Body & Soul (22 page)

"Does he need anything?"

"I don't think so."

"Are his clothes all right? Does he dress right?" Weisfeld stroked his mustache nervously.

"Mr. Weisfeld," Ivan said, "believe me, everything is fine."

"Good, good." Weisfeld nodded his head. "I'm glad to hear it. You're a fine young man. He's lucky he met you."

"No luckier than me," Ivan said.

Weisfeld studied Ivan for a moment. "This is good," he said.

Claude came down the aisle and rang up a sale on the cash register. "Ukulele madness," he said. "I don't understand it."

Weisfeld shrugged.

"Arthur Godfrey?" Ivan offered.

"Take your friend downstairs," Weisfeld said to Claude. "Show him your studio." There was the faintest spin of self-mockery in the word "studio," discernible only to Claude.

Claude led the way as they descended to the basement. "It's funny, my room at home is always a mess." He clicked on the light switch at the bottom of the stairs. "But I keep this organized."

The space had evolved over the years. Only a small portion, to the rear of the building, where they now stood, was used for storage. The rest had indeed become a sort of studio, albeit without natural light. The walls had been whitewashed, the cement floor covered with cheap beige carpeting to absorb sound ("Remnants," Weisfeld had said; "a guy in Brooklyn going out of business; he practically gave it to me"), and now pine bookshelves crammed with music stretched along the far wall. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. It was a clean, orderly place.

"Here," Claude said, going to the first worktable, "I read scores." A straight-backed wooden chair. A Zenith phonograph. Neat piles of long-playing records and carefully stacked columns of music—piano, orchestral, and chamber. He moved down to the next worktable. "Here I write." Pencils, pens, bottles of India ink. A manuscript in progress lying half open. He crossed to the gleaming Bechstein and gave the case a little rub with his elbow. "And here I play."

Ivan strolled by, touching things lightly. "This is wonderful," he said.

"I practically live here," Claude said. "It's hard to leave sometimes."

Ivan nodded.

"Even copying—you know, writing out parts for people—I can lose track of time down here. It's terrific." He pointed to a blackboard in the corner. "Mr. Weisfeld taught me harmony on that. Theory, other stuff."

"How long has this been...?"

"Oh, God. Years." Claude sat down sideways on the piano bench. "I can't remember how old I was."

"And he just gave you all this?"

"Yes."

"Remarkable."

"And the piano was left to me in a will by Maestro Kimmel, the Hungarian composer. I used to practice on it in his living room when I was a kid."

Ivan went to the bookcases. He gave a small sigh. "I envy you. You know what you want and you're going after it. I feel like I'm just thrashing. I get excited about something, and then a few months later I get excited about something else. I just dip in here and there. Typically British, I suppose. The truth is, I don't know what I want to do."

Claude looked down at the floor for a moment. Then he turned to face the piano. "Let me show you something. It's really neat. Can you
read music?" He moved to the bass end, leaving room for Ivan, who sat down beside him.

"I had recorder lessons years ago," Ivan said.

"Okay. This is baby simple." He pointed to the music he'd written out. "It's just this phrase over and over, except here it's E and here it's E-flat." He played the twelve-bar sequence rapidly. "See? It's called 'Blues in the Closet.' "

Ivan played it, haltingly but correctly. "What're all those funny symbols underneath, there?"

"That's jazz notation. They don't write everything out. They do it that way. They're all sevenths. Now play the melody again, and I'll play the traditional blues harmony."

Ivan stumbled at the start, but then got it right. Claude played simple dominant sevenths, three of them, spread out over the twelve bars.

"That's fun," Ivan said. "Let's do it again."

When they'd finished, Claude pointed at the symbols. "I met a jazz player and he gave me these. A saxophone player named Charlie Parker thought this up. Play the melody again and listen to the difference."

This time Claude played a series of shifting chords, a pattern of major sevenths moving down to the subdominant, and then another cycle of fifths starting in the minor, back down to the tonic. Despite the fact that he was playing two chords to the bar, for a total of twenty-four versus the traditional three, it fit the melody perfectly. A rich harmony, filled with different colors and propulsive energy.

"Good heavens!" Ivan cried. "What did you do? That's wonderful. Do it again."

Again they played it through together. "See how it fits?" Claude asked.

"Like magic," Ivan said.

"What's really amazing is it works with every blues line. All of them. The simple and the complicated." He played the Parker chords against a nonrepetitive blues melody called "The Swinging Shepard Blues," and then against a tricky melody of Parker's invention. "Works every time," he said. "Instead of just staying on the tonic for four bars, waiting to go to the subdominant, he sets up this ride and
carries
you there. And I love the change from major to minor. They call it bebop."

"I've heard of that. I thought it was supposed to be wild—wild music."

Claude laughed. "Oh, they do tricks with the instruments, and there's so much movement in the harmonics and stuff. But really it's straight out of Bach. I mean, Bach could easily have written that blues harmony."

"You're kidding."

"I'm serious. In fact, I don't know why it took so long. Somebody could have done it fifty years ago. But then Parker is incredibly inventive. His stuff is full of counterpoint and cycles. It's baroque, really."

Ivan stood up and went over to the phonograph. "You haven't had Dr. Satterthwaite yet, have you?"

"No. I have to do all the required courses. I can't take any music for awhile."

"You should have some interesting discussions. I heard him talking about jazz once in the teachers' lounge. He thinks it's barbaric. He doesn't think it's music at all, just noise."

Claude thought for a moment. "That's strange. Of course it's music. I wonder why he would say that?"

"He's a bit of a stuffed shirt," Ivan said. "Icy. The way his lips are always pressed together, as if he's angry about something." He started going through a pile of records. "Have you got any bebop in here? I'd like to hear it."

Claude sprang up. "Sure. I've got some seventy-eights of Parker. I'll put it on. You'll love it."

Most of the furniture in the living room of the Fisk mansion had been removed, and six large round tables, each with a white cloth and a setting for twelve, had been placed at the end of the room near the stage. The men wore dinner jackets, the women long dresses, and the air hummed with their voices, their laughter, and the clink of silver, china, and crystal. Candlelight made their faces glow and their eyes shine. Maids in black uniforms with short white aprons moved continuously back and forth, carrying plates, bowls, and large dishes of food. Two men in black, less hurried, served wine, hovering at the shoulders of the guests.

Claude, dressed as instructed in his tuxedo (the same that had once been Anson Roeg's), sat at a smaller table for four on the periphery with Peter and two large men named Dennis and Pat, the mayor's bodyguards. They ate steadily, making no attempt at conversation with the boys, their eyes scanning the room, coming back always to the
central table where Mrs. Fisk sat with the mayor, her father Senator Barnes, and others. Dewman was at the next table with Balanchine, a few of the top dancers from the ballet company, and Nelson Rockefeller. Peter had pointed them out to Claude.

"And see that girl in the gray over there," he said now, pointing with his fork. "That's Betsy Lafarge. From the side with the name but no money. She's at Brearley with Catherine. Dicky isn't paying her a bit of attention."

"Who is Dicky?" Claude asked.

"Dicky Aldridge. Dumb as a stick, but he's at Princeton." Peter moved his head very close to his plate, peered down through his glasses, and cut a small slice of his beef Wellington. "He'll probably get drunk. He almost always does."

"This is good," Pat said to Dennis.

"It's okay," Dennis said. "But there's no gravy."

"Never had this before, with the crust and all," Pat said.

Through all the hubbub Claude suddenly heard Catherine's sharp laughter. She sat between Dewman and Nelson Rockefeller, a glass of red wine in her hand, her head tilted back. As she lowered it, smiling, Claude saw the hollow in her throat, whiter than the pearls around it. Now she was talking quickly, making gestures with her free hand, seeming to address the table at large. Some of the men leaned forward, polite and attentive. Claude felt a pang of jealousy.

"I wish I was older," he said.

"I don't," said Peter. "Everything's just going to get worse."

"You can say that again," Pat said, surprising them.

Claude had been waiting for an opportunity to address the men. "My mother says the mayor is crooked. Is that right? Is he?"

Dennis had a bit of roasted potato halfway to his mouth. He stopped, raised his eyebrows, and then completed the gesture. "Is that your mother sitting there with him?" he said, chewing. "Talking so nice? Throwing this nice party?"

"That's not my mother," Claude said.

"That's
my
mother," Peter said.

"Oh, I see," Dennis said, nodding to Claude. "And where's your mother, then?"

"She's not here, but she says he's crooked."

"Politics." Dennis touched his mouth with his napkin, and would say no more.

"Well, you haven't answered," said Claude.

Dennis sighed and looked away, but Pat leaned over the table, speaking softly. "Sure he's a crook, lad. He's the mayor of New York City." The two men laughed.

Claude looked down, flushing.

"There's one honest man at that table," Pat said. "Senator Barnes. And look how His Honor toadies to him."

"He's my grandfather," Peter said.

"Is he now?" Pat sucked his teeth. "Well, that's something to be proud of."

"If he's a crook," Claude went on rashly, "how can you work for him?"

Pat raised his wine glass in a mock salute. "The answer to that question is, we don't work very hard." Again the two men laughed, and this time Peter laughed with them. Claude gave it up.

He saw Catherine flit over to her mother's table and then back to her stepfather's. There was an odd quality to her gaiety, a certain brittle-ness, a sense of tension as if she were wound up too tight, her eyes and teeth flashing in the candlelight. She caught Claude's eye and indicated the stage with a quick toss of her head.

"Time to go," Claude said.

"But I haven't finished my ice cream." Peter sank his spoon into the parfait glass.

"Okay, but hurry up."

Now, with a great bustle of comings and goings, one flock of maids cleared the tables while another served coffee. It seemed there were as many maids as guests. The wine stewards moved along gravely, serving champagne. A rolling cart of variously shaped bottles—brandies and liqueurs—was brought in from the library. As Claude and Peter started toward the stage, the toasts began.

Dewman Fisk rose to toast his father-in-law, Senator Barnes, as the devoted father of three beautiful daughters, as a distinguished lawyer, and, despite his retirement, as the "continuing conscience of the Senate." George Balanchine rose to toast both the mayor and Dewman Fisk for their noble and enlightened efforts in support of City Center and the City Ballet, making the point that the cooperative mix of private philanthropy and municipal support would provide an example for the rest of the country. Nelson Rockefeller rose to toast the hostess. A few others spoke, but Claude stopped listening when he
reached the piano. He set up Peter's music on the stand as the boy opened his violin case.

Claude had been unable to convince Catherine to play the flute. "I'll be too busy," she had said. He'd masked his disappointment. After a good deal of thought, and recognizing the expressive limits of Peter's playing, Claude had picked an extremely simple, and he thought elegant, piece by Purcell called "Music for a While." He'd transcribed the countertenor melody of the song for Peter and instructed him to play without vibrato, so as to approximate the sound of the fretted violins of the period. At the first rehearsal Claude had realized the wisdom of his choice. It was early music, pre-Bach, cyclical in form and contrapuntal in style. It had only to be played flatly and accurately to tick along like a Swiss watch, revealing its delicate structure and cool lyricism all by itself. Interpretation was not necessary.

Claude and Peter sat together on the piano bench, waiting, watching the glittering scene. After the toasts, everyone seemed to start talking at once. Blue cigarette smoke spread like cirrus high above the guests. Catherine got up from her side, closing the door behind her.

"It's funny how far away they seem when you're up here," Peter said.

"Nervous?" Claude asked.

"No." He seemed, indeed, quite calm. "I told you Dicky would get drunk. Look, he spilled something. He went to your school, you know. He plays lacrosse. Big goon. He has a crush on Catherine, but she won't even talk to him."

"Who
does
she talk to?"

"No boys, that's for sure," Peter said, and Claude felt relief. "You know how stuck-up she is."

"Yes. I do."

Dewman Fisk stood and tapped the side of his glass for silence. "And now," he announced, "a brief period of entertainment from the children." Scattered applause. Tappings of glasses in approval. "First, my son Peter will play the violin, after which time Catherine will present a short
tableau vivant
drawn from classical mythology." Much applause, especially from the ballet dancers. "Peter, you may begin."

With a sigh, Peter rose, took up his position near the curve of the grand piano, adjusted the music on his stand, tucked the violin under his chin, and tuned up rapidly to Claude's soft A. The child had an
accurate ear, at least, for which Claude was grateful. Pointing at the crowd with his bow, Peter shouted out, " 'Music for a While,' by Henry Purcell." The room fell entirely silent, except for distant noises from the kitchen.