CHAPTER EIGHT

Once I became aware of Franz’s pain, it permeated my thoughts, even as real life got easier in many ways. The world knew about Franz, so we could play whatever he wanted in concert. We had no more lies to keep track of, and enjoyed the freedom. I just couldn’t forget his pain.

With full understanding of its futility, I started exercising on Franz’s behalf. Compulsively perhaps. When I wasn’t playing piano, I ran or did push-ups. Making us stronger, running and push-ups. Doing something.

Fred noticed the change, and so did Danny. Cassie asked if I was doing something different, and complimented my arms. Interesting that they remarked on these outward changes without noting the deeper one, the one that haunted me.

With all the attention Franz and I got, not a single person—no friend or relation—remarked on the gradual fading away of the original Liza. My first life, the one I’d created with my own experiences, tastes, and neuroses, slipped quietly into retreat. Franz was the benevolent body snatcher, and I was the lucky donor.

As our popularity grew, I looked for ways to be a real participant, to justify my existence in our pairing. I needed to add something distinctive, to provide something of greater value than a warm body for Franz’s use. I worked at polishing our performances, making my presentation more interesting, at making us proud. Franz and I became a better team, more willing to help each other, to learn and to take chances.

At a late-July concert at Tanglewood in Massachusetts, Franz felt compelled to give the receptive audience a surprise encore of lieder. Without hesitation, I called Danny onstage. He was not exactly dressed for the occasion, but completely ready to sing. We took the chance.

His was not the voice people expected with this music, but Danny won them over. He had confidence, training, and, of course, he’d been singing with Franz for months.

The piece we performed was a new one, composed by Franz to suit Danny’s young voice. The crowd responded with Super Bowl cheering. The most traditional music lovers probably weren’t in the crowd that night, but our expanded, open-minded audience was wild for updated lieder.

Danny instantly made the evening news. He was another nontraditional twist in our saga. Plus, he was the kind of good-looking, appealing kid that magazines and TV love to shine lights on. He sang at all the remaining concerts that summer and the media featured him as a new teen heartthrob.

Celebrity took Danny completely by surprise, and he thought it was a total kick. Franz beamed like a proud parent. Later, Danny would likely find that fame had its price. I had already learned to hate its intrusive aspects. I warned Danny that the aggressive behavior of fans and tabloids could be downright spooky. He simply reminded me that there are worse things than being adored and sought after, and he was right.

Late in the summer I had a two-week break and decided to spend it at home in Brooklyn, alone in my apartment again. I read books, listened to music, watched old movies, ran a lot, and did many push-ups (one for me, one for Franz, another for me, another for Franz . . .). The solitude also gave me plenty of chances to visit Franz in dreams.

Franz was in the hospital a few times in his last years of life. I couldn’t claim that my exercise mania helped him, but I refused to assume it did not. He needed something from me.

Franz feels a little better today, strong enough to stroll through Vienna on a sunny day. He regrets that he never married. It’s hard to be sick alone, but it’s too late to choose a mate.

He had dabbled in love a few times, but not with his full heart. Franz cared briefly for a beauty named Thérèse, but she married someone else. There were others, too, whom he’d rather not think about. None of them equaled the love he expected to share with Marta and Peter. A juvenile expectation, yes, but juvenile expectations are famously resilient.

As Franz walks through the park in Vienna, he spots someone he thinks he recognizes, at least from behind. The man wears a light coat, and his hat rests on a mass of bushy red hair. His stride and the slope of his shoulders are distinctive,familiar, even after all these years. Even though people assume he is dead.

He must have been killed when he ran away to elope. How else could he fail to contact his family, especially his twin? Peter and his bride ran o f, naïve and defenseless, to an unknown and therefore dangerous place where—Marta felt sure—Peter must have died. But at this moment, Franz is not so sure.

The man is less than thirty yards from Franz, walking away from him at a brisk pace. Franz last saw Peter at age seventeen, more than a dozen years ago, so it’s hard to be certain. This may be Franz’s only chance to know. He starts to run toward the man. Pain shoots up his weakened legs, each breath is a knife wound. Still, he tries to reach the man.

“Peter! Peter, is that you?”

The man keeps walking. He doesn’t hear Franz weakly calling after him.

“Peter, please turn around.”

The man stops to check his watch but does not turn around. He walks on.

“Is it you? Is that you, Danny?” I woke up sweating and shaky.

“Yes, Liza, it’s me.” Danny was crouching next to me, where I’d fallen asleep on the couch. He had a hand on my shoulder, either to wake me or to calm me. “It’s me. Who were you expecting?”

“Was I expecting you?”

“You asked me to stop by, remember? It’s almost five. We were gonna go running together before dinner. I think you were having another bad dream.”

Right, another dream. Danny stood there in standard running gear. Not dreamlike or mysterious. Just a solid, amazing teenage boy who had found me, as usual, exactly when I needed him.

“Danny, why do you think you and I are here together?”

“Huh?”

I swung my feet around and sat up on the couch to face him. He was understandably confused.

“I mean, you’re not very close with your mother, are you? And you have friends your own age, but you still hang out with me. Why?”

Danny shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “Are you mad about something?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Fine then. Let’s forget the run, though. Franz driving you nuts again? Hey, let’s order a pizza.”

I looked into Danny’s direct blue eyes and gave up on the conversation. He was my loyal pal, cohort in music, and all-round protector. He didn’t question any of it. Why should I?

We watched a classic movie with our pizza (Franz had developed a thing for Myrna Loy). I was determined not to think about Franz’s life, and to enjoy my real life instead. I got a reminder of real life when the phone rang halfway through Myrna’s romantic scene with William Powell. The call was one I had been expecting and dreading, a luncheon invitation from a flesh-and-blood nightmare.

I arrived early for lunch the next day at Mrs. Z’s Café on Lexington Avenue. It was chic and dimly lit, popular with celebrities. This would be my first meeting with Mikki Kloster since she conspired with Patty Flanders to sell me to the tabloids.

Mikki was running late, which gave me time to marinate in my anger toward her. As soon as I saw the Town Crier article all those weeks earlier, I knew that Mikki and Patty Flanders had cashed in on me. I called Mikki and raged at her for being a traitorous, manipulative monster who was too cowardly to come to my Long Island concert (even though I sent her tickets!) because she would have had to face me the next morning when The Town Crier came out—when Mikki’s demon nature would be revealed to everyone, including the sainted genius Franz Schubert. Or something like that. You can imagine how mad I was.

I was enjoying my simmer when Mikki plunked herself in the chair across from me. Cheerful and chipper, she was.

“Sorry I’m late, Liza. Are you okay? You look stressed.”

Mikki had tinted her salt-and-pepper hair with a bit of cinnamon. She looked trimmer, too.

“We have some things to talk about,” I said.

“Don’t we, though?” Mikki sparkled at me. She wore smart reading glasses that matched her new hair. Her necklace was a rich concoction of silver and jade. “So much has happened, Liza. And I’m sure you’ll agree it’s only getting better.”

“Better, Mikki? That’s an interesting way to look at it.”

She rested her menu and looked at me, hands on her thighs, elbows crooked out like wings.

“Are you still mad at me, Liza?” Her famously soothing voice had a bit of tease in it. “C’mon, are you actually saying things aren’t better than before?”

I got busy shredding a dinner roll and not looking at Mikki.

“You were a mess of self-doubt and fears when you came to me. You were living with this huge secret, a monumental lie. Keeping Franz a secret was an unbearable burden for you, Liza. You always meant to go public, but you never got around to it.”

“So you went ahead and did it for me.”

My poor dinner roll was disintegrating badly.

“I didn’t do it, Liza. Patty Flanders did, and she believed it was the right thing to do.”

“You planned it all with her.”

“Who says so? Not me and not Patty.”

“I’m not some idiot reporter, Mikki. I know you told her to tape me.”

“Patty tapes lots of people. You signed the release, after all, and you are a lawyer. Channelers aren’t bound to confidentiality like doctors or attorneys. Anyway, it’s worked out well for everyone. The world loves Franz Schubert again, and you’re a star. It’s time to be happy, Liza.”

“I’m not unhappy with everything,” I said. “Mostly it’s you, Mikki.”

Mikki was wearing more makeup than usual. Also, her manicure was perfect.

“I see you’re ready for your book tour, aren’t you, Mikki?”

“Damn! I wanted to surprise you. Who told you?”

I explained that her publicist had called asking me for kind words to use on the book cover. Mikki reached into her large purse and pulled out a slim, hardcover copy of Inhabitism—Attract the Spirit That’s Right for You! She pushed it across the table to me with absurd pride.

“An early copy for you. Don’t worry, you’re never mentioned by name,” Mikki purred. “Professional ethics and all. It’s just anonymous case studies and advice.”

“Case studies, Mikki? Plural? I am your case study. I’m pretty sure people will figure that out.”

“How can you say you’re my only case?” A cagey smile, tilt of the head. “You can’t know that.”

My dead dinner roll was mashed back into a doughy lump, so I started shredding it again.

“You’re a phony, Mikki. A deceitful, self-serving phony.”

“Whoa, Liza. Before you call anyone else a phony, I’d ask you to look at your own behavior. How long were you willing to pass yourself off as something you weren’t? You might still be acting like you were the musical genius if someone hadn’t forced your hand.”

“The difference is, I wasn’t betraying anyone.”

“No? What about Schubert?” she said. “What about the truth?”

I threw a handful of dinner roll crumbs in her face. She made a show of wiping her face.

“That was childish, Liza. I’m concerned about your hostility.”

“Mikki, just tell me one thing. Why did you do it? Why did you use me this way?”

She folded her hands primly on the table, but her foot thumped rhythmically on the floor.

“I helped you, Liza, and you can’t deny that. It’s what I’m supposed to do. Being a therapist is draining. Exhausting, really. And the rewards aren’t all that great, monetarily, I mean.”

She sat back and struck a new pose to indicate we were moving to a new conversation.

“Did I tell you I’m giving up my practice? I’ve been needing a change. I’ll be promoting my book, of course, and I’ve got a contract to start my next one. I’m looking into many opportunities.”

“Mikki, how much money did you get for your book, the one everyone will guess is about me?”

Contentment graced her face.

“Let’s order, shall we?” she said. “My treat.”

Ich habe diese Frau nie gemocht . . . I never liked that woman. She is cold and has that irritating voice.