Spanish theme, especially the cuff links, had been selected specifically for this occasion.
Seven months later, Edward Webster Lynn made his New York debut. It was at Carnegie Hall. They shouted for encores. Next it was Chicago, and then New York again. And after his first coast-to-coast tour they wanted him in Europe.
In Europe he had them leaping to their feet, crying "bravo" until their voices cracked. In Rome the women threw flowers onto the stage. When he came back to Carnegie Hall the seats had been sold out three months in advance. During that year when he was twenty-five, he gave four performances at Carnegie Hall.
In November of that year, he played at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia. He performed the Grieg Concerto and the audience was somewhat hysterical, some of them were sobbing, and a certain critic became incoherent and finally speechless. Later that night, Woodling gave a party in his suite at the Town-Casa. It was on the fourth floor. At a few minutes past midnight, Woodling came over to the pianist and said, "Where's Teresa?"
"She said she was tired."
"Again?"
"Yes." He said it quietly. "Again."
Woodling shrugged. "Perhaps she doesn't like these parties."
The pianist lit a cigarette. He held it clumsily. A waiter approached with a tray and glasses of champagne. The pianist reached for a glass, changed his mind and pulled tightly at the cigarette. He jetted the smoke from between his teeth, looked down at the floor and said, "It isn't the parties, Arthur. She's tired all the time. She's--"
There was another stretch of quiet. Then Woodling said, "What is it? What's the matter?"
The pianist didn't answer.
"Perhaps the strain of traveling, living in hotels--"
"No." He said it somewhat harshly. "It's me."
"Quarrels?"
"I wish it were quarrels. This is something worse. Much worse."
"You care to talk about it?" Woodling asked.
"That won't help."
Woodling took his arm and led him out of the room, away from the array of white ties and evening gowns. They went into a smaller room. They were alone there, and Woodling said, "I want you to tell me. Tell me all of it."
"It's a personal matter--"
"You need advice, Edward. I can't advise you unless you tell me."
The pianist looked down at the smoking cigarette stub. He felt the fire near his fingers. He moved toward a table, mashed the stub in an ashtray, turned and faced the concert manager. "She doesn't want me."
"Now, really--"
"You don't believe it? I didn't believe it, either. I couldn't believe it."
"Edward, it's impossible."
"Yes, I know. That's what I've been telling myself for months." And then he shut his eyes tightly, gritting it, "For months? It's been more than a year--"
"Sit down."
He fell into a chair. He stared at the floor and said, "It started slowly. At first it was hardly noticeable, as though she were trying to hide it. Like--like fighting something. Then gradually it showed itself. I mean, we'd be talking and she'd turn away and walk out of the room. It got to the point where I'd try to open the door and the door was locked. I'd call to her and she wouldn't answer. And the way it is now--well, it's over with, that's all."
"Has she told you?"
"Not in so many words."
"Then maybe--"
"She's sick? No, she isn't sick. That is, it isn't a sickness they can treat. If you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean, but I still can't believe--"
"She doesn't want me, Arthur. She just doesn't want me, that's all."
Woodling moved toward the door.
"Where are you going?" the pianist asked
"I'm getting you a drink."
"I don't want a drink."
"You'll have one," Wooding said. "You'll have a double."
The concert manager walked out of the room. The pianist sat bent over, his face cupped in his hands. He stayed that way for some moments. Then he straightened abruptly and got to his feet. He was breathing hard.
He went out of the room, down the hall toward the stairway. Their suite was on the seventh floor. He went up the three flights with a speed that had him breathless as
Seven months later, Edward Webster Lynn made his New York debut. It was at Carnegie Hall. They shouted for encores. Next it was Chicago, and then New York again. And after his first coast-to-coast tour they wanted him in Europe.
In Europe he had them leaping to their feet, crying "bravo" until their voices cracked. In Rome the women threw flowers onto the stage. When he came back to Carnegie Hall the seats had been sold out three months in advance. During that year when he was twenty-five, he gave four performances at Carnegie Hall.
In November of that year, he played at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia. He performed the Grieg Concerto and the audience was somewhat hysterical, some of them were sobbing, and a certain critic became incoherent and finally speechless. Later that night, Woodling gave a party in his suite at the Town-Casa. It was on the fourth floor. At a few minutes past midnight, Woodling came over to the pianist and said, "Where's Teresa?"
"She said she was tired."
"Again?"
"Yes." He said it quietly. "Again."
Woodling shrugged. "Perhaps she doesn't like these parties."
The pianist lit a cigarette. He held it clumsily. A waiter approached with a tray and glasses of champagne. The pianist reached for a glass, changed his mind and pulled tightly at the cigarette. He jetted the smoke from between his teeth, looked down at the floor and said, "It isn't the parties, Arthur. She's tired all the time. She's--"
There was another stretch of quiet. Then Woodling said, "What is it? What's the matter?"
The pianist didn't answer.
"Perhaps the strain of traveling, living in hotels--"
"No." He said it somewhat harshly. "It's me."
"Quarrels?"
"I wish it were quarrels. This is something worse. Much worse."
"You care to talk about it?" Woodling asked.
"That won't help."
Woodling took his arm and led him out of the room, away from the array of white ties and evening gowns. They went into a smaller room. They were alone there, and Woodling said, "I want you to tell me. Tell me all of it."
"It's a personal matter--"
"You need advice, Edward. I can't advise you unless you tell me."
The pianist looked down at the smoking cigarette stub. He felt the fire near his fingers. He moved toward a table, mashed the stub in an ashtray, turned and faced the concert manager. "She doesn't want me."
"Now, really--"
"You don't believe it? I didn't believe it, either. I couldn't believe it."
"Edward, it's impossible."
"Yes, I know. That's what I've been telling myself for months." And then he shut his eyes tightly, gritting it, "For months? It's been more than a year--"
"Sit down."
He fell into a chair. He stared at the floor and said, "It started slowly. At first it was hardly noticeable, as though she were trying to hide it. Like--like fighting something. Then gradually it showed itself. I mean, we'd be talking and she'd turn away and walk out of the room. It got to the point where I'd try to open the door and the door was locked. I'd call to her and she wouldn't answer. And the way it is now--well, it's over with, that's all."
"Has she told you?"
"Not in so many words."
"Then maybe--"
"She's sick? No, she isn't sick. That is, it isn't a sickness they can treat. If you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean, but I still can't believe--"
"She doesn't want me, Arthur. She just doesn't want me, that's all."
Woodling moved toward the door.
"Where are you going?" the pianist asked
"I'm getting you a drink."
"I don't want a drink."
"You'll have one," Wooding said. "You'll have a double."
The concert manager walked out of the room. The pianist sat bent over, his face cupped in his hands. He stayed that way for some moments. Then he straightened abruptly and got to his feet. He was breathing hard.
He went out of the room, down the hall toward the stairway. Their suite was on the seventh floor. He went up the three flights with a speed that had him breathless as
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