in her dreams, she played well, buoyed up by having been chosen and by the kindness of La Rinaldo, who befriended her.

  Cynthia was in the habit of giving parties. It wasn’t only because she enjoyed seeing her apartment crowded with well-dressed people. Each party was a triumph over the shabbiness she had grown up in and would never reveal to anyone by word or deed or furnishing. Even more important, she wanted her best students to get used to being out in the world, meeting people, making connections. Sad but true, she told them: Success was not simply a matter of playing well. It had to do with whom you knew and how you behaved and how eager you appeared; all these things she had discovered and mastered through arduous experience. Suzanne was smart enough to know those truths, but perhaps not aggressive enough to act on them. She must be helped. Cynthia felt a special sympathy for Suzanne, not only because of her talent and ambition—the ambitious recognize each other as if by a secret code—but because her own background was not too different: as provincial as Suzanne’s, only poorer.

  It was inevitable, then, that after Suzanne won first prize in the Busoni Competition, Cynthia would give a congratulatory party. “Invite anyone you like, everyone you know,” she said, “and I’ll do the same. This is really a big moment.”

  Suzanne hadn’t realized Cynthia’s apartment could hold so many people. The party was similar to the ones she’d been to before: the women shiny, polished, colorful, the men a trifle less sleek, freer to appear eccentric, and everyone holding glasses and negotiating minuscule hors d’oeuvres passed around by a couple of first-year Juilliard students. Only this time the crowd was larger and she couldn’t retreat to a quiet corner with a few friends. She was the guest of honor. Everyone wanted to meet her. Cynthia kept bringing people over; Suzanne tried to keep track of their names and who they were, but very quickly it was all a muddle. “Don’t worry,” Cynthia whispered. “You can’t remember them all. We’ll go over it later. Meanwhile, just act pleased and excited. Treat everyone well—you can’t always tell by appearances who’s important.”

  She had no chance to talk to her own guests: Elena, who was, naturally, making the most of the occasion, the others from Juilliard, and aspiring musicians she’d met since. During a rare instant when she was on her own, in between introductions, came a tap on the shoulder. She turned around. Her first response was one of puzzled familiarity—she almost couldn’t place him. He was smiling broadly, looking older, totally grown-up in a well-tailored suit, utterly changed from the lanky boy in neatly pressed chinos. But she wasn’t completely sure until he spoke her name; then she knew the voice instantly.

  “Suzanne! You’re so gorgeous and elegant! Not that you weren’t before, but this!” Philip let his eyes wander appraisingly over the narrow black silk dress, then grasped her shoulders and bent to kiss her lightly on the lips before she could pull away. “Tell me how you are.”

  She wanted to turn and run, but she was too old for that now. And where could she run in this crowd? Anyhow, he would follow her or find her later. There was no escape.

  “I’m fine.” She couldn’t help the tone of insinuation in her voice, almost accusatory. These days he didn’t cross her mind for weeks at a time, yet here was that bitterness rising again, like an acrid taste. For God’s sake, let him not talk about the past.

  “Is it possible you’re still angry? I can see you are. For chrissake, Suzanne, we’re not in high school anymore. I’m sorry. I was an idiot boy.”

  She smiled unwillingly. The words were satisfying, as if indeed she were still in high school. “You were. You lout.” It came out sounding flirtatious, though she hadn’t meant it to.

  “I agree. Let’s make believe we’ve never met. I just saw you across a crowded room. Who’s that girl? I asked myself. I’ve got to meet her. And congratulate her. It’s great news! I can’t say I’m surprised. I always knew you had it in you. Now all sorts of doors will start opening. Oh, but no, I can’t say that—we’re pretending we’ve never met.”

  “Don’t we know each other too well for that?”

  “No, you don’t know me at all anymore. I’ve changed. I’ve developed depth and substance,” he declared with an ironic smile. “Are you still working with Cynthia? I remember you started in high school.”

  “Yes. I stopped when I was at Juilliard—Madame Kabalevsky was as much as I could handle, and after that I went back. She’s been awfully good to me. How do you know her?”

  “I know everybody. Remember? I always did. I’ve been working as a recording engineer with RCA for four years now, ever since I graduated from the business school. Still learning, but I get to do a lot on my own, tapes, song demos, presentations for new artists, even film scores. I started working for them as an intern while I was still at Columbia and found out I had a knack for it. Editing, especially. Tape and razor are almost all you need. And an ear, of course. I’ve recorded Cynthia’s recitals.”

  “Really? She never mentioned that.” But why should she? Suzanne thought. Cynthia never confided about her life.

  “Oh, yes, a Brahms piano trio and also the Dumky with Kinsky and Paul Manning—you know, Elena’s stepfather. I’m starting my own business on the side too. Artists’ management. I haven’t lured Cynthia yet, but I have a few promising beginners and I’m pretty good at getting them gigs. I don’t mind doing the small stuff, and it leads to bigger things if you have patience. One client recommends another, and so it goes.”

  He was still the same, she thought, the boy who knew everyone, was competent at everything. Making his accomplishments known, yet somehow not boastful, rather matter-of-fact. The boy who would always need to prove himself. She didn’t know how long he might have gone on, if she hadn’t been tapped on the shoulder again. This time it was Richard.

  “Suzanne! I congratulated you on the phone, but that’s not enough for something like this!” He embraced her in a huge hug. “This is the most wonderful news. It was bound to happen. I want to hear all about it, every note. We’ll have lunch. But I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No, not at all.” She introduced them. “Philip, this is Richard Penzer, the composer and friend of my youth. I wouldn’t be standing here if not for
him. And Richard, you must have heard me talk about Philip Markon? Well, you might not remember, why should you? The boy who ditched me in high school for the glamorous Russian? Who is somewhere on the premises, by the way.”

  “Ah, the teen heartbreaker.” Richard shook hands with a brief, reserved laugh, as if he still harbored a touch of resentment on Suzanne’s part.

  “I see I’ll never live it down. It was my biggest mistake,” Philip replied. “Of course I’ve heard about you. Suzanne used to talk about you as if you were a god. And now the reviewers do, too. I saw David and Jonathan. It was marvelous.”

  Richard nodded, like one grown accustomed to praise. David and Jonathan, his opera based on the biblical tale, had recently played in an East Side hall to rave reviews. After so long, he’d been discovered. Next season it would be produced at the New York City Opera, though, as he told Suzanne when it happened, “These discoveries are always a joke. I’ve been here all along. They act as if I sprang yesterday from the head of Zeus. But now at least I can get anything I want produced, for as long as it lasts. I’ve got a drawer full of scores I worked on, back in Brooklyn and before.”

  “The god and the devil,” Suzanne said, “brought face-to-face.” The silliness of the words made it all right. The residue of sour gall she’d buried for so long evaporated, and she looked at Philip with a fresh eye. He did seem to have more substance. Seeing him side by side with Richard made him more acceptable—as if their occupying the same room, the same world, at least to the extent of being at the same party, legitimized him. And he knew Richard’s work—another point in his favor. He couldn’t be all surface.