Read The Brahms Deception Online
Authors: Louise Marley
The Brahms Deception (18 page)
“Tomatoes?”
She eyed him over her shoulder. “The tomatoes are in a basket by the window. We never chill tomatoes.”
Her stern look made Kristian smile despite himself. He set about washing and cutting vegetables, then slicing the fragrant tomatoes. He told himself he wouldn't think about Braunstein. He wouldn't think about Clara. Perhaps he should leave even before Braunstein arrived. Just get on a plane.
Chiara brought him a wide pottery bowl, and he tossed the salad in it. She added oil and balsamic vinegar, and salt and pepper. Elliott and Max set out plates for the salad and bowls for the pasta. Soon all four of them were perched around the island. The pasta was magnificent, dotted with crusty cloves of garlic, drowned in the greenest olive oil Kristian had ever seen, and liberally sprinkled with some strong grated cheese. Chiara saw him raise his eyebrows at the taste of it.
“Do you like it?”
“Love it,” he said. “What is this cheese?”
“Pecorino. It is from sheep's milk, a specialty from the mountains.”
“It's great,” Max said around a mouthful. Elliott nodded, and waved a fork in salute.
Despite his dark mood, Kristian was hungry. The moment of good cheer helped him through the meal. As he passed the salad to Elliott for a second helping, he said, “Do you live in Chicago, Elliott?”
“Native,” Elliott said. “My partner and I have an apartment on the Near North Side.”
“How about you, Max?”
Max finished the last of his pasta and put down his fork. He leaned back, patting his lean belly. “I'm from Oregon,” he said. “On the coast. I moved to Chicago to work for the Foundation. It sounded interesting.”
Kristian blinked. Suddenly Max was standing at the sink with dishes in his hand. Elliott's second helping of salad had disappeared. Chiara was staring at Kristian, frowning, as if he had done something odd. “What is it?” he said.
“You're losing time,” Elliott said.
“You blanked out,” Max said.
“No,” Kristian said hastily. “No, I'm fine. I was justâdistracted.”
He was afraid to ask what he had missed. He didn't know how many minutes had elapsed. It couldn't matter that much, surely. He looked down at his plate and saw that his food was gone. He drank some water, and did his best to act normally. It was surprisingly difficult. He was suddenly aware of every movement, every sound. He avoided Chiara's sharp gaze.
Elliott said, “I'd better get to bed, I guess. I'll have to head out to Pisa about noon.”
Max said, “I'm going to sleep until she gets here. Somebody better wake me before you get back, though. She'll eat me alive if I'm in bed when she arrives.”
“Yes, you should sleep. I will wake you,” Chiara said. She stood, and began to gather the plates. “I will sit beside Frederica tonight.” Kristian jumped up to help her. “You should sleep, too, Kris.”
Kristian didn't say anything, but when Elliott and Max had both left the kitchen he said, “I'll stay up with you, Chiara.”
She was at the coffee machine, preparing an espresso. “It is not necessary,” she said. “I am used to these odd hours.” She pulled combs from her hair and replaced them, pushing at the mass of curls with her hands. Kristian laughed, and she said,
“Cosa?”
“Cosa?”
“You keep doing that,” he said. “It never looks any different.”
She laughed. “I know. I should cut it, I suppose.”
“No! I love it as it is.” As she put a small cup beneath the spout, he said, “Make me one, too. I really can't sleep.”
She took another of the little cups from a cupboard. “I could give you something.”
“I don't like to take drugs.”
“You should be tired.”
“I'm tired, all right.” He took the cup she held out to him, and sniffed the roasted coffee aroma. “But it's not the same as being sleepy.”
They went back to the island and settled themselves. Chiara took a cautious sip from her cup, then set it down. “Tell me what it's like,” she said.
“What, the transfer?”
“Yes. Tell me what you felt.”
“It's hard to put into words,” he said slowly. “Even though you can't smell anything or touch anything, it's real. It's as real as being in this kitchen, as sitting here with you. No one knows you're there, but you can see and hear everything.”
She ran a finger around the rim of the little cup. “I think,” she said lightly, her gaze flicking up to his and then down again, “that there is something you do not like to tell us. Something that happened which wouldâperhaps which would be worse for Frederica.”
He chewed on his lip for a moment. He could tell her. He wondered if he had already told her something, something he couldn't remember, something he had lost when he lost time. He drew a breath, thinking perhaps he would blurt it all out.
He waited too long. Chiara sighed, and set her cup aside, letting the subject drop. “Well. I am going toâhow did you say it?âgrab a shower. I'll be in the transfer room in half an hour.”
“I'll see you there. Thanks again for the great meal.”
When she had gone, Kristian gathered the remaining plates and bowls and flatware and rinsed them. He loaded the dishwasher, and set the pans to soak. With a last look around the kitchen, he put his hand on the light switch and . . .
Found himself at the piano in the reception room. He blinked. He couldn't remember walking to it, going past the stairs, past the closed door of the transfer room. He barely remembered Chiara telling him the piano was here. He couldn't recall coming in, folding back the dust cover to expose the keyboard, pulling out the bench.
This, as Max would have said, wasn't good. But he didn't know how to fix it.
He was already seated on the bench, and his hands had just found a chord on the yellowed keys. It was the piece Clara had been playing, the A-Major Quartet, with its marking of
p dolce
. He knew it perfectly, in its final, published version. He had meant it to feature prominently in his unfinished dissertation. He played a few bars, but the piano was out of tune and some of the keys were cracked. The low C-sharp didn't work at all, and one of the pedals stuck.
p dolce
. He knew it perfectly, in its final, published version. He had meant it to feature prominently in his unfinished dissertation. He played a few bars, but the piano was out of tune and some of the keys were cracked. The low C-sharp didn't work at all, and one of the pedals stuck.
He lifted his hands, the phrase unfinished. It wasn't right to play Brahms on this instrument. He hesitated a moment, then plunged into one of his Angel's standards. “It Had to Be You.” The irony of it made him smile, and he sang the words under his breath as he played.
Doggerel, really. Words chosen to rhyme rather than reason, but still, they were words that meant something to people, and combined with a charming little tune they stayed in the mind, touched the heart. Not every poem had to be Goethe, after all.
He played through to the bridge, modulated, and began the verse again a step higher. He sang a bit louder, the vibrations of his voice in his head and his chest making him feel a bit more grounded, as if he knew where he was. When he was. As ifâ
“That is very pretty.” He glanced up. Chiara had come in. She was wearing a sweater and jeans, standing in the door of the reception room, one small, perfect hand on the doorjamb. “Is that one of the songs you play for the Angel's?”
“In Angel's, yes,” he said. His fingers went on with the song, just as they so often did at the piano in the bar, though he was looking at Chiara. Her hair was neatly brushed back, for once, and he noticed for the first time that she wore no makeup. She didn't need it, with her dark eyelashes and clear, dusky skin. He felt an irrational urge to touch her, to know if her cheeks were as firm as they looked, if her lips were as soft. With an effort, he forced himself to look down at his hands as he finished the song.
She came to the piano, and propped one hip against it, looking down at him. “It is very sweet, isn't it?”
“And very old.”
She shrugged. “Well, not so old perhaps. Not so old as Brahms.”
“Noâyou're right. I suppose I meant, for popular music.”
“Brahms was popular, in his time, was he not?”
“Well, yeah. He was. There wasn't that divide between classic and popular music, not the way we think of it now.” A little melody trickled from beneath his fingers, a
Lied
half-remembered. When he realized it was one of the pieces from Catherine's recital, he stopped playing it. He didn't want to think about Catherine, not with Chiara standing so near him.
Lied
half-remembered. When he realized it was one of the pieces from Catherine's recital, he stopped playing it. He didn't want to think about Catherine, not with Chiara standing so near him.
He began a little Mozart sonatina instead. Its orderliness made him feel better, more grounded in the moment, as if it helped to order his synapses. Chiara, arms folded, head to one side, listened. When he finished it, she smiled. “I like to hear you play.”
He grinned up at her. “I like playing.” He started another piece, without really considering his choice. It was Clara Schumann's little Polonaise in E-flat. “She was only ten when she composed it,” he mused aloud. “Ten years old.” His fingers lingered on the final chord, and he imagined her as she was in the portrait of 1829, her eyes enormous in her pixie face, her little hands delicately made. She had written four polonaises as a child, and he knew them all.
Chiara spoke softly, as if not wanting to disturb his train of thought. “Who, Kristian? Who was only ten years old?”
“Clara.” He answered without thinking. “She played it for Paganini, and he loved it.”
“Who is Clara?” Chiara held herself very still, as if she knew that what he was saying, what he had played, were significant.
He looked up at her, struck to the heart by her sensitivity. He meant to say something like that, something about how lovely she was in the dim light, how beautiful her eyes were, gleaming, long lashed, but something happened to him as he gazed at her, and he was once again in 1861, listening to Clara play this same little piece with its lilting dance rhythm.
Paganini, who had himself been a child prodigy, was so moved by the young Clara's performance that he exclaimed afterward she had real feeling in her art. He said other things, gave warnings meant to protect a young artist already working too hard. Friedrich Wieck had ignored them. He was focused on Clara's success, her fame, the money and honor she could bring him.
That moment still existed. Musicologists knew the date and the place of that meeting. He could observe it if they would let him go back, see the Wiecks and Paganini, hear the music, marvel at Clara's precociousness.
It would be hard, though. He would want to put out his hand, help the child prodigy up from the piano, protect her from the rigors of her life to come. And unless he did what Frederica had doneâ
“Kristian?”
He blinked, and he was once again in the shabby reception room in the transfer clinic. Chiara was now seated beside him on the piano bench. She had one hand under his chin, the other on his wrist. His hands were still on the keys, but he had stopped playing. “What?” he said, confused. “What happened?”
She stood up, and pulled him gently to his feet. “Come, lean on me,” she said. “It is time lag. You need to sleep.”
“She didn't speak until she was four,” he said.
“Who didn't speak, Kristian?”
“Clara. She didn't speak. That's why he made her learn everything by ear, to prove to himself his daughter wasn't deaf.”
“You don't need to think about Clara right now,” she said.
He said, “I do! You don't know what'sâ,” and then caught himself.
“Bed,” she said firmly. “Let me help you.”
He put his arm around her shoulders. They were slender, but strong. Her hand on his waist was firm as she guided him toward the door. “I don't think I can sleep,” he said.
“You will try.” Her tone brooked no argument.
They walked together up the stairs. Kristian concentrated hard on being present in the moment, not losing himself again. It wasn't easy. Chiara's warm, small body made him think of Clara with her slender waist and strong fingers. He found himself reluctant to let her go when they reached his room. She opened the door for him to go in, and he had to fight an urge to put both arms around her, to draw her close to him, to feel her warmth against his chest. That wasn't right, and he knew it. She wasn't Clara. She was Chiara.
She was about to follow him into the room, but he put his hand on the doorjamb and stopped her. “I'll manage,” he said, a little hoarsely. “I'm sorry about this.”
“
Non fa niente
. Are you sure you don't need something to help you fall asleep?”
Non fa niente
. Are you sure you don't need something to help you fall asleep?”
“I'd rather not. Thanks.” He watched her turn toward the stairway, and start down it. When she looked back, he lifted his hand and touched his forehead in a mock salute. “Don't worry,
dottoressa
. Straight to bed.” She smiled, and disappeared down the staircase.
dottoressa
. Straight to bed.” She smiled, and disappeared down the staircase.
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