CHAPTER TWELVE

The next morning Patrick relayed a day-old message from my sister. She said I absolutely must watch Gordy & Jill Talk! on Thursday. Don’t miss it, should be great.

I was already battling a headache, which worsened at the thought of this insipid talk show. Gordy Flims was the ex–Jet quarterback and quipping partner of Jill Camacho, a former Miss District of Columbia and professional blab-o-matic. Their show was taped in Manhattan and inflicted on viewers from Richmond to Honolulu.

GORDY: So, my driver took me past Times Square yesterday, and I gotta tell you, Jill—you’ve heard about this classical pianist, Liza Dublin?

JILL: Durbin, Gordy, I believe the name is Durbin.

GORDY: Whatever. In the middle of Times Square there’s this billboard, more like a billbroad, if you want the truth. (Audience giggles.) I mean, this babe means business, Jilly. I’d listen to her play “Chopsticks” as long as she looks like that. (Audience laughter.)

JILL: Gordy, behave yourself. Your wife is watching! And yes, I’ve seen the billboard and the ads, too. I should explain for our fans across the country that Liza Durbin debuts at Carnegie Hall next week. She’s a pianist, supposedly. And, by the way, I understand this whole thing is causing quite a stir in the music world.

GORDY: Hey, some of those musty old musicians probably could use a good stir once in a while. (Audience hilarity.) You, sir, in the third row, you know just what I mean. (Such mirth!)

JILL: Seriously, Gord. There are people who think this young woman, this Liza Durbin, is making a mockery of serious musicianship, of all the hard work musicians put into their work. Miss Durbin has no background as a pianist and one day she shows up in sexy ads and a billboard in Times Square, for Pete’s sake. I don’t want to say anything—

GORDY: No, not you, Jilly, you never say anything! (Still more laughter.)

JILL: Well, no, I wouldn’t criticize her. I’ve never even met the girl. I’m just saying a lot of people are wondering where she came from and if just anyone can buy their way into Carnegie Hall these days. That’s what people are saying, anyway.

GORDY: There wouldn’t be any jealousy because no one’s asked you to sing there, right, Jilly?

JILL: Well, I’m not saying I’d turn down the gig. (Mugging at the audience for applause.)

GORDY: I hear you, Jilly, but I have to say this. I’m more a jock than a music lover—I mean, I miss the Spice Girls, right? If this gal can get my attention, maybe she can get some other slobs like me to take a listen. I hear she’s big on Schumann.

JILL: That’s Schu-bert, Gordy, as in Franz Schu-bert. And, yes, people say she has a special thing for him. Her publicist says Miss Durbin feels a special connection with Schubert, like they’re mystically connected somehow. Isn’t that interesting? Maybe we’ll ask her on the show so she can explain that.

GORDY: Super. And speaking of mystically connected, did you hear about those Siamese triplets born in Sardinia?

JILL: Conjoined, Gordy, we don’t call them Siamese anymore. They’re conjoined. Folks, what am I gonna do with him? He’s a dinosaur! (More unexplainablelaughter.)

I had aspirin for breakfast. Patrick commiserated in a resigned way. This ball was rolling, he said, and no one could stop it. When he left for work, I checked my letters and messages.

A stack of mail on the kitchen counter swelled daily to new heights. The usual bills were joined by congratulatory notes, meeting requests, invitations from long-lost friends.

One Pacific-scene postcard with a scribbled note caught my eye: “Liza, I’m thrilled to hear of your success. There’s something I’d like to talk with you about. Please call me at your earliest convenience. My heartiest congratulations.” It was signed Abe Sturtz, and he wrote his phone number extra-large. I searched my memory and placed him at Nordstrom, when Franz first appeared. I set his card aside, along with the many messages I seriously meant to get back to. Then I turned to my answering machine.

Patrick had muted the phone the night before—a daily necessity by that time—but the calls had been rolling in. Some reporters. Ruthie (“I’d like to see you arm-wrestle that Jilly Camacho twit”). Cassie, wanting a serious talk with me. Greta, too. My mother wanted tickets to the show whenever I appeared on Gordy & Jill Talk! (“That Jilly is adorable!” ). And Chase called.

I listened twice, then erased his dinner invitation. Life was complicated enough without dinner dates or awkward messages on my machine. I was not playing hard to get, even though it always works. Besides, what would Franz think?

Franz, the all-knowing and ever-present. Nobody since my baby days had observed every moment of my life as he did. No adult should be under constant scrutiny. It was embarrassing, when I dared to think about it.

It’s like listing the foods you eat on any day. Most of us think we eat well, and would be shocked if we wrote down every morsel we consumed. A couple of chocolate Kisses off someone’s desk (six), a sensible portion of pasta (enough to run a marathon on), the good intentions toward veggies, the near-absence of water. Luckily, the average body is pretty forgiving, and such lists are understandably unpopular. I, however, had an internal list-keeper for every aspect of my life. No way to simply slide my bad decisions or petty concerns past Franz. Whether or not he was judging me, he saw it all. This awareness bugged me. It also inspired me to something better.

I declared the rest of the day a gift to Franz and me. No Cassie, no Greta, no billboards or other silliness. Franz gave me something loftier than talk shows and books for dummies, when I was smart enough to let him.

I pulled on my jeans, a light sweatshirt, and sneakers. It was a brilliant day and I headed toward the Brooklyn Promenade. I dug my Discman out of a drawer so I could listen to Moreno Abdi’s African music. I also grabbed one that Danny loaned me. It was Keith Jarrett, The Köln Con cert,and I’d been meaning to listen to it for weeks. I slipped that into the Discman, put on the headphones, and took off.

The Promenade in Brooklyn Heights runs along the East River. It attracts people like an old town square, with pedestrian walks, play areas, park benches, and classic views. Nearby and to the right, the Brooklyn Bridge soars over the water and disappears into the Manhattan skyline.

Listening to Keith Jarrett’s solo piano, we heard beauty, imagination, and a sense of freedom that was new to Franz. I doubt Jarrett ever played his compositions the same way twice, yet each piece was expertly turned and spun into silk. Sometimes the pianist let loose whoops of joy in the middle of a passage.

Walking down the Promenade, we set everything to music. Unwitting strangers glided by in tempo and sparked harmonies. Ancient men bantered about prostates in bittersweet adagio. Nannies strolled allegro with bundled babies. Grandmothers waltzed arm in arm, planning museum excursions. Lady Liberty swayed to the beat.

Franz and I strolled the Promenade for a long, lovely while. The last CD we played was Moreno Abdi’s. His music filled us with a joy that pooled into something orgasmic. I know this because a gentle, blue-haired lady tapped me on the shoulder to ask if I was all right. She’d found me collapsed on a bench, drenched in tears and laughing like a loon. She just wanted to make sure I could take care of myself. Best to stay alert even in our nice neighborhood, she said. Can’t trust everyone, dear, maybe it’s best to go home and rest.

I had a better idea for our next stop.

I found Danny Carson’s address in the phone book. He lived in an old brownstone on Chestnut Street. An elegant, fiftyish blonde answered the door and I asked to see her son.

“Danny?” she said. “You want to see Danny? Are you a teacher?”

“No, I’m a friend. Liza Durbin.” Apparently this woman did not watch Gordy & Jill Talk! or get her news from The Brooklyn Buzz. “I’m a pianist, maybe Danny’s mentioned me?”

She appeared disinterested. On closer inspection, I suspected certain facial expressions were beyond her abilities, thanks to too much cosmetic surgery.

“I’ll see if he’s home,” she said at last, leaving me on the front step as she checked inside.

She returned without Danny.

“Who did you say you are?”

“Liza Durbin.”

“Oh, yes, you were on the news. I remember you. Why don’t you come in and wait? Danny should be home from school soon. I think it lets out at three.”

The spacious apartment appeared surgically clean. Hardwood floors glowed aggressively, softened only by the Oriental rugs. Expensive pillows were arranged on chic Italian furniture. The dominant colors were crystal and platinum.

My hostess more than matched her environment. She might have been ordered from a catalog. But while her looks were perfect, she was socially unsure. I finally had to ask her name.

“Ilsa Shales,” she said, as I instigated a handshake. “Danny and I have different last names. He’s from my first husband, a nice man.” Her German accent added to her sophisticated air.

“Danny’s a great kid,” I said. Mothers usually soften when you compliment their kids. “And talented. He’s been listening to me play piano and he’s played for me a few times, too.”

She moved her mouth in smile mode. Her eyes sat still.

“He’s a good musician,” I said, still trying. “I hear he also plays flute. I haven’t heard him yet.” I wished I could tell her how strongly Franz Schubert was drawn to her talented son, that he sensed something magnificent in Danny.

“He plays flute well. And you must hear him sing. He has an excellent voice teacher,” Ilsa said. “You know, I played second flute in my high school orchestra. I could have been first, I really think so.”

“So Danny gets his talent from you.”

“Yes, you could say that. I don’t believe his father was a musician of any kind. A nice man, though.”

“So, what time does Danny usually come home?” I asked.

“Soon, I’m sure. Sometimes he goes places after school, though.”

Her vagueness was unsettling. Ilsa Shales resembled a mother in the way topiary might remind you of an animal. I was about to give up when I heard the front door open. I prayed it was Danny.

“Hey Moms, I’m home.”

“Hello, Liebling, please don’t call me that,” she answered, then whispered to me: “Sounds awful, don’t you think?”

“Wow, Liza, what are you doing here?”

Danny stopped short at the sight of me having iced tea with Moms. Something did not compute.

“I came to return the CD you loaned me,” I said, “and see if you have anything else for me.”

“Oh, sure.” He was relieved that my business was with him. “In my room. This way.”

I got up and followed Danny. In a confused maternal effort, Ilsa Shales yelled to her son not to close his door.

Danny’s room had all the regalia of teenage décor, but it was scrubby clean. Someone dusted his treasures, framed his posters, and tightened his bed like an army cot. The glass in his window was spotless, like no one had ever pressed a nose against it. I wondered if the housekeeper kept things that way, or if Danny had chosen this compulsion for himself.

His CDs were stacked in five-foot-tall towers. They were organized by style, with various subsections. I ran my finger along the titles, wondering which of the shiny discs held revelations.

“Was my mother nice to you?” Danny asked.

I’d forgotten her by then.

“She was fine,” I said. “She gave me iced tea.”

“Did she talk about me?”

What did Danny need, a yes or a no? “We didn’t talk much, really. I wasn’t here that long. She’s glad you play flute. And she said your father was very nice. Where does he live?”

“He doesn’t,” Danny said. “He died in a car accident.”

“I’m so sorry. How old were you?”

“Three. I hardly remember him. We still lived in Austria then. Mom says he was her nicest husband. She thinks she might still be married to him if he lived. She gets married all the time.”

“All the time?”

“Paul is number four. He’s better than three but I liked two best, Alan. He still keeps in touch.” Danny took a breath, then brightened. “At least they’re rich. The last two have been millionaires.”

Before I could respond, he turned to the CDs and engrossed himself in finding the right ones. He pulled from the classics, jazz, Celtic, and reggae sections. He offered me something played on a toy piano. Franz was giddy, sensing that good things were coming. Danny glowed in his milieu.

“Danny, mein Liebes, have you performed for your friend?”

We hadn’t noticed Ilsa Shales standing at the open door.

“He hasn’t played his flute for you, has he?” She was asking me while looking at him. “Danny’s really good, you see. Better than I was, I think. Danny, why don’t you play something for your friend?”

“I don’t feel like playing, Mom.” Sullen again.

“You should hear him, really,” she insisted.

“I really don’t want to, Moms. I’m not that good, anyway.”

“That’s not true. He’s really good, Miss Durbin.” She looked at her son, not knowing the magic words to use. “Maybe next time.”

Danny thought just then that it would be great to go to Fred’s to play piano. I agreed. He threw the CDs in his backpack. I asked him to bring his flute and he said sure.

Ilsa Shales was right. The boy could play.

Danny’s flute and Franz’s keyboard were a delicious match. We played impromptu duets until dusk. Fred would be home soon, so we had to wrap things up. He packed his flute away and I noticed how his demeanor shrank in the silence. He filled the moment by singing.

He was good at piano and flute, but nothing compared to his voice.

I didn’t know the song—something sad about someone gone. Danny stared out the window and sang it straight through. Maybe he forgot I was listening.

Franz wanted to speak but I couldn’t translate. I wanted to tell Danny about Schubert, so I could pass along higher praise than mine. But I heard Fred at the door and got sensible.

“Danny, that was incredible. I love your voice,” I said.

“Oh, right,” he said. “Thanks. That was fun. Do it again?”

“Anytime.”

“Dieser Junge ist begabt . . . This boy is special,” my mother said. “Can’t he be a musician?”

“Music is fine for Franz now,” my father answered, “but we are not rich and he’ll need a profession. Teaching is honorable. He’ll be glad in the end.”

“But Franz is special.”

Thank God for friends and patrons who kept me in music. How many gifts die of neglect, buried in unmarked hearts?

A special boy has found us, Liza. Pay attention.