CHAPTER ONE

Gordy & Jill Talk!

THE NEW YORK TIMES

Friday, April 1

A Perplexing End to an Astonishing Evening by Jonathan Porter-Cringe

Classical music aficionados can hardly recall a more thrilling or mystifying event than the much-ballyhooed debut of pianist Liza Durbin last night at Carnegie Hall. As expected, Ms. Durbin lived up to her billboard in overt sexuality, yet her musical gifts were supremely underestimated. Still, the surprise of her virtuosity was overshadowed by the shock of her encore.

Before the encore, Ms. Durbin delivered the all-Schubert evening with impressive emotional range and technical virtuosity. At one point, she shared the bench with the venerable Greta Pretsky for a powerfully rendered Lebensstürme. For her encore, however, Ms. Durbin played a mysterious composition called the Snow Sonata. When questioned afterward, she claimed that this, too, was the work of Franz Schubert. While the piece was indelibly Schubertesque, this critic has never heard the Snow Sonata. Ms. Durbin was unable to supply a catalog number and would only say that she had heard it before.

“Trust me, it’s by Franz Schubert,” said she. “I heard it once and never forgot it.”

I’m not that trusting, Ms. Durbin.

I can find no mention of it in any reference source. This “new Schubert” can only be called magnificent, but corroboration is essential before accepting its authenticity. In the meantime, questions remain concerning its more likely origin and, more to the point, how any sophisticated musician could expect to dupe the public about a body of music that is so well documented.

Controversy aside, the evening itself was a musical miracle . . .

April 1

GORDY: So I stayed out late last night, Jilly. Couldn’t miss the debut of Miss Liza Durbin, could I? And where were you, Jill?

JILL: Singing my kids to sleep, as usual. I may never sing at Carnegie Hall, but some people like my voice! (Laughter, light applause.) So, how was the lovely Miss Durbin, Gord?

GORDY: I’m no expert, Jilly, but I thought she was great. And I’m not the only one. That audience would still be cheering this morning if they didn’t send everyone home. I tell you, that “nouvelle classique” is one tasty dish.

JILL: So tell us, Gordy, what was she wearing?

GORDY: You see that, folks? I try to give a serious music review and all she wants is to talk about the clothes! (Beseeching expression.) Well, I’ll have you know I wasn’t going to mention the sexy blue dress with the low front. Do I care if you could see down the neckline to her knees? (Ho, ho, ho.) Besides, that wasn’t the sexiest part.

JILL: Don’t tell me she took something off, Gordy!

GORDY: Good guess, Jilly. Seems little Miss Durbin can’t keep her shoes on. Here she is, playing this big, important concert and she kicks her shoes off. Not once but twice!

JILL: Maybe she got tired of them. We’ve all done that. (Turns to the audience for nods.) And did I hear something about a strange encore? Like she made something up and called it Schumann?

GORDY: That’s Schu-bert, Jilly, Schu-bert. And, yes, I guess there was some controversy about it. I wouldn’t know, of course, but people say it was a fake Schubert. Sounded good to me, though, and I hate to accuse her.

JILL: Yeah, well, the Bee Gees sound good to you, Gord. And speaking of shoes, we have a well-known guest today who makes her own shoes out of rubber. You won’t believe who it is (big smile for the cameras), and we’ll tell you after this break.

THE BROOKLYN BUZZ

Friday, April 1

Hitting the Heights with Norma Stein

Where were you when the lights went on? For weeks people have questioned whether Brooklyn Heights’ own Liza Durbin was a serious pianist or not. Anyone who was at Carnegie Hall (and I told you to be there!) was duly enlightened.

Liza performed like a dream. I say if they taught her to do that in spy school in East Germany, then they should bring back the Cold War. I loved every minute of the concert, especially the Snow Sonata, which has always been my personal favorite.

Hordes of people lay in wait at the stage-door exit after the concert. Their spontaneous cheer nearly toppled me. It knocked Greta off my left arm. (She had clamped herself onto me like an extra appendage, hissing in my ear, “What was that encore, Miss Durbin? What have you done? You’ve ruined everything, everything!”)

The crowd was a mix of new fans and old friends. A mahogany face, last seen in a taxi. Danny and his friends vying for attention. Ruthie (surprisingly teary), Peter, Dan and his date. The Duelin’ Durbins waving their weapons.

Chase Barnes glared from the sidelines with the dancing toothpick at his side. Fred rushed to hug me. People wanted autographs, a smile, a chance to touch my sleeve. The jack-o’-lantern eyes were there, too, set into the beefy face of a thickset man, possibly Hispanic, with a dark mustache streaked with white. To no one in particular, the man said, “Look at her eyes.” People ignored his comment and, strangely, ignored his eyes. A well-dressed woman stepped in front of him. It was Mikki, smiling like a proud parent.

The limo pulled up and Cassie jumped out long enough to order me in. We were on our way to Castellano’s. Still no sign of Patrick.

Between my parents and my big-mouth sister, the world knew about the party. The boisterous Bronx contingent, the sophisticated Juilliard types, a dozen teenagers, and assorted fans and media types all regarded one another as curiosities. They clumped themselves by species, the way monkeys and rhinos do on the African plain.

Norma Stein of The Brooklyn Buzz plowed her way toward me.

“Congratulations, Liza. Got a message for the folks back in Brooklyn?”

“I did it all for them.”

“Seriously, Liza, can’t I get some time alone with you?” Norma was short and stocky, with frizzy brown hair. Her long fuchsia fingernails dug into my arm, presumably as a friendly gesture. “Don’t look so worried, I’m not out to hurt you. You kidding me, Liza? I feel like I discovered you. Besides, I know bubkes about music. All I want is a story about you.”

“Sorry, Norma, spies never tell.”

She smiled, undeterred.

“C’mon, Liza. No one believes you’re a spy. No hard feelings, right?”

I gave her one of Cassie’s cards just to make her go away.

Franz was nothing but euphoric with the evening. I felt him lapping up the adulation, enjoying the festivities from his unseen perch. This was his party, and I did my best to enjoy it for him.

We eavesdropped as my parents greeted each guest, demanding superlatives about the concert. Cassie introduced me to a dozen people I “absolutely had to meet.” It seemed everyone there wanted a word with me. Except Chase Barnes, who wanted to have words.

Chase planted Katje at the bar and wormed his way to my side. He wore a look I didn’t like, so I assumed an engrossed expression and directed it toward Ivan Stricker, who was telling me a boring story. This did not stop Chase.

“Thanks a lot, Liza.” Chase stood inches from my face. His measured voice screamed with sarcasm. Stricker’s eyebrows shot up.

“You’re welcome, Chase. I’m glad you enjoyed the concert.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Chase, I want you to meet Ivan Stricker of Stricker, Stricker and Feinsod.”

Stricker offered his hand, which Chase ignored.

“I thought we had a deal,” Chase said.

“I never said anything was certain.” I was still trying to sound pleasant. “Ivan, did you know that Chase Barnes is a famous composer?”

Stricker started to answer, but Chase was at full boil. “You owed me, Liza, you owed me that much.”

“How do you figure?”

“I thought we had something special.” Chase’s voice did not convey the pain that you’d expect with personal anguish. “Do you know what you threw away, what I could have done for you?”

“I’ll be just fine, Chase. Thanks for your concern.” The embarrassed Ivan Stricker had slipped away, so I looked for another diversion to end my exchange with Chase. A white-haired man and a Chihuahua-like woman caught my eye.

“Well, look who’s here!” I said. “Dr. Hoffman, Mrs. Pardo, I want you to meet Chase Barnes. Chase is a world-class composer.”

“You were mesmerizing tonight, Liza. Absolutely mesmerizing.” Dr. Hoffman turned to Chase. “And you, Mr. Barnes, as if you need introduction. Your Composition in Stone, a masterpiece, to be sure. Tell me about your inspiration.”

Chase was torn between rage at me and his tickled vanity. I escaped on John D. Doyle’s arm.

It was late in the night when the limo drove me back to Brooklyn Heights. The concert had been a huge success and people seemed to enjoy the party. Patrick had shown up for neither. While Franz was still elated, I was edging toward the other end of the emotional scale.

Bad enough that I treated Patrick badly, but did I mention Chase Barnes was the worst lover who ever lived?

No, really, the worst—if you could even think of him as a lover. At his apartment the night before, Chase had grown exponentially excited as I played his damn Pantheon on the Steinway. At first it was the rubbing and swaying against my back—admittedly erotic. Then he started grabbing my breasts in unpleasant ways. I said ouch but he was too fired up to hear. I told him to calm down but by then he was humping my back in dog-fashion. He was oblivious to me, even when I stopped playing and tried to stand up. He had each hand clamped painfully on a breast when he came in gushes all over the back of my new red sweater.

“What the hell was that?” I said.

“Don’t worry, Liza, this is just the beginning.”

“I don’t think so, Chase. That was the end, believe me. The absolute end.”

He tried to pull me back in his arms and persuade me to stay.

“Look, Chase, people get arrested on subways for doing that kind of thing,” I said. “You can’t just rub up against a person and grab at her and make a big mess. You acted like I wasn’t even here.”

“How can you say that, Liza? Can’t you tell how I feel about you?”

“I’m pretty sure I do, yes, and I’m leaving.”

“Stay.”

“No.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night. It’ll be better next time, I promise.”

He tried to kiss me. I pushed him away. Franz wanted to punch Chase but I was already out the door. That’s when I ran home to safety and found Patrick and his mother instead.

A few hours after the concert, I climbed the stairs to my apartment, praying I’d see a trace of light outlining my door, a sign that Patrick was waiting for me inside. But my apartment was dark and perfectly still. Switching on the light only made it darker. The corners grew unbearably black and the open bedroom door led to an abandoned universe. I felt Patrick’s absence the way I once felt his presence.

Lying facedown on the kitchen table, I noticed, was my new red sweater, the one I’d left hanging over a chair in the bedroom that morning. A blotchy stain stood out clearly on the back, slick and hazy against the textured fabric. The tangy bedroom scent was unmistakable. Patrick had left a note beside the sweater: This thing needs cleaning.

Niemals wunderbarer als an diesem Abend! . . . Never more glorious than tonight! She makes me better, though who would have believed it? We came together and became something new. I have everything I need now. If she only knew.