CHAPTER ONE

Why did I think it would be nice to fly to Milan with Greta Pretsky? She spoke only to the flight attendant (“Miss, please make that child stop crying, yes?”) until we were somewhere over Greenland. Then she asked me to move my elbow.

I could have sat with Danny, who was a row behind us, exclaiming to a Midwestern couple about the outrageous beaches they gotta see in Spain. But I was honestly hoping to make amends with Greta.

In Greta’s eyes, Franz was my only validation, the sole reason she would sit in the same jumbo jet as me. On her lap lay a folded newspaper. She did not remove it during lunch, dinner, or the movie. When she tried to sleep, she lay the paper on top of the American Airlines blanket. A silent reminder of my gross inadequacy as host of the great Franz Schubert.

THE TOWN CRIER—AMERICA’S LOCAL NEWSPAPER

September 7

When Schubert Met Hendrix—Liza Finds a Protégée

A phenom in New Orleans is doing for guitar what Liza Durbin does for classical piano. Twenty-year-old Maggie Sunshine can be heard at local clubs most nights with her band, the Bayou Bo Bos. This stupendous guitarist couldn’t play at all before her “inhabitation” three months ago, when she first discovered her gift. Then, in August, she met Liza Durbin and her career took off. Maggie’s uncle and agent, Paul B. Sunshine, gave The Town Crier the exclusive, inside story.

“Maggie had no talent at all, then she wakes up one morning and starts playing like the dickens,” Sunshine said. “I realized it had to be the spirit of Jimi Hendrix. I already heard about Liza Durbin and figured it was the same thing.”

Sunshine, who read about Liza right here in The Town Crier, was wise enough to arrange a meeting between his talented niece and Liza Durbin when the Schubert diva herself was in New Orleans. He says they’ve stayed in contact ever since.

“Maggie idolizes Liza Durbin. She’s like her hero,” Sunshine said. “They have so much in common. I’d like to see them play together someday.”

A spokesperson for Durbin says the pianist is thrilled at this prospect, and will look into it after her European tour. By then, Maggie Sunshine will have released her first album, according to her uncle, who is negotiating the contract with an unnamed recording company. Meanwhile, take heart: If there’s a classic/rock heaven, we’ll all hear one hell of a band.

Keep checking The Town Crier for updates on Maggie, Liza and any other ghosts we meet on the comeback trail.

Greta actually tried to back out of her promise to come to Europe with me when she read this article. I swore it was nonsense, that I knew nothing about it. She made me vow to behave decently, attract no improper headlines, or embarrass myself in any way while in Europe. I promised not to be me whatsoever. She had the puniest faith left in me, but she was still loyal to Franz. So I had Greta’s sour, so-much-better-than-thou company for the next few weeks with me in Europe. Oh boy.

Frenchie had flown to Italy before us and was waiting at Malpensa Airport with a limo, driver, and refreshments in the car. Her hair had gone plum-colored and her tight body was wrapped in Euro-looking scarves and rings. She tried to light a Gauloise in the car but was loudly vetoed by all. As we drove toward the city, she went over our schedule for the week. A few days to readjust to the time and settle in (at my insistence), then some interviews, photos, a concert, and off to the next city. She rattled off the details as we watched the scenery.

I had only passed through Milan before on vacation, not choosing to linger. As we entered the city, I remembered why: Milan lacks charm.

Milan has energy, rhythm, culture, history, smarts, art, and money. What it lacks is charm. The most style-centric city in Europe has defaced its own loveliness with every thoughtless modern affliction. Inside the famous shops, the fine merchandise serves as counterpoint to the surrounding insults. Hideous modern buildings hide the city’s beauty like barnacles.

Since Milan had never moved me before, my sobs as we drove through the streets could only be attributed to Franz. Frenchie seemed startled by my behavior, but Greta and Danny were used to it by then.

This was Franz’s homecoming, sort of. He knew Europe by feel and breath. He’d been in Milan at least once before. As we drove toward the Hotel Rossini on via Scarpetti, bits of scenery nipped at his senses. The glimpse of a building with an unchanged façade transported us to sometime else, to a busy street at dusk . . . Horse-drawn carriages and pedestrians in winter clothes. A sniffling child tugging at his mother’s skirt. A tall man and a plump woman in evening clothes arguing in whispers as they hurry along. Church bells, stray cats, cooking smells, a gargoyle carver singing opera as he works . . . All of this was happening within and beside the whining motor scooters, honking drivers, Cineplex movie signs, and political posters for the Italian government-of-the-week.

Franz was tilting badly. Excited and appalled by his reentry to Europe, he lost all bearings. I grabbed Danny’s hand so hard he yowled.

“I think Liza needs to lie down,” Danny said, trying to rescue his wounded paw from my grip. Did I see a trace of blood? “Are we almost at the hotel, signore?”

The driver stopped just then in front of the Hotel Rossini. A bellman swept our luggage away as Frenchie paid the driver and Danny pulled me from the car. I was not what you’d call compliant. Danny later told me I scratched his cheek, but he didn’t have any clear marks to prove it.

The hotel centered on a classic grand lobby, immaculately maintained in hundred-year-old splendor. Behind the scenes (and in the bathrooms, where it counts) lay all the modern luxuries, but it had an old-world look by American standards. By Franz’s standards—early-nineteenth-century Austria—this was a futuristic Europe, but still his Europe. The weight of his memories made my knees droop, so Danny and Frenchie each grabbed an elbow and led me to the elevator. I don’t remember entering my hotel room or falling into bed, but the dream I had has stayed with me.

Franz has moved into the home of Franz von Schober, who recently married the round, freckle-faced Justine. Another close friend, Johann Vogl, has also married, and the old crowd doesn’t hang out the way it once did. On this wintry afternoon, though, the Schobers have invited friends to celebrate Franz’s thirtieth birthday. Vogl is there, and so is Justine’s gregarious brother. Marta has just arrived, too, with her husband and children.

Justine has cooked her lamb-and-dumpling specialty for lunch. It’s disgusting. Even so, it surpasses her usual cooking, so she gets compliments. Before she can inflict a dessert on her guests, Vogl o fers a song. Franz is delighted to accompanyhim on the piano. At age sixty or so, Vogl’s operatic voice is imperfect but nicely mellowed. It resonates like good port.

Next to perform is Marta’s daughter, Brita (she of the sneezing horse incident). She’s probably nine or ten, and tries to look serious in her flouncy dress and hair ribbons. She has decided to sing Für Brita, which Franz wrote just for her. Brita is nearly tone-deaf and yells out every note. The adults brace themselves as they sense a high note coming . . . ouch. The applause is meant to acknowledge but not encourage the child. Surely she has other talents.

Vogl volunteers another song, one he sang years ago when he, Franz, and Schober vacationed in Italy—back in their invincible years. During that trip, Schober introduced himself to the Italians as an Austrian count, which he was not, and set his sights on meeting contessas.

The search for contessas ended one evening with an overweight, half-drunk Italian policeman chasing them through the city streets. By the time the policemancaught up to Vogl, Franz, and Schober, nobody had the energy for an arrest. Instead, they all piled into a trattoria, where they drank grappa and swapped songs. Vogl sang one of his favorites.

Franz wants to play this song again with Vogl, but suddenly he feels so tired. He almost declines, is ready to excuse himself.

You should do this, Franz, I say. You’ll live almost two more years, no matter what you do tonight. These friends make you happy. Play for them.

The phone’s sharp ring tore me out of the past and woke me up in Milan. Danny rolled off the couch (where he’d stood guard over me, apparently) and grabbed the phone. Mutter, mutter, click.

“Get dressed, Liza,” he said. “Company’s on the way up.”

“Frenchie?”

“Better than that.” He pulled an NYU sweatshirt over his head, fingercombed his hair, then slipped away to change from pj bottoms to jeans. “Patrick’s here.”

“Patrick?” I clenched the blanket around my chin. “Patrick’s here already? He’s not supposed to come until dinner.”

“That was last night, Liza. You slept all day yesterday. We couldn’t bulldoze you awake, so Patrick said he’d come back this morning. I stayed nearby because you were so out of it. So, what is it, jet lag or a bad case of Franz?”

I ignored his question as Patrick’s knock on the door propelled me out of bed. In one motion, I pulled the sheets around me and lunged toward the bathroom. I morning-croaked “Buon giorno” to Patrick and slammed the door behind me. Not the touching reunion scene I had hoped for. Jet-lagged and disoriented are not words normally associated with good looks. I looked in the mirror to assess the situation.

My hair was engaged in a great battle. I’d slept on my side, so half my hair was massed around the right ear, waiting to spring on the undisciplined troops leaping from the left. Dark bags hung under my eyes— partly exhaustion, partly the remnants of yesterday’s makeup. Also, a slightly fetid odor followed me from the bed to the bathroom to the sink. All in all, a regular goddess.

Danny rapped softly and asked if I was okay. I said I was fine, yelled more greetings through the door to Patrick, promised to be out soon.

A hot shower knocked off the top layers of grit and weariness. Skin creams and makeup helped. I pulled my hair into a ponytail—it resembled wet kindling, but at least it smelled good.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t brought any real clothing into the bathroom. My nightshirt and sheet were not an option, but a terry-cloth robe with the Hotel Rossini insignia hung from a hook on the wall. Good enough.

Patrick and Danny were in easy conversation when I finally emerged. They stopped talking abruptly when they saw me, adding to my discomfort. Danny recovered quickly.

“Well, hey, I think I’m gonna go find some food downstairs,” he said. “See you guys later.”

“Danny, really, you don’t need to run,” I said.

“No, you and Patrick have a lot to catch up on. I’ll go have a look around the city.” He waved as he rushed out.

After a moment’s hesitation, Patrick stood up and gave me a long, swaying hug, which made me soft and weepy. We ordered room service and sat together at the small round table beside the window. With our top-floor view, we could see the spires of Milan’s great cathedral. Franz knew it by sight and could barely look away from it.

“You look wonderful,” Patrick said.

“Liar. I’ll accept the compliment.”

Neither of us knew yet where our bodies and boundaries belonged. We had agreed to take things slowly, so we were off to the right start.

“How’s it going with Franz? We were worried about you last night. Do you remember I was here?”

“Sure, of course I do.” He didn’t believe me. “It’s been a rough landing for Franz, coming back to Europe and all.”

Rough for me, too. A thought had occurred to me during recent, intensely real dream encounters—the possibility of getting stuck, maybe trading spiritual places with Franz. An outrageous notion, of course, but the whole situation was outrageous. Besides, even this fear did not keep me from wanting more. If I’m honest, the danger may have been the slightest bit exciting. I didn’t dare be that honest out loud.

The weather went strange as Patrick took me on a walking tour of Milan. He wanted to show me what he’d found to love in the city, the nooks and buttresses that made his architect’s heart sing.

We roamed the streets through an indecisive precipitation. That whole day it never rained quite hard enough to wash the buildings properly. Grime slid down the façades like tear-smudged mascara. You might have found it gloomy, but not Patrick.

Patrick provided the sunshine. He guided me to obscure beauty and reveled in the aroma of wet leaves. In the corners of a small dark church, he illuminated the space with aesthetic passion. We marveled over the Caravaggios and Tintorettos in the Pinacoteca di Brera, and touched rain-dripped statues in the parks. Patrick liked this gray day. With no sun to bleach the colors out, everything looked richer. The wetness added depth and character to flat buildings, he said.

Wherever we went, I held tight to some part of Patrick’s tall, hard frame. Part of it was affection, and a lot of it was fear. He was a physical anchor to keep me grounded while Franz bounced off the rooftops and lunged through strange doorways.

The five-star cathedral, Il Duomo, was one of Patrick’s obvious destinations that day. Just the thought made Franz hyperventilate. I kept putting it off, though I knew we’d go eventually. I insisted we stop for a late lunch in the Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele II, the glass-domed mall of shops and cafés built into a thoroughfare of historic buildings and frescoes. It sits across from the cathedral, and Franz could sense its closeness. His excitement took over.

“Liza, how about a glass of wine to calm down?” Patrick said. “You seem kind of jumpy.”

“I’m okay. Really, I’m fine.”

“By jumpy, Liza, I mean that you’re actually jumping around.”

I sat back and clutched the bottom of my chair.

“A glass of Chianti would be nice,” I said. “I’m a little nervous. It’s the cathedral, I think. Franz is all worked up.”

We lingered over our meal, watching the well-dressed Italians click by in smart shoes. This was not a warm, ebullient Roman piazza but a cool, style-as-business scene. Franz saw many familiar-looking faces passing by, thanks to the resiliency of this good-looking Italian gene pool. The noise and pace and feel of the city were radically changed since his last visit, which was, literally, ages ago. Franz had been with me too long to be stunned by twenty-first-century life but he still felt the sting of loss, the distance between this time and his own. He wore me down with impatience and we finally went to visit Il Duomo.

In 1386, one Italian said to another, “Let’s start it here.”

The other said, “A little to the right, I think.”

“Okay,” said the first.

He put shovel to ground and began building a cathedral in Milan. More than four hundred years later, when Franz Schubert was a teenager, work crews were still fussing with the finishing touches. Every sculptor in northern Italy and countless artists and artisans made their contributions along the way. It grew into the largest cathedral in Italy and one of the most spectacular in Europe.

Walking out of the mercantile world of Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele II, we were faced with this mountain of Gothic achievement, weighted in triangular might and adorned with a bristle of spiky pinnacles. On either side of its pointed center, still higher spires appeared ready for liftoff, aiming straight toward heaven. Franz swooned at the sight.

“Liza, I can take you back to the hotel.” Patrick threw a strong arm around me. “We can save this for another day.”

“No, let’s go in,” I said, but in German.

We walked slowly but my heart raced ahead of us. Things could easily get out of control. My fear was that we’d enter the cathedral and Franz would totally lose it. Instead he was found.

The immense cathedral has its own atmosphere inside. The feeble forces of weather, politics, fashion, and glitz all wither on contact. Franz knew where he wanted to go and respectfully bypassed beckoning saints and altars. He chose a pew with a perfect view of a stained-glass Crucifixion scene. It was huge yet weightless, staying aloft on color and light. Franz closed our eyes to experience it.

Ave Maria . . .

Ave Maria, the melody streamed through us in a pure and seamless voice. Not male or female, young or old, just perfect. An organ played in elegant simplicity. Twice I pried an eye open to find the source of the music. The stained-glass window stared back silently. No one else in the cathedral seemed to notice it. Nor did they hear Franz Schubert’s impassioned prayer, delivered in perfect, voiceless clarity:

Heavenly Father, I thank you for so many blessings, for giving me this secondchance, though I did not deserve or ask for it.

Please, Dear God, release me.

Give me strength, Almighty Father. I ask only for help to finish my work so my soul may return where it belongs, and this lonely madness can end. I pray this of you, Almighty God.

Ave Maria.