pink, white, blue, and lemon yellow silk. “Yes. He finishes in Zurich and arrives just as I do, so we’ll have time together before he goes again to Vienna.”
“That’s nice. You’ve seen so little of each other these past months.” Claude turned a page. “And what did
you
do last night?”
“I had dinner with the Kappelmans, old friends of Alexander’s.”
“Then they must be very old,” he teased. She glared at him.
“They were his colleagues at Juilliard. Far younger than he — as, in the end, was everyone. The death of his friends disturbed and saddened Alexander very much — to see his generation pass away …”
“I can imagine,” Claude said, his leg jittering over the chair arm.
“I’m not at all certain you can.”
“Come, Maman, finish packing and get dressed. Then we’ll have breakfast. You need some nourishment; you seem a little grumpy. I’ll just sit here and finish the paper, so I don’t distract you.”
At Le Pain Quotidien on Lexington Avenue, they took a table for two in the rear. Once the waiter had taken their order, Francine asked, “And what did she have to say for herself? Did you learn anything interesting?”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Mariana. Mariana Feldmann.”
“She’s very charming. We had a lovely time.”
“Oh?”
Claude spoke carefully. “She’s the daughter of my great teacher and your beloved friend. Poor Mariana has lost hermother, her father, and now the Swan. I think we owe her some consideration. She was upset, we could see, by her father’s decision to leave the cello to me.
“There’s one more thing, Maman. I promised Mariana that neither you nor I would mention that this decision came as a surprise to her. We are to make it clear, instead, that this was a decision she participated in and sanctioned. It means a great deal to her.” He studied Francine’s face. “It will keep people from asking unpleasant questions. I hope you understand.”
“I really can’t see what difference it makes. Does she want to be known as your generous benefactor? It was Alexander’s gift, not hers —”
Claude interrupted her, his voice stern. “I made her this promise. Both you and I must keep it. There is nothing to discuss.”
They walked in silence back to the hotel and, as they parted, Claude bent down to kiss her. “Have a good flight; all my best to Papa. I’ll be home in a few weeks.”
Hurrying from the taxi the night before and rushing down the corridor to his hotel room, he and Mariana had flung themselves across the bed. She had wrapped her legs around him, pulling him against her, greedy and urgent, perhaps a little drunk. But so was he. Her black hair splayed over the bed. They undressed each other with haste and made love for much of the night. Briefly, at two o’clock, he slept. When he woke, she was stroking him so lightly his flesh prickled. Then she straddled him, staring down from her dark height with an inward-facing half-veiled gaze. She asked him what he wanted from her. Whatever he wanted, she said, was what she wanted too.
“To spend this week in bed with you,” he answered.
In the morning, Mariana took a rapid shower and brewed a cup of coffee from the room’s two-cup electric pot, then dressed herself once more in the previous evening’s finery. When she was a college student, she told Claude, this was called “the walk of shame.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know. When your clothing makes it clear you’ve slept in someone else’s bed.”
He laughed. “You mean, gold sandals and a beaded bag are not the usual morning wear in Manhattan?”
“Here, perhaps, but I was a student in Indiana.”
“My mother leaves this afternoon,” said Claude. “Her flight’s at three o’clock, I think. I’ll spend the morning with her and when she leaves for the airport, I’ll call you, if that would be all right with you.”
He hoped she wouldn’t run into Francine in the hotel lobby. His mother would be
“That’s nice. You’ve seen so little of each other these past months.” Claude turned a page. “And what did
you
do last night?”
“I had dinner with the Kappelmans, old friends of Alexander’s.”
“Then they must be very old,” he teased. She glared at him.
“They were his colleagues at Juilliard. Far younger than he — as, in the end, was everyone. The death of his friends disturbed and saddened Alexander very much — to see his generation pass away …”
“I can imagine,” Claude said, his leg jittering over the chair arm.
“I’m not at all certain you can.”
“Come, Maman, finish packing and get dressed. Then we’ll have breakfast. You need some nourishment; you seem a little grumpy. I’ll just sit here and finish the paper, so I don’t distract you.”
At Le Pain Quotidien on Lexington Avenue, they took a table for two in the rear. Once the waiter had taken their order, Francine asked, “And what did she have to say for herself? Did you learn anything interesting?”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Mariana. Mariana Feldmann.”
“She’s very charming. We had a lovely time.”
“Oh?”
Claude spoke carefully. “She’s the daughter of my great teacher and your beloved friend. Poor Mariana has lost hermother, her father, and now the Swan. I think we owe her some consideration. She was upset, we could see, by her father’s decision to leave the cello to me.
“There’s one more thing, Maman. I promised Mariana that neither you nor I would mention that this decision came as a surprise to her. We are to make it clear, instead, that this was a decision she participated in and sanctioned. It means a great deal to her.” He studied Francine’s face. “It will keep people from asking unpleasant questions. I hope you understand.”
“I really can’t see what difference it makes. Does she want to be known as your generous benefactor? It was Alexander’s gift, not hers —”
Claude interrupted her, his voice stern. “I made her this promise. Both you and I must keep it. There is nothing to discuss.”
They walked in silence back to the hotel and, as they parted, Claude bent down to kiss her. “Have a good flight; all my best to Papa. I’ll be home in a few weeks.”
Hurrying from the taxi the night before and rushing down the corridor to his hotel room, he and Mariana had flung themselves across the bed. She had wrapped her legs around him, pulling him against her, greedy and urgent, perhaps a little drunk. But so was he. Her black hair splayed over the bed. They undressed each other with haste and made love for much of the night. Briefly, at two o’clock, he slept. When he woke, she was stroking him so lightly his flesh prickled. Then she straddled him, staring down from her dark height with an inward-facing half-veiled gaze. She asked him what he wanted from her. Whatever he wanted, she said, was what she wanted too.
“To spend this week in bed with you,” he answered.
In the morning, Mariana took a rapid shower and brewed a cup of coffee from the room’s two-cup electric pot, then dressed herself once more in the previous evening’s finery. When she was a college student, she told Claude, this was called “the walk of shame.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know. When your clothing makes it clear you’ve slept in someone else’s bed.”
He laughed. “You mean, gold sandals and a beaded bag are not the usual morning wear in Manhattan?”
“Here, perhaps, but I was a student in Indiana.”
“My mother leaves this afternoon,” said Claude. “Her flight’s at three o’clock, I think. I’ll spend the morning with her and when she leaves for the airport, I’ll call you, if that would be all right with you.”
He hoped she wouldn’t run into Francine in the hotel lobby. His mother would be
Similar Books
