The Brahms Deception (34 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

BOOK: The Brahms Deception
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“I don't know if she can, now.” He leaned against the doorjamb again. “One thing I have to tell you, Rik. I lost my temper, there at the end.”
“You mean, in the past?”
“Yes. I'll try to tell you about it when I'm not so tired I can't think.” He gave her a rueful smile. “But it turns out losing my temper can be a good thing, sometimes.”
She picked up her cane and stood, bracing herself between it and the table. “Your name's in the article. And your picture—this must be the one they were going to use in the first place.”
“What does it say?”
“It says you were sent to try to help Frederica, but you couldn't.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. Apparently the Foundation people aren't talking much.”
Kristian sighed, and turned back toward his bedroom. “They'll have to talk to Congress. Even Braunstein. Without Bannister, there's nobody to protect her.”
She paused, watching through the doorway as he shoved his things off the bed and pulled back the blanket. “Kris, you'll probably be subpoenaed, too.”
He paused, thinking about it. “Yeah. Probably.”
“What will you tell them?”
He sat down on the bed, and kicked off his shoes. “I'll tell them the truth. She disappeared. And then didn't wake up.”
Erika leaned against the doorjamb, her cane hanging loosely in her hand. “Do you still think you can protect Clara's secret?”
He raised his head to meet her gaze. “I have to, Rik. I'm the only one who can.”
“It's awfully Victorian of you. Being her champion and everything.”
“Her champion. I like that.” He closed his heavy eyelids, just for a moment, and saw again Clara's gentle face, the sadness in her eyes.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Erika frowning. She tipped her head to one side, assessing him. “No one can compare with her, can they? Not to you.”
“Women aren't like that anymore.”
“Like what?”
He hesitated, searching for the word. “Honorable, I suppose. She has such—dignity.”
“Had. She
had
dignity. She's been gone a long time.”
He shook his head, and said softly, “It's all in your perspective. To me, it's as if—as if I just saw her yesterday.”
“Kris, you should stop thinking about it. About her. You have to live in the present.”
He sighed, and lay back on his pillow. “I know,” he said. “But I'm not sure I prefer it.”
 
He hadn't slept on the plane, which might have been why he slept so heavily all that day. He woke once, then had trouble remembering where he was. He walked to the bathroom, and the familiar plumbing seemed anachronistic and alien. He made his way back to bed, making sure first that Erika's door was closed. He stood outside her room for a moment, laying his palm on her door as if it could tell him whether she was all right. The wheelchair sat where she had left it, a good sign.
He smiled as he lifted his hand from her door. He must remember, he told himself, to thank her for coming all the way to Castagno when she thought he needed her. He had needed her, in fact. It would have been tough making his way home without her, losing chunks of time all along the way.
He should thank Chiara again, too, for her care and her friendship. Catherine would never have set her own wishes aside the way his sister and Chiara had done.
There were wonderful women in his life. Erika, Chiara, even Rosie the bartender. Why did he have to yearn for one who was a hundred and fifty years beyond his reach?
He found his way back to bed, and in moments was sound asleep again. He hadn't thought to pull the blinds on his window. When he woke to the rapping on his door, weak winter sunshine poured through the smeared glass. He struggled up to wakefulness, and heard Erika calling his name. “What? What's wrong?”
“Kris?” She sounded strange, and alarm brought him fully awake. “You'd better come out here. Put on some clothes and comb your hair.”
“I'm coming!” His feet hit the floor a little harder than was necessary, and he felt the jolt all the way to his spine. “What time is it?”
“It's almost four.”
“In the afternoon?” He blinked, and rubbed his face hard. “What is it? Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes, I'm fine. Let's just say—I put on some lipstick.”
Lipstick? Erika hardly ever wore lipstick. Mystified, he did as she told him. He pulled on his jeans, and grabbed a fresh shirt from the closet. He thought he should probably brush his teeth, but he didn't want to take the time. He opened his door, and found her standing beside the kitchen table, supported by her cane. “What is it, Rik? What's the rush?” She had, in fact, put on some sort of pale pink lipstick and some mascara. She had also pulled her hair up in a clip and artfully loosened a few strands to fall around her face. He had never noticed her do that before. “You look great,” he said.
She grinned. “Go and look.” She pointed to the kitchen window.
He hurried past her to look down into the street. “What the hell is all that about?”
“I told you, Kris. Your name and picture were in the newspaper. Someone's been up here already asking for you.”
“Asking for me?”
“Yes! They want to interview you.”
He turned away from the sight of television trucks and reporters crowding the street outside the apartment building. “But . . . but Rik—what do I
do?
”
“Do you want to talk to them?”
“I don't know.” He stood back from the window. It made him feel strange, all those people standing on the front steps, some of them peering up at the building as if they could spot him. “What did they say?”
“It was Channel something-or-other, and they wanted to ask you questions.”
The phone rang, and Kris jumped. Erika laughed. “It doesn't matter, Kris. Talk to them if you want to. If you don't, or if you think it's better not to, we'll just say no.”
The ringing of the phone was distracting. Kris crossed to it, picked it up to break the connection, and set it back in its cradle. “I have to think,” he said.
“About what?”
“About how to explain that I learned what
p dolce
meant to Brahms.”
“Did you ever remember that song?” she asked. “The one about the girl on the swing?”
He shook his head. “No. It's gone, Rik. We'll never remember, because Frederica changed the time line. She did something to the song.”
“What could she have done?”
“I don't know that, either. Maybe she caused it never to be written. Or destroyed it so that it was never published.”
“I wonder why?”
“Anybody's guess. She would have changed a whole lot more if she had the chance.”
“Are you going to tell the reporters that?”
He stared at the phone for a moment, until it started to ring again. “No. I'm not.”
She nodded. “Well, then, Kris. What
are
you going to tell them?”
He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to think. This was the question everyone would ask, not just the press. What could he say? How could he protect her?
“Kris?”
He lifted his head, and met his sister's clear gaze. “I'll tell them she vanished.”
“She did.”
“Yes, she did.”
“And I couldn't find her.”
“That's true, too.” There was a little pause, interrupted by the phone beginning to ring again. “Will that be enough?”
“I doubt it.” He thought of the protesters in Chicago, of the senator on television. “No, I don't think it will be enough.”
“What should we do, then?”
He said, with a halfhearted grin, “You look pretty, Rik. You're all ready. Go be on television. I think I'll wait.”
“Wait for what?” she asked in a dry tone. “What's going to change, Kris?”
“Nothing, really. I just need time. I need time to figure out the right thing to say.” She gave him a quizzical look, and he grinned again. “Don't worry. The right time will come. You'll see.”
21
In the days that followed the phone rang insistently, calls from networks, from radio stations, from newspapers. The days stretched into weeks, and still Kristian didn't respond to any of them. Erika suggested doing one interview, to stem the tide. “You could be a television star,” she said slyly, giving him a sidelong look. “They think you know what happened to Frederica.”
He shook his head. “It would be a nine-day wonder, Rik. And what would I say? I'm more likely to blurt out something that would haunt me forever.”
“I liked being interviewed,” she said.
“You did a great job.”
“You could, too.”
“I don't know, Rik. I just—I'm not sure.”
“Because you want to protect a woman who's been gone for more than a century.”
“I can't explain it any better than that.” He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, and sighed. “You didn't see her . . . see how sad she was, how—how
weary
. Her honor was everything to her, and I just can't—I won't—take that away.”
“No one cares about that stuff these days.”
He made a wry face. “No. I guess not. But she does.”
“Did, Kris. I keep telling you.
Did
.” To this he had no reply.
He tried to catch up on his e-mail, but everyone he had ever known somehow wanted to talk to him now. There were more messages than he could possibly answer. He gave it up and closed his account. He and Erika ignored most of their voice mail. At night they turned off the phone. Kristian only considered returning two calls. One was from the dean at Juilliard. The other was from Catherine.
“Kris?”
Kristian knew the dean's voice well. He pictured him in his office overlooking Lincoln Center Plaza, looking down on the tourists admiring the fountain. “Hello, Dr. Underwood.”
“Thanks for getting back to me.”
“I didn't think you'd ever want to speak to me again.”
“Now, now,” Underwood said. Kristian visualized the dean's gray beard bobbing as he spoke into the phone, his round glasses reflecting the spotlights from the plaza. “Everyone loses their temper now and again. I certainly have.”
“I may have lost mine more spectacularly than most.”
“Yes, you may. You may indeed.” Dr. Underwood chuckled. “Sometimes, of course, a temper can be useful.”
You'll never know.
“That day in your office . . . I left a bit—precipitately. I should have apologized. I'd like to do that now.”
“Accepted.” Underwood cleared his throat, and Kristian was sure he was pushing his spectacles up onto his head, where they typically perched just on his bald spot. “We should talk, Kris. Now that you've had your transfer opportunity after all. And spoken to Congress! That must have been interesting.”
Kristian couldn't think of what to say. He hadn't planned for this. He had been certain that no one at Juilliard would want anything further to do with him.
Underwood said, with a thread of doubt in his voice, “Unless you don't want to come back?”
“Come back?” Kristian's voice broke on the word. “Is that possible?”
Underwood laughed. “Come on, Kris. We've all had bad moments. Yours was spectacular, as you say, but you had your reasons. Let's put all of that in the past, shall we? I'd like to talk about you resuming your doctoral studies. Tell me—did you discover what Brahms meant by
p dolce
?”
 
Catherine's call surprised Kristian even more than Dr. Underwood's. When the phone rang, Kristian was standing beside the sink eating his breakfast, hurrying so he could catch the train to New York. He had an appointment that afternoon with his dissertation adviser, who had been nicely softened up by Dr. Underwood. Erika was slicing an apple at the counter. She laid down the knife and turned toward the phone when Catherine's melodic voice sounded on the caller ID.
Erika said, “I thought she was in Houston. The apprentice program.”
“Pretty sure she is.” Kristian put down his toast.
Catherine said, “Kris, are you there? Erika? I don't have much time, but—”
Erika said, “Do you want to talk to her?”
“I don't know.” Kristian could visualize Catherine even more clearly than Dr. Underwood. He remembered the way her black hair flowed over her shoulders and lifted in the wind. He recalled the trick she had of looking up beneath her dark eyelashes, especially when she wanted something. Her voice resonated with her years of voice study, recalling to him the way he felt when he accompanied her, that intoxicating feeling that they were one in the music, united in their intent. It had been a false feeling, he reminded himself. He had confused musical agreement with love.
Catherine was reading out her phone number, now. There was a beep, and she was gone.
“Shall we save that?” Erika asked quietly.
Kristian shrugged.
“Kris, do you want to tell me what happened between you and Catherine?”
“She just—she had her life to live. And I'd made a mess of mine. Lost the transfer. Lost my temper.”
“It was understandable, after all.”
“Got kicked out of Juilliard.”
“If she loved you, she would have stood with you, no matter what.”
“She's ambitious. And she should be.”
“I understand that. It's a great voice. But still, Kris—”
“She'll have a big career. She wouldn't let anything hold her back.”
Like children. A husband. A lover.
“Why do you think she wants to talk to you now?”
Kristian grinned. “Nine-day wonder, remember? Maybe she wants a little fame to rub off on her.”
Erika grinned back at him. “That's cold, Kris.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“I guess you don't want to save her message, then?”
He considered for a moment, then turned to the sink to rinse his plate. “Nope. Don't think so.”
“Kris, it's not—” Erika's smile faded, and he glanced over his shoulder at her. “It's not because of—because of
her,
is it?”
“Who?”
She pursed her lips. “You know damn well who.”
“Do you mean Chiara, by any chance?”
Her eyebrows rose. “I do not, and you know it. I mean Clara Schumann.”
He set the plate in the strainer, and flipped the dish towel over the rack. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “I can't stop thinking about her.”
“It will pass,” she said.
He pushed away from the counter, and walked toward his bedroom to get his briefcase. He paused on the way to plant a kiss on Erika's head. “I guess you're right, Rik,” he said. “Everything passes. In time.”
It was past midnight when he returned to the apartment. Erika's chair sat outside her room, and the apartment was dark except for a light in the kitchen. She had left a pan of vegetable soup on the stove. He turned on the heat underneath it, then went to the fridge. He smiled as he opened the fridge and bent to retrieve a beer. The Sub-Zero in Castagno would swallow their decrepit Kelvinator whole, he was sure.
He was still smiling as he stirred the soup and sipped from the beer. He felt good. No, he felt great. He hadn't lost any time in two days, and his future beckoned once again.
When the soup was hot, he took the whole pan to the table and set it on a trivet. He got a spoon and a fresh beer, and sat down. His briefcase lay on the edge of the table, stuffed now with a class schedule, a list of requirements for the completion of his doctorate, and a letter from the dean reinstating his fellowship. He took a sip, then saluted Erika's closed door with his spoon. The soup was full of carrots and celery and glazed onions and dotted with basil and thyme. Chiara Belfiore would approve.
Odd, that he should think of Chiara now. He had an urge to call her, to tell her his good news. He might just get her number from Erika.
He finished the soup, and lingered over his second beer, not really feeling tired. It had been a stimulating day, and the world looked considerably brighter—despite the hour—than it had the day before. He glanced at the phone, but no light blinked on the console. Erika had deleted Catherine's message. He saluted her again, this time with his beer bottle.
By the time he finished the beer, he thought he could probably manage to sleep. He set the pan in the sink and ran water into it. He dunked his bowl and spoon into the water to soak. He turned out the light, but he left his briefcase where it was. He would go over it all again in the morning.
He didn't bother with the light in his bedroom. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his shirt and pants, shivering a little in the chill of the small hours. He kept his socks on against the cold, and slid into bed with a sigh of satisfaction. He had pulled the shade, but the streetlights shone through just enough to reveal the shapes of his bureau and the old coatrack behind the door. He lay on his back, hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling for a time, thinking about how good it had felt to go back to Juilliard, be welcomed by the dean and his adviser, to belong again. To be forgiven. He would finish it this time. The transfer would guarantee him a university position once he had the doctorate. It only remained to make a good job of it, and he had every intention of doing just that.
He finally turned on his side, yawned, and let himself drift off.
When he startled awake, the light had begun to change. His room was gray with dawn, and he could see the pile of clothes he had left on the chair, the battered leather jacket hanging on the coatrack. He couldn't have been asleep more than four hours. He turned over, toward the window, wondering why he was awake.
She was there. In his room. She made a slender, dramatic figure, barely visible in the dim light from the window. She wore the same dark dress, the scarf tucked into the bodice. She gazed at him, her small mouth curving slightly in her melancholy smile. Her great eyes were pools of darkness, and her hands, with their fine, strong fingers, were linked before her in a relaxed fashion.
Kristian sat up, his mouth gone dry and his heart suddenly beating fast in his ears. He tried to speak, but nothing came. He stared at her, not completely sure he was awake, not wanting her to fade as his mother had, to evaporate like a wisp of mist. Finally, he managed to whisper, “Clara?”
She pressed her entwined hands to her breast in a gesture of gratitude.
He croaked, “I never expected to see you again.”
She smiled. An instant later her image began to shimmer, and Kristian's head started to spin. He said, “Wait! Wait, are you here, or am I—”
He didn't receive an answer. He blinked, and full daylight was spilling into his room, the hours of dawn lost to him. There was no specter beside the window. There was nothing out of the ordinary to see. He lay on his back again, his blankets pulled up and tucked under his chin.
He had no idea what the hell had happened. His urge to call Chiara vanished. He couldn't worry her by admitting he was still losing time.
And seeing ghosts from 1861.

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