CHAPTER TEN

I don’t know why I felt compelled to “practice” before seeing Dr. Pretsky again. What could I do—improve on Schubert? He could maybe brush up on his scales or memorize something nice? Ridiculous, but that eagerness to please the teacher must be an ancient survival skill. It occurred to me that this feeling might be partly Franz. He was about to play for the teacher, too, and could be adding his anxiety to mine. He’d deny it, but really he hadn’t been heard or judged by a discerning ear in a long, long, really long time. Can’t a genius feel insecure?

In any case, we played passionately for nearly two hours before Fred got home. I was in a nice sweat by then. Playing piano with so much intensity is a physical and emotional workout. My back cried in pain, and my arms were limp.

“You’ve got a groupie out there,” Fred announced, as he walked in and steered me toward the window. It was dark out, so my small crowd of fans had left for the day. He pointed to the one straggler, a tall skinny teenager, shivering at the bottom of the stoop. He was heavily bundled and scarved, but his hands were ungloved so he could work a small tape recorder.

“Could you ask him to leave, please?” I said. “That’s just too creepy. Tell him I’m finished and I don’t like being taped.”

“Great, thanks, sure. If he’s a psycho murderer and I come back dead, you can have my Rangers tickets.”

“Don’t worry, dude. I got your back.”

Fred scared the guy off without a fuss. The psycho murderer was highly embarrassed and sent apologies to me. But I took a serious look at Fred’s back for a moment.

It wasn’t much of a back, to tell the truth. Fred’s on the small side of average, an occasional tennis player, always meaning to work out more. He had the soft curly hair and fine features usually seen on Hollywood types. Not effeminate exactly, but not a face to scare psycho murderers with.

I wondered what crazies might be attracted to my new and extremely loud talent. Practicing in his apartment brought Fred into my circle, complete with possible dangers. Any good friend would mention this outright and give him the chance to bow out. But that would leave me alone and even more vulnerable. You see my dilemma.

“How was work?” I asked.

“It sucked, of course. That’s all it does, lately, is suck.”

Fred was the erstwhile darling of Ads Up, a small but surprisingly hot ad agency in Manhattan. The supercharged creative team drew clients with deep pockets who liked edgy, head-tilting concepts. Fred excelled at head-tilting and was persuasive with the clientele. He won awards. All was happy. Then the owner’s son joined the agency and became everyone’s new boss.

“I think he’s autistic,” Fred announced. “The guy’s been with us three months and still hasn’t learned our names. He stares out the window while you talk to him. And just try to use irony in a concept! It’s like singing to a computer.”

Fred was close to the ranting zone. He needed soothing.

“There’s a good production of Ain’t Misbehavin’ I’ve been wanting to see. It’s a weeknight, so maybe we can still get tickets. I could call and see,” I offered.

“I’m getting my résumé together, that’s all, I’ve had it. I’ll take Jake with me, too, and we’ll take some pretty good clients along.”

“It got great reviews,” I said. “I’ll treat.”

I called the theater as Fred vented on. I got us the last two seats together, not good ones, but seats. I told Fred we’d have to hurry to make it, and should probably take his car.

“Ain’t Misbehavin’? Tonight?”

“Sure, it’ll be fun. But we have to leave now, Fred.”

“Okay, thanks,” he said, “that’s really sweet of you, Liza. A night out would be good.”

On the way out, we bumped into Hoffman and Pardo just coming in together. His shirt had a bright orange smudge that matched her lipstick. She had adoring bug eyes for him and a death-ray stare for me.

“Going out, I see. Well, that’s nice, dear.” Mrs. Pardo’s voice stung like ice. She did not like me stepping out with her daughter’s imaginary future husband.

“Just for a little while, yes,” I said sweetly.

“Will we see you here tomorrow morning then?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said. “Maybe in the same clothes, if someone gets lucky.” Fred looked more surprised by the notion than Mrs. Pardo.

We practically jogged the few blocks to Fred’s Mustang. As we got in, Fred said, “Where to, m’lady?”

“The Vivian Beaumont Theater, Lincoln Center.”

Fred drove us into the city in lunatic-cabbie mode. He passed cars any which way, terrified pedestrians, and barely nodded at traffic lights. He was wonderful.

Between harrowing moments, Fred gave me the shocking news that he and Jana were through. She had drifted into the Maui-tanned arms of the nice immigration lawyer. They didn’t mean for it to happen but blah, blah, life goes on.

We stowed the car in a lot, ran like crazy, and fell into our seats just as the house lights dimmed. Only then did I remember Franz’s strong reaction to our last live music adventure. Fred grew suddenly nervous, too.

Thank God for bad seats.

On the far side in the back row, Franz’s gyrations were a spectacle only to the beleaguered few around us. Our unusually polite neighbors waited for intermission before lodging complaints.

Sitting still was hard, though. Ain’t Misbehavin’ is all music—lusty singers belting the hell out of Fats Waller tunes. Swingy, contagious stuff that makes your soul sprout feet and learn to dance. And it all seemed so loud to Franz’s 1800s, unamplified sensibilities. The stimulation level rocketed. I clutched my voodoo bag to my heart, sucked on a Tootsie Pop, and allowed Fred to throw his right leg across my knees to pin me to my seat, which was somewhat helpful. We still managed a sitting jitterbug through “This Joint Is Jumpin’ ”—and who could resist rolling the programs into drumsticks and banging them on the seat backs? Toward the end, we wept through “Black ’n Blue.”

If you ask me, the whole thing was immense fun, but Fred looked fried when it was over. I didn’t even ask about the slightly black eye he’d acquired. He’s clumsy sometimes.

When the show let out, I insisted on buying us dinner at a restaurant across the street. It was a little late for Fred on a school night, but he was a good sport. He shushed me as I relived highlights from the show. We had big bowls of pasta and heady red wine, so Fred was more than ready to go when our check arrived.

“Listen, Fred, do you mind if we just stop to see a friend for a few minutes?”

“Now? Liza, it’s nearly eleven.”

“Don’t worry, she’s right around here. Over in Lincoln Center, Juilliard actually.”

“I’m exhausted, Liza. What’s this all about?”

I explained about Greta Pretsky. Fred was annoyed that I hadn’t mentioned this late-night appointment before. Maybe I was too nervous earlier to bring it up, or I was afraid he wouldn’t drive me into the city just for this. Anyway, I was glad to have my buddy with me even if his nostrils looked permanently flared.

Standing outside the Juilliard building, Dr. Pretsky could have been an elf waiting for a sleigh. She wasn’t expecting Fred, and they gave each other the witchy eye. Then she led the way upstairs to the practice rooms. She said that it would attract less attention than using her studio.

There were a few students playing even at this hour. We took the room farthest away from anyone else. The plain, bedroom-size enclosure had a piano, some chairs, and black metal music stands. The dull blue carpeting and matching draperies on the walls provided some soundproofing, Pretsky explained. Then she gave Fred the important job of leaning against the door window to block the view inside.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to tape this,” she said.

“No, that’s fine. I just don’t know how well I’ll play. I mean, I hope it’s okay because—”

“Just play, Miss Durbin.”

We did.

As always I was ravished by the very act of playing with Franz. But there was a difference. For the first time, I felt the rush of risk taking, like running through an unmarked door.

When we finished playing, Dr. Pretsky stared in dismay. I didn’t blame her. We’d played the stiffest, awfullest version of “Ain’t Misbehavin’ ” you ever heard. Franz needed to work on his swing.

“That’s not what you wanted, is it, Dr. Pretsky?”

She glowered.

“Perhaps an impromptu would be better? The E-flat Major?” she said.

Didn’t ring a bell to me.

“Could you hum a few bars?” I said.

She came to the piano and played the opening bars, until Franz practically pushed her aside. Then he fell gratefully into the music.

Picture a swan dive from airplane height, except you have no parachute and you know you can’t be hurt. You’d yield to ferocious gravity, marvel at the view, flap your wings, and add loop-the-loops as you swooped through virgin air.

I watched the performance from above. Fingers on ivory, blurred with speed. Countless notes, intricately connected, each one distinct. Patterns and rhythms, loud and soft, natural as rain. Franz and I landed together with orgasmic pleasure.

Dr. Pretsky smiled, not sweetly this time but genuinely. Teary eyes, truth to tell.

Fred stood loyally against the window, my barrier against the world. He smiled, too, but with a sleepy yawn. Way past bedtime and making ready-to-go? gestures.

I was getting up when Pretsky slid into my place on the bench.

“At last, it’s what we thought,” she said. Then, without waiting to explain: “Listen.”

She played a short segment from the middle of the same piece. Good, but not quite right.

“That is the way most people play this section,” she told me. “There are other discrepancies, too.”

“I don’t think you’re completely wrong, Dr. Pretsky. My impression is that Franz just improved it.”

Fred found this amusing. “The new and improved Schubert? Makes great ad copy.”

Dr. Pretsky withered Fred with a look. “Naturally, we may find mistakes or misinterpretations that have occurred and have been passed along with each printing of the music. I had anticipated that much, but improvements are another story,” she said. “I’ll want you to review all of Schubert’s work in modern print, see where we’ve gotten away from the original intent. We’ll mark improvements separately, yes?”

She wanted to hear more, and Fred wanted badly to leave. I promised him just one more, then we’d go. I meant it, too.

Time flies, right? It was getting light out when we left Greta Pretsky and Juilliard. We retrieved the car, paid the exorbitant parking fee, and headed back to Brooklyn. Fred had given up his guard post at the practice-room window well before dawn and had enjoyed two hours of contorted sleep on the floor. I felt exhilarated, but Fred was disheveled and grouchy.

“Don’t grumble at me, Fred, you’re the one who got some sleep at least.”

“I’m the one who has to be at work in three hours. I feel like I slept in a Dumpster. Could you not be so cheery?”

“Hey, you should have stayed awake, then. Always better to stay awake straight through than just sleep an hour or two. Didn’t you know that?”

Grunt.

“Well, you missed some really great music anyway. Think of that.”

“I’ll buy the CD.”

Fred left me at my apartment building, where I collapsed fully clothed in bed. I slept right through my ten o’clock appointment with Mikki. She woke me with a phone call, just to make sure I was all right. I gave her the full update: Dr. Pretsky believed in me, we had a work plan. We’re going to meet at Fred’s apartment most days to play in privacy. She’ll also get me a pass to use the Juilliard library and archives for Franz’s research and to educate myself.

We were finally rolling into action and I felt good about it, even if Mikki sounded like she swallowed a dust bunny.

I marveled at how much my sense of “normal” was altered that day. I had just spent the night at Juilliard, playing music via Franz Schubert, and it seemed like the only natural use of those hours. Back in my apartment, I felt either bored or amused by things that usually seemed pressing. Monthly bills, dirty laundry, an empty fridge—the fundamentals had become incidentals. My intellect said I’d get in trouble with this attitude, so I made myself attend to necessities. Still, I felt off course—my internal compass was not pointing north.

I checked my answering machine for two days of messages. Among them was Myles Broadbent in a tizzy. Erase. Mom and Dad, concerned. Sigh, erase. Patrick with a garbled message, ending with “Love you.” Listen twice, will erase soon. Sister Cassie threatening to visit. Oh, God. I returned her call first.

“This really isn’t the best time for a visit, Cassie. My schedule’s crazy and—”

“It’s no problem, really, chérie. I’ll be in the city on Friday anyway,” she persisted. “We can go shopping, catch up on things. Time to plot your future, n’est-ce pas?”

“No, absolutely not. I’m not up for shopping.”

“I’ve got to get Brittany a new dress for the party. Something for me, too, of course. You’re still coming, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“Brittany’s birthday party, a week from Sunday. You promised her!”

“Oh, sure, then I’ll be there.”

“You might as well come for the whole weekend. Come Friday, in fact.” Then she added, “Bring that nice Fred with you.”

Bring that nice Fred?

Ich schaue in den Spiegel und sehe sie . . . I look in the mirror and see her. Who am I without my face?

And I have her hands, her body, her staccato stride. In every way, I am improvedby her. I should be grateful. How is it possible, then, for me to envy something that I possess?

One of us is a thief.