to add, “for us lesser mortals to fight for your title.”
Ah, she thought, he notices things. “Yes, it’s interesting to see how legends grow, despite a lack of evidence. My reputation has only improved since I quit. It’s amusing, but not something to take seriously!”
Claude took her hand. “I won’t ask you why you stopped performing, since I don’t yet know you well enough, but Ihope to know you well enough very soon, and then I’ll ask you to tell me. Your father must have been
désolé
. He was so proud of you.”
She laughed. “Oh, yes, he moped and nagged. He claimed he was terribly disappointed in me and had wasted his time teaching me. But he was also competitive, you know? A very conflicted man.”
Claude, puzzled, asked what she meant. Mariana said, “Let’s not be serious tonight.”
The waiter appeared and they ordered a second round of drinks, then appetizers: Mariana chose smoked salmon, and Claude, snails. Claude asked for the wine list. He moved his chair closer to hers so they could look at it together. “You’re wearing a beautiful scent,” he said, tucking back a straying wisp of her hair and dipping toward her neck. “You must tell me what it is so I can always bring it to you.” He was flirting with her and she enjoyed it, but at that moment she remembered Anton. He had made the same promise.
They sipped their drinks and Claude asked, “Do you ever even touch the cello anymore?”
“Of course. Just this morning, I went to Baum & Fernand to play the Swan one last time.”
Claude, surprised, said, “But I was there this afternoon! We could have gone together …”
“Did they tell you I had visited?”
He shook his head. “And why one
last
time, Mariana? You know I’ll always share the instrument with you. We are now linked forever through the Swan. It would have been yours had you continued to play. That was always your father’s intention, as I understand it.”
“Perhaps.” Her answer was cool. “In truth, I knew verylittle of my father’s intentions or, for that matter, of his life. He was a man of great charm, mystery, and contradictions.”
Claude was thoughtful. “Maybe that’s implicit in the nature of a great artist …”
“What?”
“The quality of mystery, privacy — a focus on one’s art that makes one inaccessible.”
“Maybe. Or possibly he was just a manipulative, selfish bastard who needed to control everything and everyone. Could that also be in the nature of a great artist?” She hoped this would shock him.
Claude’s answer was self-deprecating. “Well, if that’s the case, I shall always be at best a mediocre artist …”
As dinner progressed, Mariana grew warmer. They had much to talk about. She offered him a portion of her smoked salmon and he fed her snails, extracting them from their buttery shells, lifting them to her mouth. The waiter poured Pouilly-Fuissé. They discussed the Libbey dinner the previous night, the art collection, the ancient lady’s amour propre, and the charms of Zena Padrova.
“It was very puzzling, you know,” Claude confided. “My mother cried when she talked with Padrova at dinner. I’ve never seen her cry in public.”
“Do you wonder what troubled her?”
“Yes, a little. But I’d never ask. I don’t like to pry.”
They continued talking about the music world, the careers of other cellists, what it was like to work with William Rossen, and Claude’s immediate plans. In a week he was embarking on his first American concert tour, performing the Schumann concerto in six cities. Over a shared dish of bouillabaisse, she asked about his parents’ relationship.
“It seems to me really more a working friendship than a marriage, but they are very close, as friends, I mean.” He stared at Mariana intently. “This lack of passion would not satisfy me, but they seem to enjoy their independence.”
“How very Swiss,” she said, and realized she might have insulted him. Of course
he
did
Ah, she thought, he notices things. “Yes, it’s interesting to see how legends grow, despite a lack of evidence. My reputation has only improved since I quit. It’s amusing, but not something to take seriously!”
Claude took her hand. “I won’t ask you why you stopped performing, since I don’t yet know you well enough, but Ihope to know you well enough very soon, and then I’ll ask you to tell me. Your father must have been
désolé
. He was so proud of you.”
She laughed. “Oh, yes, he moped and nagged. He claimed he was terribly disappointed in me and had wasted his time teaching me. But he was also competitive, you know? A very conflicted man.”
Claude, puzzled, asked what she meant. Mariana said, “Let’s not be serious tonight.”
The waiter appeared and they ordered a second round of drinks, then appetizers: Mariana chose smoked salmon, and Claude, snails. Claude asked for the wine list. He moved his chair closer to hers so they could look at it together. “You’re wearing a beautiful scent,” he said, tucking back a straying wisp of her hair and dipping toward her neck. “You must tell me what it is so I can always bring it to you.” He was flirting with her and she enjoyed it, but at that moment she remembered Anton. He had made the same promise.
They sipped their drinks and Claude asked, “Do you ever even touch the cello anymore?”
“Of course. Just this morning, I went to Baum & Fernand to play the Swan one last time.”
Claude, surprised, said, “But I was there this afternoon! We could have gone together …”
“Did they tell you I had visited?”
He shook his head. “And why one
last
time, Mariana? You know I’ll always share the instrument with you. We are now linked forever through the Swan. It would have been yours had you continued to play. That was always your father’s intention, as I understand it.”
“Perhaps.” Her answer was cool. “In truth, I knew verylittle of my father’s intentions or, for that matter, of his life. He was a man of great charm, mystery, and contradictions.”
Claude was thoughtful. “Maybe that’s implicit in the nature of a great artist …”
“What?”
“The quality of mystery, privacy — a focus on one’s art that makes one inaccessible.”
“Maybe. Or possibly he was just a manipulative, selfish bastard who needed to control everything and everyone. Could that also be in the nature of a great artist?” She hoped this would shock him.
Claude’s answer was self-deprecating. “Well, if that’s the case, I shall always be at best a mediocre artist …”
As dinner progressed, Mariana grew warmer. They had much to talk about. She offered him a portion of her smoked salmon and he fed her snails, extracting them from their buttery shells, lifting them to her mouth. The waiter poured Pouilly-Fuissé. They discussed the Libbey dinner the previous night, the art collection, the ancient lady’s amour propre, and the charms of Zena Padrova.
“It was very puzzling, you know,” Claude confided. “My mother cried when she talked with Padrova at dinner. I’ve never seen her cry in public.”
“Do you wonder what troubled her?”
“Yes, a little. But I’d never ask. I don’t like to pry.”
They continued talking about the music world, the careers of other cellists, what it was like to work with William Rossen, and Claude’s immediate plans. In a week he was embarking on his first American concert tour, performing the Schumann concerto in six cities. Over a shared dish of bouillabaisse, she asked about his parents’ relationship.
“It seems to me really more a working friendship than a marriage, but they are very close, as friends, I mean.” He stared at Mariana intently. “This lack of passion would not satisfy me, but they seem to enjoy their independence.”
“How very Swiss,” she said, and realized she might have insulted him. Of course
he
did
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