The Silver Swan (4 page)

“Yes,” said Claude. “It has been so difficult. Maman cried for weeks. We were —
are
— all so devastated. What a loss.”

“How are
you
, Mariana?” Francine asked.

“I’m sad of course.” Mariana said coldly, moving around the table. She waited for the lawyer to indicate her place. He did so, and she sat. But
why
, she asked herself, beginning to tremble, were these two people also present? Mme Roselle must now be, although she did not look it, not less than seventy years old. Why had she been asked to come to Boston, and to Beecher’s office?

She tried to imagine a reason. Perhaps these two intended to make an offer to buy the Stradivarius; perhaps her father had arranged it so they would have the chance to purchase the Swan, a right of first refusal. At her place there was a legal pad and a pen.

“What a loss,” Claude said again. “You must feel it keenly. You two were so close, I’m told.” Mariana turned and, studying him, found him disturbingly attractive. She could not look away, despite his mother’s attempt to engage her.

“How do you occupy yourself now?” Francine asked.

“I’ve had a lot to attend to,” she answered, “as you can imagine. He never paid attention to his affairs.” Saying this, she paused, embarrassed. “I mean, his financial affairs, of course.”

Beecher proposed they proceed with the meeting. Claude pulled out a chair and sat next to her, resting his arm across the back of her chair, while Francine returned to her seat at the far end of the table. Mariana thanked Claude for the glass of water he had poured and looked quickly away. She was drawn to him, to the strong angles of his face, his mixture of mature self-confidence, sincerity, and boyish charm. He had dark blue eyes and thick curls, fair like his mother’s. She knew very little about him, though she had read reviews, of course, which Alexander pressed on her. He was a rising star in Europe, much engaged and respected, and in the letter her father had called him “my musical heir.”

“Your attention, please,” said the lawyer, “we may as well begin.” Beecher thanked them each in turn for coming. He had scheduled this session, as Claude Roselle knew, to coincide with the musician’s debut concert in New York, so that it would not be necessary to travel twice to America.
He wished the young cellist luck. Looking at Mariana, he smiled. “I must iterate that it was your father’s explicit wish we be together in this room.”

Beecher droned on, “There are the usual assertions — ‘being of sound mind and body’ — the usual disclaimers — ‘revoking all previous such documents, etc.’ ” Mariana tried to ignore the stirring proximity of young Roselle at her side, his arm across the back of her chair, almost embracing her. She turned quickly to glance at him and found that he was staring back, his eyes deep pools of concern and sympathy. Beecher continued talking, “… and the usual small bequests to housekeepers and relatives — your father’s nephew, I believe, now resident in Israel — and to the Cello Society and the Koussevitzky Memorial Fund at Tanglewood. And so on and so forth. I will of course be glad to discuss each of these in detail, but none of them need properly concern us now. Instead, and again as per Alexander Feldmann’s instructions, I am to inform you in person of the principal bequests herein. Any questions?”

They shook their heads. Mariana tried not to look at Claude. Her hands shook.

Settling his glasses on his nose, the lawyer read:

Mariana pushed back her chair and stood up abruptly. “No, that can’t be true. Read it again,” she cried out. As Beecher reread the final bequest, she began to weep. Alexander had betrayed her. Claude reached for her arm, but she flung him away. Grabbing her bag and coat, she ran out of the room, down the book-lined corridor, and out the door.

After the meeting in Boston, Claude and his mother went their separate ways. While she paid a visit to friends in Cambridge, he flew directly to New York to prepare for his American debut. On his way to the airport, Claude thought about Mariana and her evident distress. It disturbed him to have stayed in Beecher’s office while she fled in tears. He had wanted to go after her, to catch and comfort her. He imagined holding her and gently dabbing the tears off her beautiful face with his handkerchief, stroking her astonishing hair. But why did he want to? He had always been distressed by turbulent emotions, especially in women and especially if he felt that he might in any way have caused them. Casual relationships, those that came without demands or requests for commitment, suited him best. And yet women always seemed to want more than he intended to give, if not at first, then eventually.

Arriving in New York, Claude checked into the Regency Hotel on Park Avenue, his mother’s choice. He tried several times to call his girlfriend, Sophie von Auer, in Lugano, wanting to tell her about the Stradivarius and his great good
luck, but Sophie was away on a two-day retreat with personnel from the museum where she worked and could not be reached. He left only guarded messages on her mobile, not wanting to spoil the surprise. Then he ate a light room-service supper and fell into jet-lagged sleep.

When he awoke, he called the offices of Baum & Fernand. Christopher Beecher had told him the Stradivarius was in New York, consigned by Alexander just before his death, for safekeeping and restoration, to the shop of the instrument dealer, Heinrich Baum, and his partner, the luthier Pierre Fernand. Claude was told by the receptionist that neither man would be available that day. Both were traveling, she said, but would return tomorrow, and then he could certainly have an appointment. He informed her that his errand concerned the Stradivarius, and she said Mr. Beecher had indeed called. Mr. Baum was aware of the reason for his visit and had left instructions to make Mr. Roselle welcome the next morning at eleven, if that would be suitable. Claude said, “Tomorrow at eleven, by all means.”

Therefore he had a day to practice, and did so in his hotel room, using a mute and playing his David Tecchler, the cello he’d bought for himself ten years earlier. He worked on the Brahms sonatas that he was to play at Alice Tully Hall, going over the difficult passages, experimenting with new phrasing and fingerings, but always returning to those Feldmann had taught him. Next he worked for a while on the Schumann concerto he would play on his national tour. When his hands grew tired, he went out for lunch and then walked until he found his way to Lincoln Center. There, outside Alice Tully Hall, he saw a poster with his name and photograph: Claude Roselle and — without a picture — William Rossen. “The
acclaimed Swiss violoncellist,” Claude read, “is making his New York debut on Saturday, April 10, at 8 p.m. This will be the first appearance of his American tour.” For the publicity photo, his hair had been carefully gelled and tousled, and his eyes were wide. He looked, he thought with amusement, very Euro.

As he walked, he continued thinking about Mariana and wondered if she lived alone or if he were anywhere near her neighborhood. In a city the size of New York, he would have to make a concerted effort to find her, unless he asked someone directly. “Concerted,” he thought, and smiled — he was making a pun in English. He must find her and invite her to his debut. They had so much in common, so much to share, he believed — above all, their devotion to her father.

That night he went to dinner with his manager’s American affiliate and the pianist William Rossen. He and Rossen planned to start rehearsals the next day. The dinner was a pleasant one. Over Thai food they talked about financial regulation and how it might affect Swiss banks, the death of Alexander, the volcano erupting in Iceland, and the health of the conductor James Levine. Claude wished he could turn the conversation to the subject of Mariana to find out more about her, but he could not find a subtle way to do so. When he returned to the hotel, a message awaited him. His mother had arrived and would see him for breakfast at nine.

The next morning, at the hotel restaurant, the maître d’ escorted them to a cloth-covered table near a window.

“Well” — Francine settled back in her chair — “we have had a great surprise,
mon petit
, you’ve received a remarkable
gift. And an unexpected one. I had no idea my old friend would be so generous to you.”

Claude, hair still wet from the shower, played with the teaspoon in his cup. “Maman, did you really not know of this in advance? I assumed, somehow, you did.”

“No, darling, really not, though of course I always wished you would have such a great instrument, and I did wonder what Alexander would do with the Swan after Mariana stopped playing.”

“She hasn’t exactly stopped playing, Maman,” Claude said. “She’s been taking care of her father.” He paused. “Perhaps she intends to resume her career. That’s possible.”

Francine ignored him. “I did wonder why we had been summoned to Boston by the lawyer, and I began to suspect there was a surprise in store. You know, of course, he was tremendously proud of you. Alexander always said you were his finest student.”

“After Mariana,” Claude corrected her. “He spoke
most
highly of her.”

“That’s true. But when she stopped playing, you became his great hope. Now, my darling,
you
are indeed the heir to his sound, his musical ideas, his virtuosity, and … his Stradivarius.”

“I can’t pretend I’m not thrilled. I feel immensely fortunate. I could hardly sleep last night thinking about seeing the Swan today. But the way Mariana ran away made me feel guilty — as if we’d stolen it from her.” He looked at his mother and smiled. “Of course, I would not like to give it back.”

“You will not be asked to. She knows this is what her father wanted.”

“Maman, do you know why she gave up concertizing as a soloist? Perhaps — you were such intimate friends — M. Feldmann told you.” Claude paused. “It does seem strange to stop playing so abruptly in the midst of such a big career.”

“Alexander never explained it to me. I think, perhaps, he didn’t even know the actual reason himself. But he always said it had something to do with her mother’s illness and death — that she was profoundly depressed.” Francine spread marmalade on her brioche and took a bite. “And,” she continued, a look of dark disapproval on her face, “it might have had something to do with the extremely shocking and ridiculously public affair she carried on for several years with the Russian conductor Anton Pietovsky — a married man, almost her father’s age. Everyone knew about it. Everyone talked about it. They traveled together and didn’t even try to hide their relationship. But then Pietovsky threw her over and went back to his wife.”

“What happened to Mariana?” Claude asked, fascinated.

“She was rumored to have suffered terribly from a broken heart.”

“And stopped playing?”

“Oh, who knows, darling. It’s none of our concern.” She paused to chew. “Don’t you remember how often Alexander would hint that one day the cello might be yours? Apparently, he wasn’t just teasing you.”

“But I never thought he meant it. Did you?” He studied his mother’s face.

“It would have come to his daughter, I’m certain, if she’d continued her career, but she chose to stop. What use would she have for the instrument now? To play it in small,
insignificant chamber music groups? Alexander wanted the Silver Swan in the hands of a great cellist with a great career. That’s why it is now yours.”

“It has a certain value, as you well know, and she might be in need of money.”

“Well,” Francine sniffed, “it’s not as if he left her nothing. She has all his property and accounts, and she has those copies to sell if she chooses.” She paused and declared, “Really, Claude, this is not our business.”

“Nonetheless,” he persisted, “I
am
concerned and I think I’ll try to contact her. Maybe I’ll invite her to my concert. I’d like very much to know her better.” He pierced the egg yolk and watched it spread. “I found her very attractive, beautiful, in fact. Didn’t you?”

Francine looked at him sharply but said nothing. Claude took a bite of his egg and picked up the
New York Times
Arts section. His mother turned her attention to her cell phone, arranging her schedule for the day. Claude sensed that his mother was annoyed with him and he did not want to upset her. Recently, when he’d called or visited, he found her crying, her face puffy and red, her neck wet with escaped tears. He did not want to ask her why she wept. He thought he might not like to know. During these times, his father was always away. Perhaps his absence was the reason for her distress, Claude had first surmised — some quarrel between them. As time went on, however, he thought not.