The Silver Swan (27 page)

Trembling, he shifted in his chair. What
had
happened to the Swan? He desperately wanted to ask, but she had just told him she was in love with him. He would have to wait.

“Your mother lied to me about Sophie and I believed her. I believed her because in my experience, men were more than capable of such treachery. It was dangerous to want you so much.”

She was using the past tense, he noticed. Was she no longer in love with him?

“I remember when you said, ‘Mariana, too many times you’ve been left by a cellist.’ When you went away, I suddenly realized you meant that you too would be leaving me. I was crushed.” She paused. “Do you also remember you told me we could never be separated — the Swan would be our bond? I believed you. But after I spoke with your mother —”

“I know, I
know
,” he interrupted, slightly impatient. “She wasn’t exactly lying. She actually thought I’d marry Sophie because Sophie is pregnant. She just assumed I’d marry the
mother of my child because she believed it the right thing to do.”

Mariana drew back, stricken. “She’s pregnant? Sophie is pregnant? It’s
your
baby? Did you know?”

“Not until I got home. Till after I left you.”

“And” — she swallowed — “you won’t marry her?”

“I can’t.” He felt accused.

“You’re a father,” she said sadly. “You’ll
be
a father, anyhow.”

“Yes, I will. But not a husband. I am fond of Sophie but I don’t love her. She will be happier with someone who does.”

She looked away. Her earrings were burnished gold loops; her necklace too was gold.

He could smell her perfume, familiar and arousing. He felt as if he were caught in one of those dreams where the goal was close, whatever it was, and yet it kept receding. One couldn’t reach it. He wanted to ask about the Swan, to find out what had happened to it. Waiting for the right moment, he could hardly hear what she said. She went in and out of focus while they ordered dinner and the food arrived.

Finally she said, “Claude, I put the Swan at risk. We almost lost it.”

He flushed. “What happened? Where is it?”

“I took the Swan to Stockbridge to keep it away from you. When I was running from the burning house, I knocked it against the door. I only wanted to save it, but it was difficult to see, for all the smoke … There’s been some damage. If only I’d just left it in the safe with the other cellos, it wouldn’t have the back crack it has now.”

Claude felt dizzy. His hands trembled. The instrument had been in terrible danger. It was gravely damaged. He remembered his mother’s warning — Mariana could be wild and
self-destructive. Was it possible she had destroyed the Swan? A back crack could ruin an instrument.

After a moment he was able to ask, “How serious is the crack? You must tell me. Have you contacted Pierre Fernand? Has he looked at it?”

Mariana studied his face, drawing back into her chair. “Yes, I’ve contacted him. He’s back at the shop. And no, he has not seen it. He is very angry with me. He and Baum, both. I’ve promised to take it to the shop tomorrow night.”

“But surely people must know,” he persisted.

“I think not yet.” Her tone was cooler. “I’ve spoken to no one and no one yet knows the Swan was there with me. But it will come out.”

Again Claude drank. He had to get control of himself and the intense anger he felt. He was silent for a while. “If news of this gets out, the Swan will lose half its value. Maybe more, depending on the extent of the damage.”

“We have to hope the extent of the damage won’t be public … but that’s unlikely. I
myself
only care that it can be restored.”

“It may not have the same sound.” He was reproachful. “This can happen, as you know, with a back crack.”

“I know.” She looked down. “My father would never forgive me.”

“
Our
father would never forgive you,” he corrected her, “but he’s
dead
and it’s our problem. We’ll have to wait until Fernand examines it.”

She felt a flash of anger and mistrust. Perhaps he thought he had disguised his largest concern — the fate of the Swan — but he had not kept it from her. Like Alexander, she thought, he did not have that kind of subtlety. She stood up abruptly and
excused herself. In the ladies’ room, she pressed her forehead with a damp paper towel. She had allowed herself to think that the Swan’s fate would not be his first concern — that he would be heartbroken by the discovery they shared a father and their affair was incestuous. But, for him, the Swan came first, and
that
was disturbingly familiar.

Claude thought she might be walking out of the restaurant and half rose from his seat to follow her, but he froze with indecision, unable to choose between colliding impulses. He wanted her; he wanted to capture and restore the deep twinned bonds of desire and music they had so easily formed. But in that moment, he also wanted to take the cello and return to the world he had inhabited before they met.

When Mariana turned away from the door and toward the ladies’ room, Claude sank back into his chair. Then he took up his drink and considered the fate of the cello, what he would do if it were irreparably damaged.

Mariana returned to the table, composed and remote. “I’ll go home now, Claude. We’ll meet to take the cello to Baum & Fernand tomorrow. Now I’m too tired to eat.”

“I’ll take you in a taxi,” he offered.

“No, thank you. I’ll walk.”

“Shall I walk with you?”

“No. No, thanks. I don’t want company.”

As they waited for the check, Claude pressed her. “I’ve brought back your Vuillaume. I want you to play it for me.”

“I haven’t practiced for quite a while.”

“Of course you haven’t. I’ve had your cello.”

“And Baum now has the other copies.” She paused. “I’m not sure I want to play for you.”

“Please, it would mean so much to me. Think about it for a day.”

“How long will you be here?”

“I’ve three days.”

As they parted, Claude embraced her. She pulled back and said good night.

Mariana walked north along Central Park West toward home. It was late and dark. A breeze made the awnings of the buildings luff pleasantly, and doormen loitered under the lighted canopies in the fresh night air. Trapped in a vortex of feelings, she could at first make no sense of what had happened at the restaurant. She had gone to meet Claude to apologize for her deceit in Barcelona and the damage she’d inflicted on the cello. She wanted to beg his forgiveness and hoped he would come home with her at the evening’s end to take her to bed. She wanted to tell him she loved him and didn’t care about the past, their shared father, the Swan — about anything but their love affair and its future. But as the evening continued, she grew to understand this could never be. He did not want what she wanted. He had not returned to
her
, he had come back to claim the Swan. Claude was his father’s son. He was no less charming, no less serious a musician, if not possessed of an equivalent talent. His sweetness had misled her, but he was equally unavailable and ill equipped to love. She wondered if Claude, in time, would become another Alexander, always seeking further recognition of his talent and further affirmation that his public revered him and his precious gift.

Mariana had a restless night. She was furious with Claude, but even more so with herself. She knew she would have to master the great attraction she felt for him. It would bring her no happiness. Nonetheless, and despite her disappointment and anger, she would have to come to terms with her half brother. He was her only living relative, and he owned the Swan.

Claude called from his hotel the next morning. He offered to bring her the Vuillaume. She invited him to her apartment and greeted him barefoot, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. He handed her a bouquet of freesia, a bag of pastries, and the cello in its bright blue case.

“If you don’t mind, now while I’m here,” he said, “I’ll practice on your Vuillaume to keep my hands in shape.”

“That would be fine. I won’t mind at all. But I won’t play for you just yet. I’m not ready.”

He kissed her cheek. “How are you? You left so abruptly last night.”

Mariana took the flowers and went to find a vase. Claude walked around her living room, looking at the art on the walls and the photographs. It was, he said, a charming place. She wondered how long he could wait to ask to see the Swan. They sat by the bay window, drinking coffee and eating the pastries Claude had brought. Finishing, he said, “I must see the Swan, hard as it will be. I know you don’t want me to.”

It didn’t take him long to ask, she thought. She went to her bedroom, opened the closet, and laid the Swan upon her bed,
with its back against the covers. Then she invited Claude to come in and left him with the instrument, unwilling to witness his first shock. When she returned, she found him sitting with the Swan across his knees. He was running his fingers along the crack, back and forth, caressing it as though it were a dying animal; tears streamed down his face. Mariana took the Swan from him and, putting it down, embraced him with renewed tenderness. He loved the Swan, as she did. Over and over again, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“The Swan hasn’t made anyone happy,” Claude murmured. “Except Alexander.”

“Strange, isn’t it, how much trouble it’s caused.”

“Starting with — or so I heard — the sacrifices you and your mother made to pay for it.”

“No. Starting with the fact that your mother and my father met when he went to Strasbourg to find it.”

“Our father,” he reminded her.

“And then you and I met in Boston.” Mariana sighed. “The Swan has brought us together. Let’s not allow it to break us apart.” She took the cello from him and returned it to its case. It was time to tell him about the offer from the Metropolitan Museum.

They spent the day together, wandering the city and talking. Riding the ferry to Staten Island and back, she pointed out the space where the World Trade Center once stood. “This happened when I was with Anton in Europe.”

“Are you in touch with Pietovsky?”

“He sent a sweet condolence note when Alexander died. But, no, we’re not in touch.”

They walked along the Hudson in Riverside Park on their way back to her apartment. The wind was strong and the clouds sped swiftly by, creating flashes of light, then shadow. “Claude, there’s something else I should tell you,” she said. “After I returned from Prades, I was approached by the curator of the Mertens Collection.”

“What’s that? I’m not familiar with it.”

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s rare instrument collection. It’s very great. The curator’s name is Andrew Macintosh, a Scotsman. I met him a while back. My father gave a private concert for some major donors years ago, and Macintosh suggested I might want to consider making a gift of the Silver Swan to the Met. He knew I wasn’t concertizing anymore. He believed Alexander had ‘a special relationship’ to the museum. He didn’t understand, of course, that the Swan wasn’t mine to give …”

A boy on a skateboard raced past. Another followed, wobbling.

“
Did
Alexander have such a special relationship?” Claude asked.

“No,” she answered, laughing. “He played at Grace Rainey Rogers many times, but to him, I suspect, it was just another concert hall. He wasn’t much interested in museums, as I’ve told you. ‘Special relationship’ — it’s the kind of thing people say to encourage generosity.”

“
My
generosity, I suppose it would have to be now.”

“The Swan is yours, and yours to dispose of as you see fit. But I thought I should mention it anyhow, given the crack.”

He stopped and turned to face her. “Why do you think I should make a gift of it to a museum?”

“We have to think about what to do if the Swan fails to regain its beauty of tone — if Fernand can’t make it sing again. It might be wise to consider the offer. The dealers will know it’s been repaired. This offer from the Mertens Collection might be the best we can do.”

“Presuming I do want to give up ownership.”