Two-Part Inventions (12 page)

“Are you kidding? He knows how I feel, but he insists. And I just can't . . . you know, resist. Anyhow, the point is, it worked. No one noticed. That's how dumb they are.”

“You sound like an obnoxious little snob. Their intelligence is not the point. Do I really need to explain to you why what you did is wrong? Claiming someone else's work as your own? It's stealing.”

It was what Gerda had said, and it sounded just as bad coming from Richard. Maybe worse.

“The music is still there,” she protested. “It hasn't disappeared like when someone steals a painting from a museum. Anyone can still play it or listen to it anytime. And it made those people happy to hear it. It made me feel happy to do it. What's so wrong about that? Everyone's happy and no one is hurt.” She was convincing herself once more of the cleverness of what she had done. It was as if a dialogue were going on
in her head, like a TV courtroom drama. She was the defense attorney who had just made a shrewd argument. But Richard would be the ultimate judge.

“Come on, Suzanne, don't be disingenuous.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means pretending to be more simple-minded than you are. You know very well why it's wrong.”

There was no answer to this court's pronouncement.

“I thought you might find it funny,” she murmured. She could smell the coffee from the kitchen, a rich luscious smell. Her mother said she was too young to drink coffee. All she allowed her was tea, which Suzanne found insipid. The house was so quiet, she could hear Greg turning the pages of his magazine.

“You must have known I wouldn't find it funny. I can't encourage that kind of joke—it wouldn't be right. You came to confess.”

“You mean like you're my priest?”

“Okay, this time I absolve you. But you mustn't ever do it again. And you've got to do an extra hour of chromatic scales to atone. That's what priests do—they make people say extra prayers. Those will be your prayers.”

“Big deal,” she scoffed.

“Seriously, don't try that again, Suzanne. If you get into Music and Art and pull anything like that, it could get you into a lot of trouble.”

“You sound just like my mother.”

“And why not? Your mother isn't always mistaken. Tell me, aside from feeling exploited, what is it you dislike so much about playing for people?”

“Being forced is what I dislike. And besides, it makes me feel sick to my stomach. I get hot and cold and my fingers turn to jelly. The people who listen might not know the difference, but I know, and I hate the feeling. It's like my hands are out of control.”

“That's not so uncommon. It's plain stage fright, and lots of musicians suffer from stage fright to one degree or another. Ask Tom Cartelli. Maybe he can help you. How are you getting on with him, by the way?”

“Fine. He's a great teacher. He doesn't say much and he's not very friendly, but I've gotten used to that. He can say one little thing, or change the position of my hands in a tiny way, and it makes such a huge difference. But no cookies, of course. He's definitely not the cookies type.”

“No, not at all. Meanwhile, since you've already performed today, would you like to hear Greg? He's a very good pianist, teaches at Mannes. I'll ask him to do something for you that you haven't heard, by Poulenc. I love Poulenc. You should hear more twentieth-century music. He did a terrific trio for oboe, bassoon, and piano, but unfortunately we don't have an oboist on the premises. Greg?” he called into the kitchen. “Come and give Suzanne a treat.”

“Could I have a cup of coffee, too?” she asked. “It smells so good.”

“I think we could manage that. Two treats, then. Greg?” he called again.

 

B
Y THE TIME he was a sophomore in high school, Philip had made himself known to teachers, students, and staff, a rangy, sandy-haired figure loping down the halls on his various errands, waving to friends as he passed, always busy, always ready to take on more. He was in charge of the instruments for the junior orchestra, seeing that they were kept in good condition and got put away properly. He was the secretary of the student government and kept meticulous minutes of the bimonthly meetings, spiced by a playful but never nasty wit directed at the self-importance of his fellow officers. He sorted press releases and discount ticket offers for Miss Hirsch, the assistant principal, and kept her bulletin board of concerts and museum exhibits up to date, sometimes adding reviews he cut out of newspapers and magazines.

Philip himself had been surprised that the coveted High School of Music and Art had accepted him, so he could hardly blame Aunt Marsha and Uncle Mel for their astonished faces. He'd kept up his piano lessons, not only because he loved the power of making music, but because they were a reminder of his old life, one of the few tangible reminders. He remembered how his mother had encouraged him, and when he was in good form he imagined he was playing for her. Wouldn't she
be thrilled to hear how much better he played now! Still, he didn't overestimate his modest gifts. When he came home and announced the news in the kitchen—“I got in!”—they were startled into silence. And then of course Marsha and Mel said the expected things: You see, you did better than you thought at the auditions, what a great opportunity, now make the most of it. They'd gotten accustomed to his changing moods by then, as he had grown used to their oblique modes of expressing affection. He knew they wanted the best for him, not that his knowing endeared them to Phil. The three lived by a shaky entente, compounded, like all agreements between incompatible parties, of pragmatism, apprehension, and self-interest.

Rearing a child hadn't changed Mel and Marsha very much, at least visibly, but Phil, growing up in their gloom, had cultivated a persona of affability and competence. At school he presented himself as the kind of clever, unpretentious boy who inspired trust in teachers and classmates alike: good-looking but not distractingly so, with an undistinguished but well-proportioned face enlivened by keen gray-green eyes and a disarming smile. He dressed neatly in crisp chinos (he had learned to iron them himself) and clean shirts, avoiding the shabby look some of the boys had begun to affect. (“Why are your friends trying to look like hoboes?” Uncle Mel once asked. “Their clothes look like they slept in them.”) He was talkative but never overbearing—from living with his aunt and uncle he'd learned when it was politic to hold his tongue. With friends he was even-tempered, funny, though never a clown. With teachers he was dependable and efficient: polite without being obsequious, shrewd without being disrespectful. He got good grades but wasn't arrogant or overconfident, as many
of the bright kids were. Not enormously talented musically, it was generally agreed, but he certainly worked hard. Not many of the music students were serious about professional careers. Those who were preferred to go to the High School of Performing Arts. The teachers at Music and Art were content to create an audience of talented amateurs and intelligent listeners—anything beyond that was extra. They all could see that a boy like Phil would do well in whatever career he chose. When he said he would do something, it got done.

Now in his junior year, he spent two periods a week after classes assisting Mr. Sadler, the chairman of the math department, marking test papers, entering grades, filing, copying exams on the new copier in the main office. Besides his promptness and efficiency, he was an amiable boy and Mr. Sadler was immensely pleased with him. Philip Markon, Mr. Sadler would say if anyone asked about him, “Philip Markon could run General Motors. And I wouldn't be surprised if that's what he ends up doing.”

The work in Mr. Sadler's office was not demanding. It left Phil plenty of time to look around, check into files, and gather information. Information was always useful, even if you didn't yet know what for. Just knowing the lay of the land is good, Uncle Mel had taught him. Mel was full of practical tips learned from business experience and succinctly expressed. Wherever you end up, Mel told him, before Phil knew what high school he'd be attending, get to know people and find out all you can. On the night before classes at Music and Art began, Mel took him aside and said, “You're a good student. You'll do fine. You don't have to be the best piano player there—just keep your eyes open. And I don't mean only in class. Get in the habit of
noticing everything around you. You never know what might come in handy.”

Phil nodded soberly. He'd reached the same conclusions on his own years ago, when he accepted that his life with his aunt and uncle was not a bad dream from which he would soon awaken, but reality in one of its unlovely shapes. He understood instinctively that while he couldn't yet change his circumstances, he could study them thoroughly. His method as a young boy was not to snoop through papers or drawers, as he later learned to do, but to watch and listen. From his aunt and uncle he had learned much about the strategies two disappointed people could use to undermine each other and, once in a while, surprisingly, to offer comfort. He wondered what their lives would be like without him, the intruder who disrupted their grim calm. After a while he came to feel that their fretting over him, especially his aunt's, gave them an activity and a focus. Without him there might be nothing, or whatever dull ambience there'd been before he arrived. His aunt had said he'd be their boy, and she had honored that intention. He wasn't a boy they had wanted or even a boy they could love, but they took him as theirs, he had to grant them that. Before he reached high school he vowed he would never endure a life of disappointment, never end up dreary and bitter at what the world had not given him. The world gave nothing secure—he knew that. You had to take what you could and hold on tight.

Whenever Mr. Sadler was out of the office, Phil explored. He found the principal's evaluations of all the teachers in the math department, as well as all of their CVs. Most had gone to local colleges, one to Harvard; a few had worked in business,
and one, to his surprise, had had a brief acting career. The majority had taught all their lives, progressing upward from lesser schools to this highly desirable one. Mr. Sadler himself had once taught at City College, only a few blocks away. What might have caused his retreat to the high school level? Philip wondered, and intended to find out. He came upon records of the grades given to classes over the last several years, and copies of past algebra, geometry, and trigonometry exams. Of course, no teacher would be foolish enough to use the same exams every term, but certain key problems were sure to recur in one form or another. After all, the subject matter in algebra and trigonometry wouldn't change over the years as it might in history or social studies.

Philip himself did not require any extra help with tests. He had a natural facility for math and he kept up with the homework. Besides his genial manner, it was his excellent grades in trigonometry, a subject that could defeat even the brightest students, that had made Mr. Sadler notice him. But a handful of friends and acquaintances occasionally faltered and were grateful for some assistance. Phil was willing to offer that if anyone approached him. Not often, of course. The last thing he wanted was for word to get around. He wasn't running some sort of scam, just helping out a few friends. He didn't ask anything in return. His reward was simply the feeling that he could help others in need, and frankly, the tests were awfully hard: After all, the students at Music and Art had been chosen for their talent and couldn't be expected to be math wizards as well. Why drag down their averages and make it harder for them to get into college, when they would never need the math anyway? There was no harm done. Most important, he didn't give
out answers, just likely questions. His friends still had to supply the answers on their own, though Phil might point them in the right direction, as any friend would do. Didn't people study together all the time, helping each other out?

One November afternoon Mr. Sadler walked into the office, silent on his gum-soled shoes, and startled Phil by clapping him on the shoulder. “How's it going, Phil? Everything under control here?”

He'd been entering the grades on the advanced algebra midterm, a course for seniors. Two guys he'd met on the basketball court in the gym had asked, a bit sheepishly, if he couldn't raise them by a few points; they knew they'd done miserably, and with college applications in the offing . . . Phil didn't feel a great deal of sympathy. Advanced algebra was an elective, not a requirement. He hadn't taken it yet himself, but Mr. Sadler provided him with the proofs and correct answers so he could grade the papers. If the seniors didn't think they could handle it, they shouldn't have taken it. There were plenty of gut courses to make the final year an easy one. He wasn't even sure if the senior grades would be issued in time for the transcripts sent to colleges—he made a mental note to find out. But none of that was really his concern. The thrill—and he was frankly aware that there was a thrill—came from doing what he did, regardless of the circumstances or merits of each case.