Body & Soul (35 page)

"Is this your first time?" Eva had asked in bed.

"Yes."

"Not me," she said cheerfully, and kissed him.

He did not question the fact that he was only mildly curious about her. He knew she would go back to San Francisco, back to the conservatory, her parents, and her golden retriever, and that he would never see her again. He also knew it was the right time of the month for her to make love, because she had told him. She had asked him very little about himself.

From the first—their silent walk, the kiss on the sidewalk, their shared delicious sense of breaking the rules on the way up to his room (she had even giggled once, into her hand, as he'd fumbled with the key)—he'd known perfectly well that this was not what he'd read about in
Romeo and Juliet,
or the sonnets, or what he'd seen in the movies or read in novels. This was not transcendent. But he very much liked her. She was good, she was generous, and in her courage she had been the agent of his release. She would never know how much it meant to him to be free of his virginity, and he could never tell her because, in truth, what had happened to him seemed far more important than what had happened to her. Hence there had been few words during their long, voluptuous night of physical intimacy. At times they had been languorous and tender, at times they had clung ferociously like two kids on a roller coaster He did not really know her but he felt he owed her the world.

Now, as he came upon her in the rehearsal shed, he'felt an instantaneous shock—an electricity of pleasure up his spine—at the simple sight of her. It caught him completely by surprise.

She smiled. "Let's sit for a second."

Musicians milled around but no one seemed to pay them any particular attention. Popkin was fussing at the podium.

"Let's do it again," he said, "tonight."

"Ah, you are a hungry lad, Claude."

"Yes. Yes I am." He could not take his eyes from her mouth. "God knows I am."

"We'll see. You have beautiful dark eyes, you know."

"I'm glad."

"But," she said in a new tone, "in here it's all business. I will forget about you, and you will forget about me, and the only thing that counts is the music."

"How can I do that? You'll be sitting right behind me, staring at my neck." He was bold enough to tease.

"I won't." She leaned forward a bit. "Claude, I'm serious. I swear I won't even look at you. This is serious. We can't screw up the performance. We have to be professional." She looked down and shook her head. "I'd never forgive myself," she said, sounding genuinely alarmed.

"It's okay," Claude said. "It is, really. When I get to the piano something happens to me. I don't know how to describe it. It's like I'm there, but I'm not there. I go into some kind of zone or something. It always happens, so it'll be okay. I promise."

"Just forget about me up there—tomorrow afternoon
especially.
"

"Mr. Rawlings!" Popkin shouted. "Come up here, please. We have to talk!"

"So," Popkin said as Claude joined him, "he says you know what he wants. So what does he want?"

There was a certain amount of irritation in his voice, and so Claude thought carefully. "I sure don't know everything he wants," he said, "but if you don't mind going to the piano, I can show you some of the phrasing."

They moved to the grand. Claude opened his score while Popkin stood over his right shoulder. Starting at the beginning, and reminded by his copious notes, Claude went through the five or six places he remembered from the previous day as most likely to bother Fredericks.

"This note shouldn't be so quick," he said. "He told me to watch it.
He's after the smoothest possible shape, with a light legato." He played the phrase and Popkin grunted. "Here," Claude continued, "this forte shouldn't be so forte. More of a swelling up, sort of." He turned pages. "This sounded kind of limp yesterday. He wants it spirited. He used the word 'virile.' " He turned more pages, going over the material and playing when necessary. Popkin made him repeat sections now and then. Claude was aware of the players taking their seats, talking quietly to one another, occasionally glancing up.

"We try," said Popkin, and he returned to the podium. "Everybody here? Good. From the beginning." He raised his baton and gave the tempo.

It was once again a thrill to hear the sound, but this time Claude forced himself to listen closely. Popkin let them play four bars and stopped them. He nodded to Claude, who understood, and played the bit with what he thought was the correct phrasing.

"You see?" said Popkin. "Rounder. Not so fast with the appoggiatura. Let me hear it as a note."

The orchestra played.

"Strings, strings!" Popkin interrupted. "Do it like the horns! They've got it right. Listen to them. Horns! Just the horns now.
And
one." The horns played. "Good, good," Popkin said. "Now the strings alone." The strings played. "Better. Now everybody.
And
one."

They progressed through the piece, playing in fits and starts, isolated sections again and again. It was grueling work, taking a great deal of concentration and total alertness. The room was growing uncomfortably warm. Popkin's shirt darkened and sweat rolled down his pendulous cheeks. Some piano keys became slick.

After about an hour, working on part of the middle section, Claude suddenly stopped. The orchestra straggled to a halt. Popkin looked at Claude with surprise. "Something?"

"It's just, it's just..." He twisted in exasperation. "It isn't clear. It isn't focused. We do something five times and it still sounds blurry. What's the matter?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Claude heard some shuffling of feet, some quiet hisses, and a boo or two from some of the students watching the rehearsal.

"Ten minutes!" announced Popkin, and waved for Claude to follow him offstage. Claude felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach. The hisses and boos were like sucker punches, all the more powerful for being
completely unexpected. He turned to see Eva's back as she walked away.

In the gloom behind a flat, Popkin put his arm over Claude's shoulder. The man no longer smelled of cloves. "Listen," he said, "first time playing with a big group. Right?"

Claude nodded.

"Many, many people," Popkin continued. "Each one a separate people. Not like one piano, two pianos, everything precise, all the notes already made, all you do is press the key."

"I'm sorry," said Claude.

"No, no. Understandable. Absolutely," Popkin said. "But this is good because you learn. You learn right away. Today. Now." He lifted his arm from Claude and wiped his own brow with it. "Is different, orchestra. Great slow beast, powerful beast. Patience is necessary. Very much patience to control such a big animal." He found a folding chair and sat down. "Difficult business. You do a little bit here, then a little bit there, then back to over there. Little by little, you understand? And it gets better. It doesn't get perfect but it gets better, believe me. Fredericks knows this, don't worry." He put his elbows on his knees and held his chin in his hands. "You know the octopus?"

"The octopus? Sure."

"What do you call the long things? Long arms like snakes?"

"Tentacles."

"Okay, tentagles. Some tentagles playing fiddles, some tentagles playing different horns, different reeds, big drums, little drums. All those tentagles wiggling around, playing like crazy, trying not to bump in. You see? Is magic. Is a miracle they play music! So we go very easy with the octopus. Big dumb beast trying hard, he shouldn't get confused, he shouldn't get angry. We go easy. We say nice octopus. Sometimes we say beautiful octopus. Sometimes to the audience we say this is my dear, dear friend the octopus, please clap for the octopus. You see?"

Claude felt ashamed of himself. "Yes. I understand. It won't happen again."

"Is natural," said Popkin, rising. "Back to work."

Claude walked back in with his head down. Just before lowering himself to the bench he turned to the orchestra. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to—"

Popkin interrupted from the podium. "Fredericks isn't here. Remember how much pressure is for this young man. Is not easy. Now we play. We are together, we are all in this together. We will do this."

Claude didn't know how much of it was in his mind, but the rest of the rehearsal—still working on fragments—went better. Once he did not expect a quick response, he began to hear how the phrasing seeped into the sound of the orchestra bit by bit, like shapes solidifying in mist. He felt grateful to Popkin, and made a point to go and shake his hand when it was over.

"They all hate me, I guess," Claude said. "Well, so be it." His head was crooked against the headboard. Eva lay beside him, her cheek on his shoulder. When she spoke he could feel her warm breath on his chest.

"I wouldn't say that," she said. "They assumed you were experienced. I mean the way you play, and Fredericks picking you. After you left, Popkin said you'd never played with an orchestra before. Some of them felt bad when they heard that."

"I'm glad you came. I didn't think you would."

"Music is music, but this"—she kissed his nipple—"is this. And it's our last night."

"Yes. I go back tomorrow too." He was astonished at how quickly he'd gotten used to lying naked in bed with a naked girl. He felt as if he'd been doing it all his life, so natural did it seem. They'd made love twice in as many hours, less rushed but no less powerful than the previous night. His body, which had seemed, in the act, like a rag doll in the hand of a giant, now floated calmly in the darkness, warm and serene. He drifted.

Later, they both woke to the sound of voices in the hall outside. Bumping of luggage. Key in lock. Muffled talk, instructions, hushing noises.

"They're here," Claude said.

Eva sat up. "Fredericks?"

"Anson Roeg too."

She slipped out of bed, went quickly to the door, and knelt down to peer through the keyhole.

"What are you doing?" Claude whispered.

She waved her hand in the air behind her. She stayed at the keyhole for several moments, until the noises stopped, and then tiptoed back to bed.

"Again," she said, with rapid kisses across his chest. "Again."

***

"One should eat lightly before a performance," Fredericks said as the food was rolled into his suite on a little cart. The young waitress draped a cloth over the table and set three places. "I took the liberty of ordering," he went on. "Consomme, toasted cheese sandwiches, and mineral water. Will that be enough for you, my dear?" he asked Anson Roeg.

"Of course."

They took their places and unrolled their napkins.

"The food is pretty good here," Claude said.

Fredericks took a sip of soup. "Lemon," he said to the waitress. "Some cut lemon."

"Yes, sir." She bobbed in a half curtsy and left.

"That's sweet," Anson Roeg said.

"What?" Fredericks looked up.

"Her little curtsy. We could be in Austria."

"Austria before the war." He touched his lips with his napkin. "You can bet they don't curtsy now. Not to us, at any rate." He ate fastidiously. "So, Claude, have you been enjoying yourself?"

"Yes, indeed." Claude nodded, trying not to smile.

"My apologies for yesterday. It was unavoidable. What do you think of the orchestra?"

"I guess it'll be okay. Dr. Popkin really worked them. It's hard for me to judge."

"Just so," he said. "We heard about the Beethoven this morning. It's the talk of the festival."

"Very courageous of you," Roeg said with a trace of archness.

Claude blushed. "Well, I just thought, what the hell."

"Indeed," she said.

"I mean,
he
sure couldn't do it. He was shaking."

"Did you have any time at all to prepare?" Fredericks asked.

"Forty-five minutes. I sat in a car with the score, and then maybe ten minutes with the bassoonist, going over it. He was great."

"Good," Fredericks said. "They say you brought it off quite well."

"It was scary, but it was fun."

Anson Roeg leaned forward a bit and stared into his face. "You're different," she said.

"My dear?" Fredericks asked.

Claude stared into her gray eyes, trying not to show his feelings, which were that he agreed with her.

"Something," she said. "Something's different. He has a certain air about him, a certain ... I don't know, but he's different."

The waitress re-entered and served lemon wedges.

"The Beethoven," Fredericks suggested. "Trial by fire."

"Perhaps," Roeg said.

"Do you feel different, Claude?" Fredericks asked.

"I guess I do, yes. I'd have to say that. It's been an amazing couple of days. Feels like weeks." He realized he was eating too quickly, and slowed the pace.

Fredericks put his napkin on the table and gazed out the window. "A beautiful, calm summer afternoon. A fine day to play Mozart."

"I hope Mr. Weisfeld is all right. I've tried twice to call him," Claude said.

"It's just the flu," Roeg said. "He'll be fine, and you shouldn't worry about it." She reached up suddenly and grabbed Claude's chin to hold his face for a close examination. "What
is
it?" she said as if to herself, exasperated.

Claude could not stop the slow smile from appearing on his slightly swollen lips. Her eyes came up from his mouth and he saw the shock of recognition. Her head jerked back a fraction of an inch. "Oh," she said, taking her hand away.

"What is it?" Fredericks asked.

"Nothing," she said.

"You've been reading Yeats again," he said.

"That must be it," she said, and finished off her mineral water. "Yes, that's it."

As they drove slowly to the amphitheater shell Claude saw an entire hillside of people scattered over the grassy expanse with blankets, sun umbrellas, folding chairs, pillows, and picnic hampers. Nearer the stage the crowd was denser, and the rows of benches were completely filled.

"Good turnout," said Roeg.

"Hmmm." Fredericks was reading a newspaper.

The Rolls glided silently through the parking area—hundreds of cars in neat rows on the meadow—and pulled up behind the shell. An attendant ran forward to open the door of the car while another held open the rear entrance door to the building.