The Silver Swan (20 page)

“And then?” she asked, her eyes welling up.

“I’ll finish my tour and we’ll figure everything out.”

“I understand it is my choice to have this child, Claude, and I don’t
expect
anything of you. I only hope we will marry, for the sake of the child and because I love you.”

She had never said this before. Devastated, he watched her take a sip of her wine. “For now, Sophie,” he said, attempting to smile, “I have nothing more to say.” He reached across the table and took her glass. With one swallow, he emptied it. Then he summoned the waiter and paid.

The first days of summer were hot. Claude had been gone for more than two weeks, and Mariana was restless, at loose ends. She thought constantly about him and wondered why he hadn’t called, obsessively checking her messages. Sometimes she felt she could hardly breathe, other times she collapsed in tears. Hoping to meet Claude in Europe after he finished his tour, she had checked airfares to Switzerland daily on her computer. Since he had called to report his safe arrival in Milan, he had not called again. She knew he was traveling in France, Germany, and the Netherlands, and tried to remember his schedule. But his silence tortured her. He did not respond to her messages. It was as though he’d dropped off the planet.

Mariana tried to convince herself that his silence meant no more than her father had claimed his silence had meant when he himself went on tour. But then she thought about what Feldmann’s silence had in fact disguised, and her anxieties redoubled. Why would he not answer?

Finally, cursing herself for giving in, she went through Alexander’s old phone book and found Francine Roselle’s
number in Montagnola. She placed a call. While the phone was ringing she realized she needed an excuse for calling. Francine answered — “
Allo, Allo
?” — and Mariana, brisk and professional, said, “Hello Mme Roselle, it’s Mariana Feldmann. I’m calling from New York. I’ve got something to discuss with Claude concerning the Tanglewood concert. Can you tell me where to reach him?”

She realized she had made no small talk. She could scarcely bear to speak to the woman. Francine, however, was friendly. “How have you
been
, my dear?”

Mariana forced herself to sound cordial. After they exchanged pleasantries, she inquired again about Claude. Did his mother know his whereabouts?

“I’m not exactly sure where he is today, but you can always reach him on his cell phone. I spoke with him this morning. He was at the airport in Berlin.”

She felt a flash of anger. So Claude
was
answering his phone. “We haven’t been in touch since he left America. Two weeks ago — nearly three. Is the tour proceeding well?”

“Ah, then, you haven’t heard his news,” Francine said cheerily. “He would of course want you to know that he and Sophie, his girlfriend, have decided to marry. We are all here very excited. She is a lovely young woman.”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Sophie von Auer. They have been together quite a long time. When he returned from America, they became engaged.”

The knife, already lodged in her chest, twisted deeper. Mariana closed her eyes. After a moment she was able to say, “What good news, Mme Roselle. I’m happy for them. When will the wedding take place?”

“Quite soon,” she answered. “As soon as he has time. Sophie, of course, must do all the planning, due to Claude’s impossible schedule. I’m sure you’ll hear from him, but I’ll give him the message you called. As you can imagine, he’s been tremendously busy!”

Mariana made an effort to sound warm. “Yes, I can well imagine. Thank you and congratulations to your husband as well.” They said goodbye and hung up.

Pilar had called it “playing with fire.” That had been her mother’s phrase for every level of danger, from climbing on the jungle gym to testing her father’s volatile temper to, later on, falling in love. The first time Mariana heard the phrase, it made perfect sense: she was trying to light matches with another four-year-old and, having succeeded, dropped the flaming match on her knee. She had been burned and then punished. That had been playing with fire — the real thing. Later, it was metaphor, and always used to express Pilar’s deep distrust of men.

Mariana tried not to lie to herself. The danger of an affair with Claude had been obvious from the beginning. The magnitude of her desire alone had been fair warning that something volcanic had been ignited in her. She had only her reckless behavior to blame. She had had full knowledge, from reading Alexander’s letter, of the complications involved: his mother’s long love affair with her father, the gift of the Stradivarius, and the simple fact that Claude lived in Switzerland. Small craft warnings had been flying, yet she’d headed out into turbulent water, breathless and compelled.

It wasn’t the first time. The object of her very first crush, a swaggering Latvian cellist of twenty-three who studied with
Alexander, had taken her back to his apartment after one weekly lesson to pry her loose from her virginity. She had just turned fifteen. Though determined, he was unsuccessful, and once it was clear that she was too young and frightened, he dropped her, adding insult to injury by patting her on the head and calling her “kid” when he came for lessons. She waited to see him enter the foyer, then wept in her room and plugged her ears to his playing, though she could still hear Alexander shouting, “Ivan, this phrasing is vulgar. Can you be more sensitive? You sound like a gypsy.”

Alexander fanned the flames of the distrust engendered by Pilar. He lectured Mariana on the inevitable treachery of men. Men were rash and shallow. They wanted only one thing, and after you gave them what they wanted, they left. If you didn’t give them what they wanted, they would leave anyway. Men, he said, were incapable of fidelity. It wasn’t in their nature. They cared only about good sex and successful careers. Alexander’s message should have alerted her to his own behavior. But what she now understood to have been self-description had seemed, at the time, merely wise and protective and meant to warn her. Only later, when people assumed Mariana was old enough to hear and shed light on the rumors about her father, did she come to realize that he was one of those bastards he had warned her against. He knew the type.

In the moments following her conversation with Francine, Mariana seethed. Her cheeks flushed. She felt dizzy. Claude had been callous, cowardly, and deceitful. Why had he so brazenly lied to her? Her fury quickly turned to anguish.
How could she have so completely misjudged him? Would he marry this Sophie von Auer? Had he not cared for her at all? Could she let him get away with it? Could she allow him to steal her heart
and
her Stradivarius so easily, so carelessly?

The next morning, she telephoned Baum & Fernand. When the receptionist put her through, she said, “Hanns, it’s Mariana. Remember the offer you made at Bella Rosa?”

“Which one? I believe I made several.”

“The offer to help me.”

“I do.”

“I’m calling to tell you that the Silver Swan has just become
your
business again. I want it back. You have it.”

They met the next afternoon. Mariana stalked into Baum’s office. He did not ask her why she’d changed her mind. She was cold and formal and furious.

“I don’t want Roselle to get the Swan,” she announced.

“I’m not shocked to hear this.” He played with a pen on his desk.

“My father lied to me. He
promised
me the Swan.”

Baum was thoughtful. “And what exactly do you have in mind?”

“I want you to sell the cello. Get it out of the country. Sell it to anyone who’s willing to keep the cello out of sight for a few years. You can say it has been stolen.”

“Claude Roselle
does
own the instrument, my dear.”

“Possession’s nine-tenths of the law and the cello’s right here in your shop.”

Baum studied her. “It’s highly risky. What you’re asking is, of course, nothing short of criminal.”

Mariana knew he might well have thought of this idea himself. She had paid attention to talk in the shop when she visited with her father. Baum had made neither his money nor his reputation through simple honesty. She had heard him speak of tax evasion, illegal transactions, and fraud — always about other dealers, of course — of overvaluation, faked pedigrees, and misidentified instruments, but never outright theft.

“Are you interested, Hanns?”

He leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together. “As you can imagine, Mariana, many collectors and cellists — professional and amateur alike — would love to own this cello. It’s a rare masterpiece. There are very few comparables. Its value’s all the greater because Alexander Feldmann owned and played it. Your father instructed me to find the highest price. He believed there would be a foundation or a private collector in Asia or Kazakhstan or some such place.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, I found such a client. This man had planned for several years to buy the Swan and all the copies — excepting the Vuillaume, perhaps — upon your father’s death. It was a deal, a fait accompli, we thought, because Alexander led us to believe so.”

“Hanns, did you take money from this man in advance?”

“Regrettably, I did. I had formed an understanding with your father when I first lent him money to buy the Swan, years before your birth. We agreed I would receive further money, either from the sale of the Swan or from his estate when he died. Unfortunately for me, we put nothing on paper. I assumed he would honor our agreement since I had made it possible for him to buy the cello at a time when he had no credit.”

“So he betrayed you also …”

Baum made no response. She pressed him, “What if he had left it to me and I’d decided to keep the Swan, not to sell?”

“He had assured me in that event, I would be fairly paid by his estate. But when you gave up your solo career, in 2002, your father came to see me. He said he’d changed his will. He would leave the cello to you on the condition that I sell it for you and guarantee your financial security. Since you no longer concertized, he saw no need for you to keep the Swan. He believed it should be heard.”

“And what were the terms he offered you?” she asked, her fury rising.

“Thirty percent.”

She was certain he was lying. “Did you see the will?”

“No, of course I didn’t ask to. I believed we had a gentleman’s agreement. We were old friends. And that’s when I borrowed a great deal of money, against that future promise, to enlarge my shop and business.”

“And now you’re angry?”

“I cannot repay my debt.”

She crossed her legs. She wondered, briefly, if she could persuade him to join in her vendetta, and what Baum in turn would demand. “And your client? Does he still want the cello?”

“He knows it is not mine to sell, Mariana. And he’s not interested in theft. It is too late, we agreed last week when he finally learned that Roselle had been left the Swan.”

“What will you do?” she asked.

“I’ve no idea.”

“My father was not a gentleman of his word,” Mariana said, rising to leave.