CHAPTER FIVE

Spring was flirting with New York on Saturday. Patrick and I declared it a holiday. We strolled around Soho, had dinner in Chinatown, and frolicked in bed late into the night. I felt almost normal again. Better than normal, actually, because of Patrick. Even Franz enjoyed him. I briefly allowed myself to be happy, hopeful, and deeply in denial. It ended the next morning when I woke to find Patrick standing over my bed waving the New York Times arts section in my face.

“When were you planning to tell me about this?” he asked.

“What?”

“Carnegie Hall, Liza, that’s what.”

“Right, Carnegie Hall, I was going to—”

“But you didn’t, Liza, did you? What, did it slip your mind?”

“It just happened. I was going to tell you. Of course I was going to tell you.”

Patrick looked everywhere but at me. He couldn’t seem to locate his own feelings about this.

“What else don’t I know, Liza?”

I couldn’t answer.

“I’m going out for a while.”

He threw on a jacket and left. The ceiling caved in, spikes sprung from the walls, my illusion of safety flew away like ashes.

Patrick had been my only close relationship not overtly tainted by Franz. Soon he’d know about that, too, one way or another. Even Patrick could not be expected to accept my invisible twin in our bed, at the breakfast table, behind my eyes, living in my head. Without Patrick, I might slip into the permanent we—Franz the genius and Liza the lost. I was halfway to a good wallow when the phone rang.

“Liza, you’ve been holding out on us.” The voice was familiar. “A little secret you couldn’t share with us at the firm?”

Ivan Stricker, of my erstwhile law firm. “Hi, Ivan. Nice of you to call. I guess you saw the ad.”

“Me and the rest of New York. Feinsod called me right away. This is big news. We’re all very proud of you, Liza.”

His reaction surprised me. I was pretty sure they’d forgotten my name.

“We’ll all be there, of course. We’ll buy a block of seats and invite clients, they love this kind of stuff.” He was talking as much to himself as to me. “Can’t hurt the image of a firm to have a concert pianist on board. Practically a partner, at that.”

Practically a partner? Call-waiting beeped before I could pursue that.

“Knock ’em dead, kid—you’re gonna be a star!” Fred gave it a hokey Hollywood delivery.

It didn’t end there. People called all morning. Friends I hadn’t seen in ages, my fifth-grade science teacher, a college roommate, two old boy-friends, and a man I’d once changed my phone number to escape. They all expressed honest amazement. Many showed a sincere interest in free tickets. Only my sister found fault.

“You see why you need me?” Cassie said.

“I’ll always need you, Cass. You’re my own darling sister.”

“Okay, smart-ass, tell me exactly what this ad does for you. For your image, Liza.”

“From the phone calls I’ve had this morning, people think I’m pretty cool.”

“Those are your friends, Liza, people who know you. They just can’t believe it. But how does this ad pull in the public, make a total stranger want to see you?”

I admitted I hadn’t studied the ad yet.

“Sure, if someone happens to know this Greta Pretsky—whose name happens to be in there three times—that might help. But we want people to come see you, Liza, you, not some—”

Call-waiting again—Aunt Frieda. As she exclaimed over me, I thought I should probably take a close look at the ad myself. That’s when Patrick came back. I hung up and gave him all my attention.

He stated the obvious, that he had brought home hot bagels and a bouquet of spring flowers. The flowers were for him, but I could have a bagel.

I apologized deeply to Patrick. The morning had clarified the extent of my thoughtlessness. I showered him with my regrets, and tossed in a bit of pathos borrowed from Franz.

“I don’t want you to torture yourself over this,” he said. “I just want to know what it means. Where the hell am I in your life?”

“You’re right in the center, sweetheart, right where you belong.” The phone rang then, as if on cue, which gave me the opportunity to dramatically ignore it.

Patrick put his hand on mine. “Okay, let’s start over. Tell me about this.”

He slid The New York Times across the table to me. I looked at the ad for the first time.

PRETSKY PRODUCTIONS PRESENTS
AN EVENING WITH SCHUBERT

THE DEBUT PERFORMANCE OF AN EXTRAORDINARY PIANIST
LIZA DURBIN

CARNEGIE HALL
MARCH 31, 8 P.M.

RARE GUEST PERFORMANCE BY GRETA PRETSKY

“Liza Durbin is my highest achievement as a teacher.” —Greta Pretsky

“Holy shit, Cassie was right,” I said. “Greta’s name is in here three times.”

“Who is this Greta Pretsky?”

“She’s my teacher, sort of,” I said, “but not in the traditional sense.”

“What is she, then?”

“I’m not sure. I have to think about that.”

The next day at Fred’s apartment, I mentioned the ad to Greta and told her about the many calls I got. I was steering toward a discussion of the ad’s content, but she insisted that we stick to practicing. Franz and Greta soon had their first artistic disagreement.

Greta was in the habit of scrutinizing everything we played, in case Franz Schubert needed her help. We were playing with gusto when she said, “You can’t play it like that. You’ve made changes. People will think you are making mistakes, or you are not serious.”

“I don’t control how Franz plays, and they’re not mistakes. He feels pleased, believe me.”

“It may be better than the original, yes. This does not matter. People will not appreciate your changes. If you make these changes at your debut, they will be most critical. You must build your reputation first, make sure people understand.”

Easier said than done.

Franz sailed through music on sheer enthusiasm while Greta demanded rational restraint. How could I alert my nonverbal entity to the tortuous relationships between artistic freedom and professional critics, marketing plans, the audience, recording contracts, and music snobs everywhere? Should I even try to limit him?

I had an appointment later with Mikki and decided to ask her advice. At the very least, she would have some ideas for communicating with Franz about it. I promised Greta that we would figure something out.

Greta broached another topic: “Have you thought about your encore?”

“Encore?”

“It is not written on the program, your choice entirely,” she said. “I have some thoughts.”

She handed over her list of thoughts. A reasonable list, to be sure. I hate to be a skeptic, but she may have had a special interest in one selection for four hands.

She said the Grande Sonata, a lovely piece for four hands, would be nice, that’s all. She stood before me, looking tiny and vulnerable and un-characteristically coy. Of course, she had worked endless hours with me and put her own reputation and money on the line, and it would be a knockout of a finale anyway, so why not consider it, yes? But, really, she said, I should not feel any pressure at all, no way. The one four-handed piece we agreed on for the middle of the concert was plenty for her, more than enough, really.

Mom herself could not have set me up better.

The forces were gathering around my Carnegie Hall debut. Rose Kaplan Florio of Westport, Connecticut, was corralling her suburban cohorts to attend a gala evening starring her son Patrick’s brilliant pianist girlfriend. No longer the Brooklyn Tart, I’d become a celestial catch.

Ivan called from Stricker, Stricker & Feinsod to say the firm bought 150 seats for esteemed clients and colleagues. Don’t let them down, please.

Danny Carson told his friends at school about me, so my front-stoop groupies grew in number and plunged in age. Danny tended the crowd like a herding dog. Make a path, please, let Miss Durbin through. No, she doesn’t give autographs. Sometimes, after Greta left, I’d invite Danny in to play piano. His friends hooted wildly. They swore they’d be at my concert, cheering from the cheap seats.

When the weather was warm enough, I’d open the window while I played, luring still more admirers. Dr. Hoffman occasionally treated the crowd to free lectures on classical music. Mrs. Pardo would gaze adoringly at him while the others ran for their lives.

One morning my sister came to town and took me to Emporio Armani on Madison Avenue, where she bought me a pretty spectacular dress. The sleek new me looked damn good in the long-sleeved, black velvet, V-neck, V-back number. Not overly sexy but definitely tasty.

And my parents called that same night to say they were flying in a week before the concert. They would have the time of their lives bragging about me to old friends and cherished enemies in the Bronx. Mom and Dad reserved a room at Castellano’s Fine Italian Restaurant for a private party after the concert. It was for invited guests only, plus anyone else in the world who cared to express boundless adoration of me and to fawn over the family responsible for my success.

DATE: March 14

CLIENT: Liza Durbin

Carnegie Hall just over two weeks away—everyone wants a piece of Liza. She’s forgotten the Zazer incident for the moment, asked me to help with a conflict today between Franz and Greta. Creative visualization comes to mind—picture what she wants. Or maybe she needs to learn more direct communication with Franz. Learn German??—MK

NEXT APPOINTMENT: Wednesday, March 16

Sie ist sehr ängstlich . . . She is so anxious. They all are. Something important is coming. Why do they doubt me?