CHAPTER SEVEN

THE TOWN CRIER—AMERICA’S LOCAL NEWSPAPER July 11

Music Phenom Channeled by Dead Composer

“Franz Schubert Is Living in My Body!” Cries Liza Durbin

For months, The Town Crier has brought you stories about Liza Durbin, the music sensation who seemingly came out of nowhere. Where was this piano wizard keeping herself all these years? And how does she come up with all these “brand-new pieces” by the late Franz Schubert?

This mystery, which stumped the classical music experts, is finally explained by channeler Patty Flanders in an exclusive Town Crier interview. On March 11, Liza Durbin, along with psychologist Mikki Kloster, went to Flanders’s retreat in Clupperville, New Jersey, for a clandestine meeting. All was revealed at their fateful meeting.

“Nobody even heard of Liza Durbin back then,” Flanders says. “You can imagine my surprise when I heard she was channeled by Franz Schubert! I was thrilled for her and assumed she would be, too.”

But four months passed and Flanders didn’t hear another word from Liza Durbin. What’s more, Durbin became famous and never mentioned the channeling to anyone.

“She had a duty to disclose the source of her gift,” Flanders says. “Luckily, I videotape all my encounters for scientific purposes. Liza’s exact words were, ‘Franz Schubert is living in my body.’ I have that in her own writing and she said it on tape, too.”

A Secret Too Long

Flanders can’t explain why Liza Durbin withheld the truth so long. She says she brought her story to The Town Crier because Schubert deserves better.

“People like Liza and myself are merely the recipients of our entities’ gifts,” Flanders says. “I’m going public about Liza because it’s wrong for anyone to take credit for their entity’s power. Liza should be proud to tell the truth, not steal the glory for herself.”

Flanders says she’s been channeled for the last eight years by Zazer, a 2,000-year-old entity who, in the form of a miniature dachshund, befriended a famous Bible figure. She’s written several books on channeling and is considered an expert in the field. The MegaNetwork’s Entertaining News Tonight has bought the rights to the videotape for an undisclosed sum. (Durbin, who is a lawyer herself, signed a full release the day of the taping.) You can see the tape for yourself on EN Tonight tomorrow, but you read it here first in The Town Crier!

Like millions of people, John D. had heard the story on the news that morning. He ran out and bought The Town Crier to torture himself—and me—with the full pictorial spread. In one picture I was talking with Patty Flanders and wearing a twisted expression that had to be a reaction to the puppy-shit stench. In another shot, Mikki and I were being chased by miniature dachshunds, which was pretty hilarious—but John D. didn’t see it that way. And he wasn’t the only one taking it badly.

Greta learned about the tape and hopped a train, then a taxi, to Cassie’s. She showed up in a tizzy not long after John D. My parents and Aunt Frieda added to the chaos. There were lots of strong feelings (like Franz screaming in my ear), but none greater than John D.’s fury.

“You admit this, Liza? You’re telling me you did this insane thing?”

“I did, John D., but I have a good reason.”

“And what the hell could that possibly be?”

“It happens to be true.” Confession felt liberating and, as usual, terrifying. “Not that I’m channeled, of course. But something happened to me, John D. It happened over Christmas. Franz Schubert really did land in my body, and he’s been here ever since.”

Of all the people in the room, only John D. had never heard the truth. Despite his appalled reaction, the truth felt right. After all, wasn’t this always the plan? Start a career, build a reputation, and, when the time is right, tell everyone about Franz. I hadn’t picked the time— maybe I had let the right time pass—and the choice was taken out of my hands.

“What are you saying, Liza?” John D. said. “People will think you’re insane. I think you’re insane.”

“Some people will think that, I’m sure. But will anyone think the music is bad?” I said. “Shouldn’t we all put our heads together and come up with a plan?”

“We’ll need a news conference.” Cassie was already in PR mode. “A chance to show that you’re sane and coherent, before they air the EntertainingNews segment. Then we’ll take you out of the public eye for a few days, watch the reaction, and figure out our strategy.”

“Excuse me, Cassie.” John D.’s cold tone sliced through her calculations. “You’re talking like this little crisis might just disappear. This is not about underwear or pulling new Schuberts out of the air.” Then, turning to me: “Do you actually think I’d risk Sony Classical’s reputation on you?”

This was my first glimpse of John D. Doyle at full power.

“I’m sorry you feel this way, really,” I said. “I can’t change what’s true, and I don’t know how to prove it to you.”

Nor could I deny John D.’s perfectly normal response. It’s one thing to be accepted by family and close friends who know me and my history, but what could I expect from others? If this were happening to somebody else, I would be making jokes myself.

“Liza, I’m sure there are people at Sony who’ll think this is just fine, as long as it boosts your CD sales. I’m not one of them.” Then he relented, but just a hair. “Liza, everything was going so right. If I’d known you were in trouble, that you were so—”

John D. left his thought unfinished, though any number of unpleasant words would have worked. Greta placed herself beside John D., close enough to join hands, if they wanted.

“I have a concert Thursday night,” I said. “Should I cancel?”

Lots of headshaking and murmuring. Except for Mom: “Cancel, what, are you nuts? You’ll be bigger than ever.”

Mother knew best.

The news was too much for some people—their minds couldn’t operate in such a strange gear. But millions of people loved it.

Cassie called a news conference immediately. She got me on TV before EN Tonight could show the tape that made me look insane. Calmly, coherently, I told my story. I answered questions with complete honesty: No, I wouldn’t call it channeling. Inhabitation is what we’d been calling it, though I couldn’t explain the difference. Yes, Franz was with me all the time, but he didn’t speak through my voice—only through music. No, I didn’t know how it happened. Did I know Chase Barnes and other music scholars were calling me a fraud? Of course. I expected that to happen. People were free to draw their own conclusions.

What most people drew was hope.

They took heart knowing that a nobody like me could acquire a guy like Schubert. They loved the concept of waking up different, better than before, with no effort whatsoever. Maybe it could happen to them. Anyway, they could have fun watching me. And who knows—maybe I’d have a meltdown in public or Schubert might jump out of my body and parade around onstage like the living dead. That would be cool, too.

They lined up to see me in concert after that. I got fan mail and weird mail and e-mails from Tibet. Little girls formed fan clubs. Some misguided women even tried to copy my hair.

Reporters had an easy story, always an update to close the show with. Someone located my old piano teacher, Clara Wolf, retired and living in Jericho, Long Island. It was a hoot to see her on TV after twenty years. She’d grown shorter and grayer but her voice was the same.

“Of course I remember Liza Durbin. A lovely child.” She smiled briefly, presumably at me. “She played nicely. But gifted? Only her mother said that.”

“So you believe the Schubert story?” asked the perky reporter, smirking at the camera.

“Trust me, dear,” Clara Wolf said, “if you’d ever heard Liza play, you’d believe it, too.”

The public quickly became fascinated with all things Durbin. Cassie called me one morning to tell me to turn on the TV. There were our parents on Gordy & Jill Talk!, spouting about my glories.

“Our Liza was always special,” my father said. “But becoming inhabited by Franz Schubert, well, that changed everything.”

“Well, it’s not like Schubert does it all,” Mom added. “Where would he be without Liza?”

“Mrs. Durbin, are you saying that your daughter is the talented one in this partnership?” Jill’s voice was sugared irony.

“What I’m saying, Jilly, is that there’s a reason Schubert picked Liza.” Gordy and Jill nodded encouragement. “There are billions of people in the world. Why her? Think about it.”

“Well, we want to thank the Durbins for this fascinating discussion,” Gordy said. “Stay with us, folks, because after this break we’re going to interview a woman who set up a website from hell. That’s the hell, ladies and gentlemen. No joke. I gotta see this one, and so do you.”

In this dream, Franz is at Marta’s country house, which overlooks a perfectly round lake. He’s been working on a symphony there. Old friends have gathered for the weekend. A Schubertiad is planned for the evening, with music by Franz and others. It’s springtime at its best, the first day when warm definitivelydefeats cold. The party has just moved into Marta’s well-appointed parlor for cognac and late-afternoon snacks.

Franz is delighted to be among good friends. Anselm Hüttenbrenner is telling a bawdy story to Marta’s husband. Franz von Schober shows a water-color he made that morning. Johann Vogl, the opera singer, warms up his voice.

A door opens and everyone’s attention pivots toward Marta’s little girl, Brita, as she runs into the room ostentatiously crying. She was petting a neighbor’shorse and it sneezed on her head. In any historical period, it would be hard to keep a straight face in the presence of that much horse snot. Brita is distressed by the hilarity that her misery causes. She runs to her mother for comfort.

Franz is the first to stop laughing. He’s studying Brita’s profile. Who does she look like?

He never sees Brita without remembering a day in this same country house, not long before Marta’s marriage. Her fiancé was a solid sort, she said, who never laughed at her jokes. He was considered a good match, though.

“I will always remember you and me,” she said that day, “and Peter, of course. Our funny game, the secret engagement.”

Franz remembers how Marta couldn’t smile at the memory. Her eyes glistenedevenly, without tears. She calmly reached for his hand.

“Marta, we mustn’t.”

“Why not? It ends today, either way.”

She fell on Franz with the clumsy hunger of a novice. He thinks he said no, but maybe he imagined that. He might have imagined the whole thing, except that every time he sees Brita, he recalls Marta’s breath against his neck. And he studies the little girl’s profile.

Brita continues crying over the horse incident. Franz Schober and Johann o fer to slay the villainous steed who o fended their princess. They leave just long enough for another swig of cognac, then return with good news.

“Dear Brita, the horse has apologized most deeply,” Schober reports. “He is mortified by his bad conduct and pledges to honor you from this day forward. What shall we do?”

Princess Brita is inclined toward mercy, and the horse lives on. Everybody is happy. Nobody suspects how Franz su fers.

Surely the aches and weariness will go away, he thinks. I’m only twenty-six, strong and healthy. This will pass and I will be fine.

When Brita asks Uncle Franz to carry her upstairs, he wonders if he has the strength. ( You can, I whisper. You have years to go, you can do this.) He carriesBrita to her frilly bedroom and rests awhile there, admiring her profile.

Welch merkwürdiges Spiel dies ist! . . . What a strange game this is! She dreams of my life now. My memories become hers, she sees through my eyes. We might slide past each other on our journeys one night and never find our ways back.

Such an unholy thought, I am ashamed to pray for it.