The Silver Swan (24 page)

She walked home along the border of the park. Few people were out in the intense heat. By the time she reached her apartment, dripping and out of sorts, she had decided she would leave the city and take the Swan to Stockbridge. Baum would certainly tell Claude what she’d done. But he would have to seek her out if he ever wanted to see the cello again.

Having poured herself a glass of cold water and washed her face, she went to her file cabinet and extracted the letter her father had given Beecher for her. Sitting on her couch, she reread it. Then, running the letter through her copier until the stale ink darkened, she took the clearest copy and put it an envelope addressed to Claude Roselle at his home in Lugano. Once more, she went out into the overbearing heat. She walked to the FedEx outlet and paid for the letter to reach him by overnight mail.

Claude returned to Lugano with the Vuillaume. On the trip home, he had controlled his agitation, but once alone in the apartment he broke down, tears of frustration on his face. He could understand nothing of what had happened or why. He felt betrayed, but by whom? Over and over, he rehearsed the moment when he opened the blue case at the bank — the crushing disappointment and the shock. Where was the Swan,
his
Swan? He could not sleep.

As soon as the office was open, Claude called Baum & Fernand. He told Baum what had happened, and the dealer gasped in disbelief. He himself, he said, had placed the Stradivarius into the case and carried it down to the taxi. There had been no mistake.

“But how could this happen? Why would she do it?” Claude asked.

“People do very strange things, I’m told, when they lose a loved one,” Baum replied dryly. “Perhaps she decided that, after all, the Swan is rightfully hers.”

“Rightfully
hers
? I believe it is rightfully mine.”

“Since the instrument left our shop last week, we haven’t seen it again. Mariana was the one who received it from us, I can assure you of that. We asked her to sign papers.”

“What would make her change her mind?” He felt a chill in the nape of his neck. “Why would she want to keep the Swan from me?”

“M. Roselle,” Baum answered, “as I’ve said, I have no idea. Could she be angry at you?”

“Absolutely not. We had a splendid visit just now in Prades.” Instantly, he regretted saying this to Baum. “She flew home last night.”

“Ah, I see, a weekend in Prades.” The dealer paused. “Well, I am sure of one thing only, and of this I am perfectly sure. At your request, I personally handed Ms. Feldmann the Swan, in a blue fiberglass case to deliver to you.”

“What do you suggest I do? I’m extremely worried.”

Baum offered him no comfort. “Monsieur, I myself am not free from concern.”

Claude drove to Montagnola, where Francine drew him into the house. The shutters of the living room were closed against the August heat. Bernard, she said, was in Zurich and coming home that night. Claude told his mother about the missing Swan without mentioning his time with Mariana in Prades. He said they’d met only briefly in Barcelona so she could give him the cello.

“I
wish
you’d told me about your arrangements.” His mother’s face was flushed. “I’ve said repeatedly that Mariana is a troubled woman and not to be trusted. Is she still in Europe? Have you demanded an explanation?”

“I can’t reach her,” Claude admitted. “Nobody knows where she is.”

“No one? Who have you asked?”

He paced. “I called Heinrich Baum, of course. And he had no idea what happened. He swore he himself put the Swan in its case and handed it to Mariana.”

“We must call the police!”

“No, Maman, not yet.”

“God only knows what she’s done with the Swan. Or what she’s planning to do. Perhaps they’re conspiring, she and Baum.” Francine fanned herself. She seemed about to faint.

“Calm down, Maman. She hasn’t been given a chance to explain. I’m not ready to contact the authorities yet. This is a misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

They shared an angry silence. He did not stay for lunch.

When Claude returned to his apartment, he found a FedEx envelope wedged against the door. He tossed it onto the piano and went to check his answering machine. There were no messages. Again, he called Mariana and did not reach her. Returning to the living room, he considered booking a flight to New York. But what good would that do? He had no idea where she was. Baffled, he picked up the FedEx envelope. He saw it was from Mariana and felt excitement and relief. Here, surely, was the answer to the mystery.

He tore it open. Inside was a single photocopied sheet, with Alexander Feldmann’s name and address at the top. Claude, holding the letter, recognized his mentor’s beautiful script. The letter was addressed to Mariana. “As I’m sure
you have known and been much affected by, your mother and I were not happy together …”

The signature at the bottom was his teacher’s. Claude reread the letter, feeling sick. Alexander Feldmann, his great hero, had been sleeping with his mother, traveling with her, for all these years. Not years, decades. This was the man he had revered. And his mother — the deceit and disloyalty were staggering. Did people know? Had she exposed his father, Bernard, to ridicule?

To a small boy, Alexander had been larger than life, sweeping in, dashing out on his way to one engagement or another, playful and subversive in a way that made Claude feel important and grown up. “We men,” Feldmann would say, “will now have a cello lesson.” Francine, beaming, would leave them alone together. “We men will take a walk, we men will watch some tennis …” Alexander would sit on the couch with his arm around Claude, practicing fingerings on his shoulder as they watched Pete Sampras serve. He tousled Claude’s hair, slapped his knee companionably, and when there was an exciting shot, squeezed his cheeks or kissed him. It was all so breathtakingly un-Swiss.

The lessons, too, inspired the boy. He wanted not only to follow in Alexander’s footsteps but to literally
become
him. It was not that he didn’t love his own father, but Bernard seemed — by comparison — dull and remote. Alexander knew no boundaries; he was everywhere at once, noisy and dominant, full of life.

Over time, however, his relationship with Alexander changed. The more seriously his teacher took his playing, the less playful he became. Instead, the maestro grew more
demanding and impatient. He criticized, he mocked, he pushed. He could be ruthlessly tactless. Lessons were long, but when they were over Feldmann put them immediately behind him. “Well, my boy, let’s have a game of chess.” If Claude showed signs of frustration or resentment, Alexander would explain, “I only criticize you this way because I admire your talent. I think you could be great someday. I believe in you.”

Holding the letter, Claude paced the living room. Of course he had long realized that his parents had an unusual marriage, so often apart, so independent. He had simply believed this was the natural result of their culture and of their great commitment to music. To think his cello lessons had been merely a pretext for his mother’s trysts with Alexander! Francine’s eagerness to keep him at the instrument had probably been a ruse, a way to cover up her affair. To think he had been so sure that he himself was the center of his mother’s world, that Feldmann came all the way from America to supervise his protégé because of Claude’s blazing talent.

Trembling, he looked at the date of the letter; oh, God — Mariana had known all along, since their meeting in Boston. He remembered Edith Libbey’s telling him that his mother had often visited her with Feldmann; the secretary had said Francine preferred this painting or that. He remembered too the look that night in Mariana’s eyes. She knew. Everywhere he traveled in America, people knew his mother and her connection to the great cellist. In Europe, too, there must have been rumors. It hurt Claude to think Bernard might have known all along and accepted his wife’s adultery for fear
of losing her or — worse yet, perhaps — of losing face in his conservative milieu.

He hadn’t been suspicious of his mother’s grief when Alexander died. How tenderly he had comforted her and admired the depth of her capacity for friendship, how completely she had fooled him! Would she have left her husband and son had Alexander made an offer? Would she have run to him? Had she waited all these decades, hoping they would one day merge their lives? Did Alexander dash those hopes over and over again?

As far as he himself was concerned, Mariana could have the fucking Swan. He wanted no part of it now. No part of Alexander Feldmann or his mother or the Silver Swan, no part of love affairs or marriage — just his career, his music, and random sexual encounters when opportunity arose. He was furious. He sat down at the counter, staring at nothing. But after a while, he stood up again. Steadying himself, he reconsidered. He thought he might still change his mind about this impulse to give up the Swan. It was, after all, the most magnificent of instruments and it
was
his.

That night, depressed and shaken, Claude went to dine with Sophie. He told her he would not marry her. He would support their child and try to be the best father he could be, but he was unfit to be a husband. He was, he said, drinking his third glass of wine, an emotional disaster.

“An emotional disaster,” Sophie repeated. “What does that mean?” She looked at him in perfect incomprehension. Yet she seemed to understand he was being sincere, because he never
before had spoken to her so openly about his feelings. Over espresso he told her he intended to take a break, a short trip.

She listened, looking down. “Do you go with Mariana?”

“No, Sophie, alone.”

Why did women always think the problem was another woman? Even when they were correct, it was irritating. “It’s everything,” he answered. “I no longer am able to believe what I’ve always believed, to think what I’ve always thought. Can you understand this, Sophie?”

Now she raised her eyes to his. “It is very difficult.”