CHAPTER NINE

Mikki was not altogether wrong in suggesting I was a fraud, and my life may indeed have been better in some ways, but not because of her treachery. For unknown reasons, I had received stupendous gifts in the form of music, genius, and people like Danny and John D. The price for all this, of course, had been high. You’d think that after my “fraud” was exposed, the debt might be forgiven, but the hidden costs were mounting.

My excursions into Franz’s world were getting trickier. I felt drawn to them, but wary of their power. What would happen to a person whose dreams grew stronger than life? Had it happened to Franz—is that how he found me? I wanted to sleep, to check in on Franz often. But I needed to stay in my own life, where real events were occurring and I was part of things.

I intended not to tell anybody about this. Someone might give me good advice that I wouldn’t like to hear. Patrick was the one who finally drew out my secret.

We were talking once a week or so, thanks to Franz’s first bold phone call. Patrick and I would see each other again soon in Milan, and we were building toward that. One night Patrick said I sounded tense and distracted. He was right, so I took a chance.

“I’m worried about Franz,” I said. “He’s sick.”

“Sick, like he’s leaving you?” Patrick did not sound sad about this.

“Not now. Then.”

I tried to explain, but it was probably a mistake to refer to these episodes as dreams. Patrick, like most people, had had dreams of his own that felt intensely real. Naturally, he was skeptical about mine.

I played with this thought, wondering how I could prove what was happening. Could I grab a book or a candlestick and wake up with a memento in hand? Franz was able to move my body, so I could try it in reverse. On the other hand, it might be more proof than I could bear. While there was a sliver of uncertainty, I could ignore the warning lights along this road.

“Liza, haven’t you learned yet how dangerous Franz can be?” Patrick said. “You’ve got to get out of that apartment and live in this century. How much are you supposed to give up for this guy?”

“Cassie wants me at her house for a few days. I don’t want to go.”

“Go.”

“She wants me to meet with my agent and stuff. It sounds horrible.”

“GO!”

I rented a red Mustang convertible, which was great fun, although my hair was reduced to postwar rubble before we reached the expressway. Danny came with me, at Cassie’s request. He had become an integral part of our marketable package.

On the winding driveway to Cassie’s home, the trees on either side were in their assigned places, arching their branches into a perfect canopy. But while Cassie’s house was its usual immaculate self on the outside, something was different inside. Her pristine domain had sprung to life with the soft commotion of people at work.

I said hi to Fred, who was there with his graphic artist, Jake, a twenty-something charmer of near-sumo-wrestler build. They had made themselves cozy at the dining-room table, with laptops, photographs, and colorful papers in loose piles. Brittany and Cameron quickly pulled me away to their playroom, where they were assembling the latest of many official Liza Durbin scrapbooks—this one with Danny on the cover. I excused myself to find a cold drink and found the fridge covered with me-related newspaper clippings held in place with cheap refrigerator magnets. (Magnets on Cassie’s zillion-dollar fridge?) A grease board with scribbled notes sat on an easel between two sofas in the living room. (Grease boards in Cassie’s living room?) My agent, Jesse Edelstein, was talking on the phone in another room.

Somebody had hung a Yankee cap on the Remington.

“Cassie, what’s going on?” I pulled her aside for privacy. “I hardly recognize the place.”

She had to think about what I meant. From the other room, I heard Jesse hang up the phone and talk to someone whose voice I didn’t recognize.

“We’re working, that’s all,” she said. “You never believed I could pull this off, did you? Well, you’re a huge celebrity now, and getting bigger. I can’t wait to fill you in on all the ideas and endorsements and licensing possibilities. You won’t believe it.”

She was right about that. I’d been wrapped up in music and Franz for months. This behind-the-scenes procession had been barreling along without me.

“This seems a bit much, Cass. And why is everyone here, in the middle of your house? Don’t they have offices of their own somewhere?”

“Sure, but we all need to meet together sometimes. For some reason people like to come here.” Could it be the pool, the grounds, the cook, the maid? “I don’t mind having them here. There’s so much work to do, and we have fun together, like a team. I think I might give away the Navajo loom and make a real office out of that room.”

I marveled at all the changes. This sloppy, convivial energy was exactly what had been missing from my sister’s showcase home.

“Is Barry around?” I ventured.

“Overworking at the office, as usual. Should be home for dinner,” she said. “Let’s get Danny. We can all meet in the living room and see where things stand.”

We arranged ourselves in a semicircle facing the grease board. Jesse introduced Danny and me to his assistant, Frenchie. She was a late-twenties, ripe-banana blonde, as taut-looking as Jesse was soft. Her lightly accented voice had the deep chafe of a devoted smoker.

“I’m not sure where Myles is,” Cassie said, “but let’s start. He’s pretty much up to speed anyway.”

“Myles Broadbent?” I said. “The weasel is coming here, too?”

“Actually, I’m already here,” Myles said, walking into the room. “I was just in the bathroom. Good to see you, Liza.”

“Right, Myles, a pleasure,” I said. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay, you were a weasel, too.”

Jesse rose to point at the grease board and stun us with flip charts. Merchandising rights, recording contracts, movie-of-the-week scripts, incorporation, logo, promotions, and too much more. Fred and Jake showed us spiffy Web designs and artwork for other promotions.

“Why didn’t I know you were working on all this, Cassie?” I asked.

“I tried to tell you. You’re never interested. Besides, we’ve got experts for this.”

Jesse was an experienced agent, and initially he had wanted a dignified classical image for me. Apparently he was flexible, though, and saw my broader potential. Myles Broadbent had been working closely with entertainment lawyers on my behalf, and saw this as his burgeoning specialty. Cassie, Fred, and Jake were taking care of image and publicity. I had people to call other people’s people.

“Everyone wants your story, Liza,” Cassie assured me.

I’d heard enough. I asked to see any strategies they had in writing. I already knew I didn’t want to read such things, but it seemed like the responsible request to make. Their long-term plans included Danny, which was good. Counting on Franz for anything in the future was iffy at best. Had these rational people forgotten the surreal nature of my situation?

I excused myself and left Danny in their expert hands. They were plotting his future and I wished them luck.

Not everyone stayed for dinner, thank goodness. It was just Cassie and the kids, Danny, Fred, and me. Everyone had the good sense to steer clear of work talk. I felt Franz relax along with the rest of us—he was really pretty social. Barry came home as we finished dessert.

“Bonsoir, chéri, about time you got home. It’s after eight.” Cassie did not get up to kiss her husband. “How many late meetings can a person have in a week?”

Barry tried to look patient but he looked pissed.

“I told you this morning that I had to go to Philly for the day.”

His voice was tight but he smiled gamely. Cameron and Brittany supplied his welcome hugs.

“You’re not working tomorrow, right?” Cassie said. “Saturday. You said you’d be home.”

“I may have to make some calls from here, but I promise I won’t go anywhere.”

With that, Barry earned his honey-I’m-home kiss from Cassie. I got the next hug.

“It’s great to see you, Liza. It’s been way too long.”

As everyone else left the dinner table, Barry pulled up a chair and sat beside me. In a low voice, he said, “How come you don’t wear the hand of Fatima necklace I gave you? I thought you’d wear it at Carnegie Hall.”

You mean that piece of crap you also gave to your secretaries for Christmas, you cheapskate?

“Wow, Barry, I’m surprised you even remember that detail.”

“Of course, I remember everything,” he said. “I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk while you’re here.”

“Sure, we’ll talk,” I said. “Why wouldn’t we talk?”

He gazed at me strangely, so I got up from the table and offered Cameron a piano lesson.

Franz didn’t bother me with dreams that night. Maybe I was too preoccupied with my own thoughts. I didn’t even go running in the morning (though I did twice as many push-ups, just because). I attempted to concentrate on my own life, which was quite enough.

The new ritual at Cassie’s was to start the day by checking the morning papers, online news services, and TV shows for mention of me or Franz or Danny. They kept track of everything.

I had not seen most of it. The news was filled with bizarre tidbits:

Neurotic parents around the world were scooping up Mikki Kloster’s idiot book to learn “how to attract the right inhabitee” for their extraordinary children. Mikki was often referred to as “therapist to the stars—living and dead.”

Professor Ludwig Manheim of Frankfurt, Germany, announced that he’d been my “secret piano teacher” in the Bronx for years, and the whole Schubert thing was a hoax. He showed an old photo of himself with a young girl at the piano. She looked just like me, except for the silky blond hair, blue eyes, and different face.

Church groups in Arkansas fought fiercely about me. One side thought I was the incarnation of holiness. Another wanted me burned at the stake as a you-know-what.

Herbert J. Schubert of Milwaukee claimed to be the unacknowledged descendant of Franz and wanted a percentage of the action.

Musicologists analyzed my work—most were impressed. Chase Barnes led a tiny crusade against me and my “misguided minions.”

Mothers Against Something-or-Other wanted to know more about me and the teenage boy.

MTV veejay Andrea Sweet: Calling Jimi, Janis, Kurt, Tupac! You out there, dudes? Invade me!