CHAPTER SEVEN

THE BROOKLYN BUZZ

Thursday, March 17

Hitting the Heights with Norma Stein

Would I let you miss the best music in Brooklyn Heights on St. Patrick’s Day? Here’s a clue: It’s not in a pub.

You’ve simply got to stop by and hear mysterious super-pianist Liza Durbin, who opens the windows daily at an apartment on Spice Street near Montague. She gives free concerts for those of us in the know. I spent an hour there yesterday and, trust me, this gal’s the real McCoy.

Liza’s loyal listeners pack the sidewalk by 9 A.M. I was there when the dark, elusive siren arrived. Her sea of fans parted to let her through. Our secretive genius doesn’t talk much, but her followers have their own theories about where she’s been keeping herself.

“She debuts in Carnegie Hall on March 31,” said Dr. Leonard Hoffman, a retired history professor, “but she’s probably thirty-five and no one’s ever heard of her as a musician. I can’t find a single mention on the Internet, nothing in newspaper archives. How can that be?”

How, indeed, dear readers?

“She lets a foreign woman into the apartment most days, supposedly her teacher,” Hoffman confided in me. “But there could be another connection. Theoretically, that is.”

Such as, Dr. Hoffman?

“Some of the former Eastern Bloc countries trained their musicians from childhood the way they trained their athletes. At one time a classical musician who could pass as American would have been invaluable to the Communists. They could train someone for decades to become the perfect musician and spy. Such things may still happen in other countries where we have enemies. I’m not saying this is what happened, of course.”

A Spy Grows in Brooklyn? Too good to be true.

Another neighbor, who asked to be unidentified, added to the mystery.

“She only plays Schubert,” the agitated woman told me, “and he was from East Germany.”

Now, I never personally heard that Franz Schubert was a Communist, and I doubt that Liza Durbin is one, either. (Are there still Communists?) In fact, I print this conjecture purely for fun, folks. As you know, I’m paid to blab, and I deliver.

The only thing I’m sure of is that Liza Durbin plays piano to knock your socks off, and you can hear her for free and you should. And Liza, babe, if you’re reading this—give me a call and let’s talk. My quest for the truth never ends.

(P.S. Tell your lawyers I’m kidding about the spy thing.)

“Thirty-five? They said I’m thirty-five?” Patrick had just shown me our local entertainment news rag, ruining my breakfast. “I knew Hoffman hated me—”

“Not to mention he practically called you a spy, dear.”

“And that imbecile Pardo. East Germany? Could she be more moronic?”

“Honey, this is not The New York Times,” he said. “They print anything in these stupid columns. That’s what Norma Stein exists for. She writes silly stuff to entertain Brooklyn and apologizes before you can sue her.”

“You think I should sue?”

“Sure, sue for millions.”

Patrick was not properly outraged.

“Face it, Liza, Norma Stein’s been around forever, and don’t ask me why, but people love her. The column’s too ludicrous to respond to. Just count it as free publicity.”

He was right. I gave in, but not happily.

“They called me thirty-five.”

When I got to Fred’s apartment later that morning, Danny and his friends had cut school to mill around the front stoop with cheery homemade signs lampooning Hoffman and Pardo and making death threats against Norma Stein. That made me feel better.

It was the reporters and photographers who made me nervous.

Somebody obviously reads The Brooklyn Buzz. There was even a local TV crew there, no doubt looking for a wacky story to wrap up the evening claptrap with. Greta had gotten there before me and was handling them with her usual warmth.

“Miss Durbin cannot be interviewed at this time,” she announced. “However, I will be available to talk with you at two o’clock. Thank you, good-bye.”

“Thanks a lot, lady,” said one bored reporter, “but who the hell are you?”

“I am Dr. Greta Pretsky, young man,” she announced proudly. “Do your homework.”

Someone noticed me, and the crowd promptly turned its communal back on Greta the Great. Half a dozen aggressive mouths spewed questions at me at once. A serious-looking woman took photographs and a video camera was aimed up my left nostril.

No, I’m not a spy. Do I look like a spy? Yes, I know this woman, she’s my teacher. No, I can’t stop for questions, but you can talk with Dr. Pretsky later. Yes, I am a member of the New York Bar. It doesn’t make me a bad person. Well, gotta go, guys. Big gig coming up, Carnegie Hall, y’know, ha, ha. Thanks for coming.

I sounded like an idiot, flustered and flippant. Cassie had been wanting to rehearse me for the media; Greta had told me not to speak to them at all. I hate when everyone is right but me.

Safely inside Fred’s apartment, Greta showed rare concern for me.

“You are okay, yes?” she said. “We sent news releases, but they were supposed to contact only me or Mrs. Mishkin at Carnegie Hall. I don’t know how they found us here. You are okay?”

“I guess you don’t read the Buzz.”

A copy of The Brooklyn Buzz sat on Fred’s breakfast counter. Fred had left it there for my benefit, along with a congratulatory note written in secret-spy code (LIZA, HOLD THIS UP TO A MIRROR!!). I directed Greta to Norma Stein’s column and waited for a storm.

I don’t believe I’d ever heard Greta Pretsky laugh. She was out of practice and it came in wheezes.

“A spy?” she said. “They think you are a spy!”

“Funny, huh?”

“Funny? They think this is a story. Imagine if they knew the truth, yes? That would be a real story.”

She reacted like an old pro who knew about celebrity and publicity and foolishness. She also wondered who called Norma Stein in the first place. I named my suspects. Minutes later we were banging on Hoffman’s door. He answered with Pardo (the floozy, snug in his bathrobe) at his side.

“I am Dr. Greta Pretsky,” she said, planting her tiny frame like a forty-foot oak in the doorway.

“Of course,” said Hoffman. “May I introduce—”

“No need, I know who you are,” Greta answered. “You think I don’t see you every day, I don’t know you are obsessed with Miss Durbin?”

I would have sworn that Greta never gave them a thought. Hoffman and Pardo denied being obsessed.

“I am a professor at Juilliard at Lincoln Center. Believe me when I say we have impressive legal resources at our disposal. If you interfere again with my pupil or continue to spread your insane theories, you will find out for yourself about my impressive legal resources.”

“But we didn’t do—”

“Good day,” said Greta the Greatest. We marched away in superiority as the shocked pair wasted their breath on outraged denials.

My Upper Danville sister does not see The Brooklyn Buzz, but she does own a half dozen televisions. Cassie spotted us on the local news and wasted no time calling me.

“It’s a good thing you lost that weight. At least you didn’t look too fat.”

“Hello to you, too, Cassie.”

“From now on, your hair and makeup have to look good, always. Always,understand?”

“Right, I’ll apply for a head transplant immediately,” I said. “No thoughts on the spy theory?”

“Well, it’s a start.” She sounded strictly serious. “It’s not the image we want, but people are talking anyway. You’ll have to do interviews someday. When do you want to rehearse with me?”

“When it snows in the Sahara. I’ll check the weather and call you back.”

“Funny, Liza. Too bad you didn’t sound so witty on the news.”

Point taken. We made a date to meet in the city. Have some lunch, review the plans, train me to answer simple questions without humiliating myself and millennia of Durbin ancestors.

The last thing Patrick and I did that night was think up good spy names for me. First thing the next morning, the phone startled me out of a bizarre dream and the real strangeness began again.

“Liza, I’m glad I caught you.”

“What, caught me before I woke up? It’s six-fifteen, Fred, of course you caught me.”

“Sorry, there’s a bit of a commotion over here. Your fans are out front,” he said. “Thousands of them.”

“Thousands?” I sat up in bed.

“All right, hundreds, I don’t know.” He sounded a bit snippy, frankly. “I do know the police consider it too many people to be blocking a public street. They don’t want any free concert today. I thought you should know before you head over here.”

The police knew about me?

“You’re a star, babe. You were all over the news last night, so they’re all over my doorstep this morning.”

Patrick rolled over and asked who was on the phone. I told him I was a big star.

“So you’ll skip the practice today, right?” Fred said. “Hey, I know you’re busy, but Ruthie and Peter and Dan want to take you out for drinks this week. Celebration before the big show. How’s Wednesday? Six-thirty at Nonie’s Grill.”

I hadn’t seen my friends since Franz descended on me. I nearly cried. “Wednesday’s perfect.”

“By the way, you really pissed off my neighbors,” Fred said. “What’d you say to them?”

“Greta talked to them, not me. Mrs. Pardo wants you to marry her daughter, though,” I explained. “Just marry her and we’ll be okay. So, am I in the papers today?”

“Her daughter? Listen, Liza, we haven’t had time alone together. I left you messages a couple of times this week, but—”

“Sorry, things have been crazy lately.”

“Can we get together later this afternoon?”

“Sure, no problem, Freddie. I’ll call you.”

I brought a stack of newspapers to my appointment that day with Mikki. There were mentions of me all over the place. Except The New York Times, of course, which wasted its space on wars and politics and such. But I was a natural for the tabloids.

I got down on the floor, spread the papers around, and cut out articles as Mikki psychobabbled at me. She didn’t appreciate my divided attention, but, after all, I had solved my latest problem on my own.

“Franz liked my solution better than yours, that’s all,” I said. Mikki looked mildly distressed but said she was happy to hear it.

“I just hope your ‘secret agreement’ with him holds,” she said. “This is a critical time in your career and, most important, your relationship with Franz.”

“You know what’s scary, Mikki?” I stopped cutting newspapers for the moment. “There are pictures in these papers that weren’t taken yesterday. Someone shot these days ago and gave the pictures to the papers. Look at this one. I wasn’t wearing that yesterday. It’s an ugly picture, too.”

“Liza, what you did with Franz—envisioning different scenarios— I was going to suggest that approach to you as a backup, you know.” Mikki was insensitive to my concern about the ugly photograph. “It’s called creative visualization. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it to you before.”

“Someone’s been taking pictures of me when I don’t know it, Mikki.”

She was still taking indirect credit for solving the artistic differences between Franz and Greta as I stuffed the news clippings in my bag and left for home.

The frightening facts: Someone was taking pictures of me when I didn’t know it. An ad ran in The New York Times before I saw it. My sister made all kinds of plans for me. Greta pressured me to do an encore with her, Chase also wanted the encore, and there was a dead composer who went to the bathroom with me. How could I pretend to retain a shred of self-determination? The best I could do was go home, hide under the blankets, and call it a day.

I cried into my pillow for hours that night. A major meltdown, long in the making, tore through my body. Patrick held me, rocked me, then finally left me to my terror.

I wondered where my behavior fell on the continuum of human insecurities. Not many people are tested this way. There’s no way to know whose character might be strong enough to stand against a full-spirit invasion by Franz Schubert.

Growing up, my parents praised me for all things possible. At home I believed I was the prettiest, smartest, most talented child in the world. But I went to school and met the world. The adjectives applied, perhaps, but not the superlatives. When my mother called me her “A-plus Girl” and my teacher saw me as more of a B plus, a certain discord set in. When a cute boy told me I looked like a baboon, I started building my doubt pile. I finally built a nice house out of that pile. I was always smart and pretty enough to do well, but the margin of error—the question of superlatives—dug a ditch around me.

Franz made me a superlative. No one could doubt it, not even me. And what did that leave of the original me? Every day of our lives we attract success, failure, titles, identity. One day I took a test, the next day I was Liza the Honor Student. I missed a catch in softball once; I became Liza the Girl Who Can’t Catch. I took a test a few years later and became Liza the Promising Lawyer. It all sticks like lint to the bare soul that attracted it. Bits may fade or get covered with new bits, but they don’t just blow away. They’re not supposed to. We all walk around with the lint that explains us.

I was glad I’d become a genius rather than a bag lady, but I had a life of my own once, with friends and work and few aspirations. All by myself, I’d made something that was not bad at all. It was snatched from me and replaced with something infinitely better, which I had no choice but to hate.

On the continuum of identity crises, I was falling off the planet.