CHAPTER TWO

USA TODAY

Friday, April 8

Durbin’s Surprise Ending—Schubert or Sham?

(with flattering photo, for a change)

The debut of pianist Liza Durbin at Carnegie Hall in New York on Thursday ended with a joke or a great new discovery, depending on your point of view. Her surprise encore of a “new piece” by Franz Schubert has launched the music world into heated public debate.

Musicologist Charles Morgan, Ph.D., of the Franklin School of Music in Manhattan, is a Schubert specialist who was skeptical at first. “I thought I knew the whole body of work,” he said. “The Snow Sonata is new to me, but undoubtedly old.”

Morgan bases this belief on a computer program he developed that reads the idiosyncrasies of composers.

“It’s akin to handwriting analysis or fingerprinting,” he said. “There are sequences or patterns that are distinctive to each musician, but they’re so complicated that a computer analysis is the only way to be sure.”

Nonsense, says respected Juilliard professor and composer Chase Barnes, Ph.D.

“If Miss Durbin says the Snow Sonata is by Schubert, it should be easy enough for her to prove,” Barnes said. “She’s a fair pianist and a good interpreter of Schubert but trotting out so-called new pieces is beyond the pale. Her ridiculous sexy image does not help her credibility, either.”

People can make up their own minds about Durbin’s authenticity when she begins her concert tour in May.

DATE: Friday, April 8

CLIENT: Liza Durbin

Patient is dealing better with Franz, but struggling with Patrick’s sudden departure to Italy, lots of self-blame, uncontrollable crying. Also had a disturbing experience with a Juilliard composer, Chase Barnes. Relationship problems exaggerated by presence of Franz?—MK

NEXT APPOINTMENT: Friday, April 15

When I hired Myles Broadbent to be my legal weasel, I also acquired an agent. It’s true I chose Myles mainly to annoy Cassie and Greta (knowing the big boys at Stricker, Stricker & Feinsod would watch out for me), but it happened that the young weasel had a cousin in the business. Despite my reluctance, I met Myles’s cousin Jesse Edelstein and hired him on the spot.

Jesse was short, round, and balding before his time. He had a wife and identical preteen triplet girls at home. He chose to work very hard. His calm voice and soft body seemed safe compared to the many cutthroats who wanted a piece of my musical future. Also, Jesse had apprenticed with Lexter Sadler, who people say was the city’s greatest music agent and who happened to be Jesse’s mother’s best friend’s cousin.

Jesse kept out of my way until after Carnegie Hall. That was part of our agreement, based on my unreasonable demands. After my debut, Jesse planted himself on my front stoop, voice mail, and e-mail until I paid attention to him. He’d been working behind the scenes, lining up a summer concert schedule. Prestigious venues and music festivals in America and Europe.

On the other end of the dignity rainbow, my sister Cassie was again courting the folks at Gordy & Jill Talk! and setting me up for chat shows with late-night jokesters. Jesse and Cassie viewed each other as political rivals working on the same campaign. A week after my debut, we three met for lunch at an uptown restaurant.

“You think I treat her like a trained seal?” Cassie said. “My own sister, I would treat like a seal?”

“I think you need to consider her image.” Jesse’s tone was mild but unwavering. “If you sell her to the masses too soon, you lose her to the serious audience.”

“Plenty of classical stars go mainstream.”

“Yes, once they establish themselves. Liza has a ways to go yet.” Still calm. Condescending? “Let’s get the CD out, collect more reviews, build her performance credentials—then we can market her other assets.”

“She’s ready right now,” Cassie said, probably afraid I’d gain back my lost weight. “People are dying to see her. She’ll be old news in a month if we don’t jump in while she’s hot.”

“She’ll be a respected musician by winter, if we do this right,” Jesse said. “Of course, there’s this whole matter of the mystery sonata. Where’d that come from, anyway?”

I was tempted to tell Jesse about Franz, to avoid the lies that go with a big secret. For one thing, I was becoming aware of Franz’s desire for recognition, which could be a problem. Besides, reasonable people would eventually require some explanation for my sudden explosion of talent. I might have said something, but Cassie jumped in with her point of view.

“It’s the whole mystery thing that’s our selling point,” she said. “Liza is the genius from nowhere, a late-blooming wonder. She represents hope for millions of people who believe they’ve got great stuff inside them.”

Jesse was not persuaded. He was looking instead for ways to pump up my résumé—my early training with Clara Wolf, an ongoing love of music temporarily sidetracked by other pursuits, the scrupulous tutelage of Greta Pretsky. Cassie thought we’d do better to call me a lucky duck and leave it at that. Jesse left us in the restaurant with a frustrated snort and the unpaid bill. Cassie and I stayed to discuss my spring schedule, which included recording studios, interviews, and way too many meetings.

After I proved myself in concert, people saw me differently. Old acquaintances sent little gifts, my snooty downstairs neighbors found reasons to chat, and Cassie’s friends invited me to parties. I viewed it all with happy suspicion. Would these people rescind their kindnesses if I returned to the old me? Of course. Was it nice to be, even temporarily, admired by all? Franz seemed to like it, and I admit I found success pretty sweet. John D. Doyle was especially sweet.

He became a believer and pushed my first CD for immediate production. He showed up many days at the Sony studio in Manhattan just to check in on me. John D. never talked about my clothes, hair, or TV interviews (although he suggested I steer clear of investigative journalists and late-night quippers). He seemed enchanted by the music and endured many hours listening to me play the same piece again and again until we got the right take. I’m told this is not normal for a top Sony executive, but he had other matters on his mind.

“This first CD will be huge,” John D. said, as we sipped coffee between takes. “It’s all you, Liza. Comes straight from your heart.”

“Thanks, John D.”

He nodded slowly while searching in his coffee mug for his next words.

“I don’t mean to push you, Liza, but I’m sure there’ll be more CDs and I was wondering if you’ve thought more about lieder.”

“Not really.” Franz perked up at the mention of lieder. We hadn’t had much time for it since the day at Cassie’s when John D. sang and we played.

“You’re thinking of singing again in public, John D.?” His eyes swung up to meet mine before he realized I was teasing. “Oh, right. Seriously, John D., do you want to sing professionally?”

“Certainly not, I’m not of that caliber, Liza. Not these days.” His sharp blue eyes and trimmed white beard clashed with the aw-shucks tone. “Not good enough for the general public, at least. Maybe something private sometime. Did I tell you I have a voice teacher again? Anyway, we could think about lieder for one of your CDs. We have great singers to choose from. It doesn’t have to be an all-lieder CD, of course. Maybe throw a couple in for variety.”

“Great idea, John D. I’ll definitely think about it.”

Another awkward moment as John D. hunted for words.

“One more thing, Liza. Something serious. It’s about the Snow Sonata.”

“I want it on this album.”

“And I don’t want us to look foolish.”

“The Snow Sonata is by Schubert, and it’s got to be on the CD.”

John shifted in his chair, returned to studying his coffee mug. My happiness was important to him, most likely because of the lieder.

“I want to help you, Liza, but you have to give me something here,” he said. “Some form of proof. Is there anything you can tell me?”

We were two weeks into recording this CD, and the Snow Sonata was tentatively scheduled for the following Monday. Franz wanted it to happen, and so did I.

“No problem, John D. I’ll get you proof,” I said.

I was at home in Brooklyn thinking about the Snow Sonata dilemma when Patrick called. I would have called him first, but I didn’t have his new number in Italy, and wasn’t about to call Mrs. Florio to get it. He even changed his e-mail address. I’d been waiting for this moment, yet hearing his voice shocked my system. Franz went all fluttery.

“Patrick, oh God, Patrick, I’m so glad you called.”

He asked me to mail his things to Milan.

“Okay, give me your address,” I said, “but can’t we talk?”

“How was your concert?”

As if he hadn’t heard yet—the concert was three weeks ago.

“Good, Patrick, it was good. But I missed you there. Please let me explain—”

“No dead spirits attacked you?”

“No.”

“All right, then. Write down this address, please.”

He reeled out his new home in consonants, vowels, and numbers. It looked beautiful on paper but sounded cold in his voice.

“Listen, Patrick, I really want to apologize,” I said. “And also let you know that things were not as bad as they looked.”

Long-distance silence.

“I’m sorrier than you can believe. Things were bad enough, and life was pretty crazy, of course, but it was still not what you think.”

“Did one of your spirits leave that nasty little deposit on your sweater?”

It was like talking to a stranger.

“I’m sorry about that, Patrick. Of course it wasn’t a spirit. It wasn’t anyone who matters.”

“Bad answer, Liza.”

I dug deep for another one.

“Look, we tried,” Patrick said finally. “At least, I did. I think you did, too, for a while. But you really hurt me, Liza, when I was trying hard to keep things together. We were both dealing with lots of stuff, I know. But you’re the one who cheated. I wish I could say it didn’t matter but it does.”

“I may be in Italy this summer,” I said.

“Un-huh.”

Un-huh. That’s where we left things. The person I’d felt closest to had become a grunt. Strange how much I missed him.

When Patrick left for Italy the first time, I missed his company, the closeness, the sex. The second time he left, I missed him more. Worst of all, it was my stupid fault that he left, just when things might have been good.

But that doesn’t explain how much I missed him this time. The grief and physical distress were, frankly, out of character for me. No person had ever affected me that way, not even Barry when he dumped me for my sister. I wouldn’t have thought Patrick could rattle my soul this way. Then I realized that Franz made the difference.

Everything else in life felt richer since Franz arrived, so it made sense that my emotional ties—and my capacity for pain—would be deeper. Looking back, my connection with Patrick, despite all the distractions, became more intense when he first returned from Italy. Patrick had commented on it, too. Maybe that’s why he tolerated Franz and all the craziness as long as he did.

I also realized that Franz missed Patrick. That was hard for me to acknowledge at first. But Franz had only me and my world for companionship. He liked Patrick. Maybe they would have been friends in another life. Maybe lovers. I had no clue how sexuality fit into Franz’s existence. He was happy in bed with Patrick—but was that because he felt my pleasure or his own?

Of course, Franz didn’t know about the way that Patrick and I got together, and I had no idea how he’d feel about affairs and broken marriages. It was one of the secrets I could keep from him, which was a relief. I wanted badly to see Patrick through Franz’s eyes, uncluttered by stubborn memories. His perspective could explain my pain.

That pain kept me awake most of the night. As the hours rolled by, other concerns popped into view. Questions of a totally different nature battled for attention. In a crucial moment between sleep and waking I figured out what to do about the Snow Sonata.

I awoke Saturday morning with loads of energy, a plan in hand. The Calligraphy Ink store on Clark Street had plenty of papers in all sizes, colors, and textures. I bought an eighteen-inch ruler, three bottles of Higgins black ink, brushes, and the kind of quill-style pens you dip in the ink— the way Schubert once did.

Back in my kitchen, I spread the supplies on the kitchen table. I wrote the words “Snow Sonata” on a yellow Post-it note and stuck it on the wall in front of me. Then I put all my thought into the melody.

It was surprisingly easy to yield to Franz this time. He saturated my mind. It felt good. His words floated in my head, mostly in German and a few in English. I watched my hand as we watered down the ink and brushed gray bars across the page, guided loosely by the ruler, preparing the page for musical notation.

Music enveloped us. I couldn’t distinguish between all the parts. Franz could, though. He re-created the Snow Sonata, note for note, grabbing bits of music from the air and drawing them on paper. He never corrected himself.

When the last note was committed to paper, a thousand doves flew from our chest. I felt sated, overjoyed, and ready to come back—to return from “we” to “me.” Franz wanted more. He dug his heels into my soul and pushed on. Music splashed around the room, bouncing off the walls, creating wind.

No way to know how long this went on. One stack of pages filled up with new music, and another stack beckoned. Franz soared on, energized and ecstatic. Exhaustion crept into my bones, but he ignored it. The experience was too seductive. We could get lost in it. I suddenly realized that I had to make it end.

I sent my thoughts to Franz but he ignored them. I screamed in our head to drown out the music. No response. I tried to put down the pen. Franz’s grip was stronger than mine. I had become the visitor in my body, peering through someone else’s eyes. Trying to rise through the layers of Franz, I felt the weight of his soul. Fear filled my lungs and stole my breath. Franz showed no mercy.

“Please, Franz, let me out,” I thought I said. But I was screaming in a dream.

Trust me, Liza, let this happen. His words were foreign but the meaning was clear: I must do this. You must let me. Trust me.

“Fuck ‘trust me.’ Let me out!”

I was drowning at my kitchen table. I clawed at my insides, struggling until a giant wave subdued me and darkness prevailed.

Ich verdiene es, hier zu sein . . . I deserve to be here.

She is my age, thirty-one. My final year. What did she achieve on her own? Whose end is near, whose beginning?