CHAPTER SIX

Sunday Edition, National Public Radio

October 23

TOM WISEMAN: Mr. Müller, help me, if you will, by explaining in your own way what happened today.

MR. MÜLLER: It’s as you have said. Liza Durbin came to our house, unexpected. She appeared, I think, to be in some sort of trance. She walked through our home and found music hidden in an old furniture.

TOM WISEMAN: Had you met Miss Durbin before? You obviously recognized her.

MR. MÜLLER: No, no. We went to her concert, the whole family. That’s all.

TOM WISEMAN: You know, Mr. Müller, that your house wasn’t the first stop on Miss Durbin’s search. We followed a dramatic sequence of events. Forgive me, but skeptics may yet ask if this was all staged in advance.

MR. MÜLLER: Certainly not.

TOM WISEMAN: Yet you didn’t seem completely surprised to find Liza Durbin at your door.

MR. MÜLLER: We have always heard rumors that Franz Schubert stayed here and wrote music here. When I heard Miss Durbin play, I thought, yes, she might be connected to him. She would know this place, of course, but really it was still a surprise to me.

TOM WISEMAN: Mr. Müller, do you believe now that Liza Durbin is inhabited by Franz Schubert?

MR. MÜLLER: The house felt entirely different when she was here. You felt it, no? How could we not believe?

Gordy & Jill Talk!

October 24

GORDY: So, did you catch our gal Liza on CNN?

JILL: Or read about her in the paper or hear it on the radio, you mean? We’ve all heard about Liza Durbin by now.

GORDY: And do you believe the whole thing was for real?

JILL: Absolutely, don’t you? (Tentative applause.) How could Liza Durbin be that good an actress? She about fell apart halfway through. I was afraid for the poor thing.

GORDY: But, Jilly, didn’t you think it was a bit too perfect? Like maybe someone planned it?

JILL: I refuse to be as cynical as you. I believe in miracles and this feels like one to me. How about it, folks? (Bigger applause.)

GORDY: Well, according to the USA Today polls, most Americans agree with you, Jilly. They think it’s the real thing. And I like Liza Durbin very much, so I hope it’s true.

JILL: Will you be at her New Year’s Eve concert to hear the “Finished Symphony,” Gord?

GORDY: You bet, if the network can get me in. That’ll be the hot ticket of the season. And speaking of gals with spirit, wait’ll you meet our next guest.

JILL: You must mean the UCLA cheerleader Corky Spright, who wrote her memoirs about her years with the squad.

GORDY: A fascinating book, Jilly.

JILL: That means he read the captions with the steamy photos, folks. (Snort, laugh, wink.)

NEW YORK POST

December 21

Symphony Found—Liza Lost?

It’s been two months since Liza Durbin’s dramatic recovery of Franz Schubert’s manuscript of the Unfinished Symphony, and she’s dropped completely out of the public eye ever since. Durbin had been a highly visible figure since last spring.

Durbin’s sister and publicist, Cassie Whitman, canceled all public appearances and declined interviews leading up to the unveiling of the Finished Symphony at Lincoln Center on New Year’s Eve. The sold-out event will be broadcast worldwide. Durbin’s unpredictable behavior and sudden withdrawal from the public arena have raised questions about her health and state of mind.

“Liza will definitely be here on New Year’s,” Whitman said. “So will Franz. People will hear something that’s completely new but already a classic.”

But experts worry that finding the lost symphony pages may have been an overpowering emotional experience for Durbin. On her nationally syndicated talk show, inhabitism expert Mikki Kloster says it’s also possible that Franz fulfilled his purpose and departed. She says this may explain Durbin’s disappearance.

It’s good to have friends who are rich. John D.’s personal fortune was in the Stagger Zone. As a child, he and his extended family summered with the Doyle matriarch at her Rhode Island estate. John D. was lord of the manor these days, and told me “no one ever winters there.” (People of his social set use the seasons as verbs.) Therefore, he explained, the old place was empty and at my disposal. That meant thirty or forty rooms, tennis courts, and—just what I needed—a ballroom.

The ballroom was the exact right size for sixty-four musicians and me. John D. contacted stellar and trustworthy Sony artists for me, and Greta lined up some people she admired. I called a few I’d met along the way, and Danny returned in early December from his semester in Vienna. Soon we had the makings of an orchestra in a secluded estate. Frenchie stuck around to manage the details, freeing the artists to make music without distractions. Reports say she distracted them in other ways after hours.

This was nirvana for Franz—a Schubertiad that lasted more than a month. He even returned to his old, gloriously creative dreams. No more visits to another time, always looking straight ahead. Franz was a wide-open source and a receptor for musical revelation.

The wide artistic differences among the musicians caused a few initial problems. Because I’d never performed with more than one other person, I was amazed at the passion of their arguments. After all, these were professionals who were used to playing with other musicians. But trying to move so many creative minds in one direction was like teaching synchronized swimming to cats. Maybe it was because of the circumstances— collaborating with Schubert and all—and everyone’s eagerness to add something personal. More than one musician stomped off in the first two weeks, vowing never to come back. But “never” is a relative term that usually lasted a sulky hour or so.

The group needed to find its vision, so we could all see the one star in a billion that we were shooting for. It was hard to achieve with our stacks of music, my limited vocabulary, and Franz’s occasional German outbursts. Greta came to my rescue more than once, translating our intentions into directions that the group could follow. It all came together when we started asking questions—not about what the musicians were doing but about what they could do. Things started sizzling. We listened and absorbed and knitted our souls together—at some point, each person crossed from I to we, at least for a little while.

Lincoln Center felt like the right place to debut Schubert’s “Finished Symphony.” It’s where Greta and I teamed up, for one thing. It also had prestige and a modern image that fit the occasion.

The evening before the concert, I stayed at my apartment in Brooklyn Heights. I hadn’t spent much time there in the past months. Patrick was flying in from Milan in the morning, and I didn’t want anyone else’s company that night.

Alone in my home, memories swarmed around me. Everywhere I looked were clues about my almost-deserted life. I visualized my little railway apartment taped off like a crime scene: white-chalk outlines of me at the kitchen table, Patrick in my bed, Franz writing music, Greta at my door, me calling Mikki in a panic, Fred trying to save my life, me going insane as Franz sank into my soul. I also saw images of me dressing for work, chatting on the phone with Ruthie, and of Patrick and me before he left for Italy—last year, when we were young. These last images were so deep in the memory pool that I couldn’t stay with them for long without coming up for air.

New Year’s would be a landmark night. Franz would finish his work, yet I knew I couldn’t return to mine. Whatever happened, we’d be forever bonded. A great sentimental wave pushed me down on the bed as I felt Franz get emotional, too. A year of intimacy had passed between us, but how and why we were brought together remained a mystery.

I lay back in bed, stunned at realizing how much I loved Franz. My transformed life was juicier and more exquisite because of him. I crossed my arms around my chest to hug him. I stroked my sides and breasts and legs to caress him. My mind went to steamy, hungry, adoring places, and my body sang out in love lieder. Time lost its coordinates. The laws of nature were redefined and greatly improved.

A strange thing happened just hours before the concert.

The day was a rush of phone calls, media nonsense, hair care, and last-minute details. My parents had asked me to meet them and Aunt Frieda for lunch at the Stage Deli. With all the public commotion, this would likely be our only chance for a private New Year’s moment. I was meeting with Greta in her studio at Juilliard when I noticed it was after twelve forty-five, so I invited her to join us.

My family displayed the impressive Durbin appetite while Greta munched on a salad twice her size. She was friendlier than usual, though she avoided Aunt Frieda, of course. Her face warmed when my father asked how she thought the concert would go.

“It will be a great accomplishment, of this I am sure. Your daughter has worked very hard for Schubert’s sake,” she said. “They did well to find each other, yes.”

“Do you think that’s how it happened, Dr. Pretsky? That our daughter and Franz were looking for each other?”

“In a way, Mr. Durbin,” she said. “I think perhaps that’s how it might happen, yes?” Then she shrugged and returned to her salad. “Opposite poles that need each other, perhaps. But what do I know of this? It’s only a feeling. You must have your own guesses.”

We downed our sodas and suddenly it was after two, time to rush to my hair appointment. It was a crisp, dry day, the weather least likely to craze my hair. Still, attention must be paid. We left the table as a group, with me in the lead. In my state of hurry and distraction, I nearly knocked over a man who was walking into the restaurant as we were leaving. He was an attractive elderly man with a tweed overcoat and white hair.

“My goodness, Miss Durbin,” he said. “How nice to run into you again.”

“A-gayne” was how he said it. Of course, the man from Nordstrom, my first real fan. What was his name again?

“Abe Sturtz!”

Two voices cried his name in unison—Greta Pretsky and Aunt Frieda, a shocked and shocking duet.

A momentary silence followed, then Greta wheeled on Aunt Frieda and uttered, “Slut.”

Aunt Frieda retaliated, “Bitch.”

Dr. Abe Sturtz, refined to the core, interrupted with a “Tut-tut” and expressed his delight at seeing them both.

“Mom, I want every detail,” I said to my mother. “I’m late for my hair appointment. I have to go but I want every detail. Remember, Mom, every word. It’s important.”

Dr. Sturtz chuckled at my reaction. “Miss Durbin, please, take my card again. Do call this time, won’t you?”

Lincoln Center buzzed that night. If no one moved or made a sound, there still would have been an audible beat emanating from the people waiting to be astonished.

In the last minutes before the concert, I chased everyone out of the dressing room. Me and Franz alone again.

We watched each other in the mirror, studying our single reflection. The hair was good for a change. Definitely good. And the dress was great—the blue slut model, unworn for months and resurrected for this occasion. When the knock came on the door and it was time to go onstage, I looked deep in the mirror, waved at the face in there, and left the room.

Wenn ich sie liebe heisst das ich liebe auch mich? . . . Is loving her the same as loving me? Surely this is a sin of pride as well as lust. To be so complete— at once to surrender and conquer, to enter and envelop!

I fear I am eternally damned, for I certainly won’t repent. In that case, one more time, please, before we sleep.