Forever (2 page)

'God, but that woman has a voice!' Sammy
Kafka rhapsodised as the two men let themselves be swept out of
Lincoln Center by the formally dressed crowd. 'Like an angel she
sings!' He kissed his fingertips noisily. 'Ah, but to spend a
lifetime with her and be privileged to hear her practice! That
would be heaven, dear boy! Sheer blissful heaven!'

'But I thought you didn't like fat women,'
Carleton Merlin observed with a smile.

'Fat?' Sammy Kafka looked up at his friend
sharply. 'Who says she's fat? She's
zaftig!
He clenched his
liver-spotted hands and shook his fists robustly.
'Zaftig!
he repeated with a boyish gleam in his eye.

Carleton Merlin laughed and clapped Sammy
gently on the back. He was long since used to the foibles of Sammy
Kafka, his oldest and dearest friend. One perfect high C, and Sammy
inevitably fell rapturously, instantaneously, head-over-heels in
love. It never failed.

'That way,' Sammy said quickly, and pointed
to the right. Carleton, much the taller of the two, craned his head
and looked. Sure enough, there was an opening in the crowd.

Wisely, Sammy held onto Carleton's arm so
they wouldn't get separated in the crush. For Sammy Kafka was very,
very short, and could easily be swallowed up in a crowd. He was
also exquisite - a darling old man with tufts of snowy-white hair
who was forever dapper - a dandy in his late seventies. Carleton
had never once seen Sammy looking anything less than perfect - and
perfection in Sammy Kafka's case included a fresh red carnation in
his lapel, a perfectly tied bow of polka-dot silk at his neck, and
a high-gloss shine on his shoes.

Something about Sammy that gave an
impression of perpetual youth. Perhaps it was the way his crinkly
gazelle eyes smiled out at the world in wonder, as if every day was
his first. Or it could simply have been his vim and vigour, his
sprightly step, or the jaunty, youthful tilt of his head. Whatever
the case, he looked so endearingly cute that no matter what
eccentricities he displayed, they were instantly forgiven with a
friendly smile - a response not shared by those who worked in the
world of music and knew him better. World-class composers,
conductors, musicians, singers - even set-designers - for them the
darling little man meant sheer unmitigated terror.

For Sammy Kafka was the most eminent
classical music critic in America. Some said the entire world.

Carleton Merlin was younger than his
seventy-seven-year-old friend: he'd recently turned a chipper
sixty-eight. But in his own way, he was just as different from the
rest of mankind as Sammy Kafka.

People tended to forget that Carleton Merlin
had been born in Boston - he looked the very picture of southern
aristocracy. He was a hospitable mint-julep of a gentleman. Whereas
Sammy was tiny, he was tall and imposing; whereas Sammy looked like
a gust of wind could blow him away, Carleton wore his paunch with
pride. He tended towards white tropical suits, Panama hats, and
thin black string ties - which, together with his white goatee and
hair, made him a dead ringer for a plantation colonel. His
silver-headed cane was no affectation: an accident many years ago
had left him with a pronounced limp.

'Just look at them!' Sammy growled. 'You'd
think King Kong was on the rampage!' He gestured angrily at the
crowd which surged across the plaza and on down the steps to the
street. 'Inside, it's all "Brava! Brava!", and now they have left
it all behind them already! Where are they rushing off to in such a
hurry? Little egg-carton rooms? After-theatre suppers? PeopleV he
snorted. 'Sometimes they don't deserve the beauty their money buys
them.' Malevolently he eyed the crowd that still poured
by.'
Dilettantes!
he shouted. In his mind, it was the worst
thing he could call anyone.

Carleton had to laugh. Sammy had never had
any patience with people who ate and ran. And what is opera? he
could almost hear Sammy expound. Why, it's the finest damn feast on
earth -food for the soul! So how can they listen and just run,
dammit?

'Come, let's wait for these lemmings to thin
out,' Carleton said in disgust, and steered his friend to the water
fountain in the middle of the plaza. It had become a tradition for
them to sit there and savour the performance they had just heard -
if, indeed, it was justified. Tonight that was happily the case,
and they both felt elevated and electrified - too elevated and far
too electrified to scurry off into the glittering late spring
night. Such a perfectly staged opera deserved to be savoured, to be
allowed to linger on the senses like a fine wine singing on the
palate.

For long minutes they just sat there, Sammy
with his head tilted to one side and his hands folded precisely on
his lap, Carleton with his large-boned gnarled hands resting atop
the silver knob of his ebony cane.

A shift in the breeze enveloped them in a
thin mist of cool spray.

'So ... ' Sammy said. 'Are you planning to
stay in town long this time?'

Carleton didn't hear him. The 'Ombra
Leggera' from Meyerbeer's
Dinorah
still filled his mind with
the rich, resonant notes of the first-rate soprano.

'I said,' Sammy repeated a little testily,
'now that you're back, are you planning to stay in town for a
while?'

'For the next few days, yes,' Carleton
nodded. 'Then I have to fly back to London, and from there on to
Vienna.'

'Still researching that damn Schneider
biography, I see,' Sammy said with a disgruntled grumble. 'You and
Lili Schneider! You've spent how many years on research now? Two
and a half? Three?'

Carleton glanced at him with an amused
smile. 'Closer to five.'

'Five years!' Sammy sighed, and shook his
head morosely. 'At our age, that could be the remainder of our
lifetimes.'

Carleton shrugged. 'Lili warrants a
definitive biography. So far, everything published about her has
been either thoroughly sanitised or else totally scandalous.'

'And you've found out something new?
Something earth- shattering, I suppose?' Sammy was careful to sound
cynical and vaguely disinterested. He knew only too well that
Carleton guarded his biographical discoveries as jealously as a
miser his gold, and that asking him specific questions was the
quickest road to nowhere. A roundabout little song-and-dance number
would achieve far more.

'Oh, I guess you could say I've been making
some progress,' Carleton said offhandedly, and nodded.

'That's good,' Sammy nodded. 'That's
good.'

'I like to think so.' Carleton stared at the
five soaring glass arches of the Metropolitan Opera House which,
with its modern chandeliers and Chagall's dreamy murals, never
failed to depress him. The stark modernity made him long for the
gilded confections of the grand old opera houses of Europe.

'And when your research is all said and
done,' Sammy went on in that same disinterested tone, 'we will find
out that Lili had a passion for Swiss chocolate, or that she didn't
pay her couturier bill on time, or bartered her body in exchange
for diamonds or some such?'

'Well . . . something to that effect, I
suppose,' Carleton said solemnly, as though such minutiae weighed
heavymost on his mind.

'And, judging from your past biographies, I
assume you will also wait until right before publication, and then
call a press conference where you will announce some earth-shaking
information that will jolt the public to its very toes?' His line
cast, Sammy squinted sideways at him and waited.

But Carleton didn't bite; he swam blithely
past the bait. 'A news conference . . . hmmm.' He frowned
thoughtfully and nodded slowly. 'Yes. My publisher would like that,
I think. A titbit . . . something tasty ... a morsel to whet
everyone's appetite ... I must remember that. Tends to sell a lot
of copies, you know.'

Sammy stifled a growl of disgust. Trying to
get solid information out of Carleton could be like prying open a
clam that had been welded shut.

'And this titbit you will share with so much
fanfare ... I suppose you already know what it is?'

'Well, I have given it some thought,'
Carleton admitted, 'yes.'

'And it will be earth-shattering?'

'That too.' Carleton managed to look bored,
as if it was the furthest thing from his mind - a sure indication
to Sammy that he was not only holding back, but sitting on a
doozie.

What could it be? 'A lost recording?' Sammy
ventured slyly. 'A hitherto undiscovered studio tape?'

'I'm always on the lookout for one.'
Carleton seemed totally blas6. You're putting me to sleep, his
droopy eyes communicated.

Sammy felt like shaking him and
screaming.

'You've dug up an illegitimate child?' Sammy
was grasping for any straw.

'A child of Lili's would be news, yes,'
Carleton agreed.

'But it isn't a recording and it isn't a
child, is it, Carleton?' Sammy sounded very vexed.

But it was as if Carleton hadn't heard. 'Of
course, I'm leaving no stone unturned. With biographies, one has to
dig deep and keep digging. You wouldn't believe the secrets the
average human mind harbours, Sammy. So when it comes to a great
dead genius, you can expect the secrets he or she took to the grave
to be buried more deeply than most.'

'Carleton, you really are a first-class
schmuck!' Sammy said in disgust. 'Don't forty years of friendship
count for anything? You know I can keep a secret. But the way
you're carrying on, well . . . one would think you'd discovered the
cure for cancer!'

Carleton just smiled.

'You know how I hate mysteries,' Sammy
moped.

'Ah, but this one, my friend, will be well
worth waiting for. You shall see.'

'If you say so,' Sammy said peevishly,
knowing it was futile to pry any further.

Which only proves one thing, Sammy thought.
Whatever he's discovered, it's big. Really big. But what could it
be?

They sat in silence a while longer. The
departing opera buffs had thinned to a mere trickle; the plaza was
nearly empty, giving it a slightly perilous, gloomy appearance.

Finally, Sammy sighed. 'It's time we got
going,' he muttered, getting to his feet, 'or else we'll make
perfect targets for muggers.' Looking down at himself, he adjusted
the carnation in his lapel.

Leaning on his cane, Carleton pushed himself
to his feet, and together the two friends strolled slowly to the
steps and down to where Columbus Avenue crosses Broadway, where
they embraced and parted company, promising to call each other
soon. With his usual sprightliness, Sammy headed uptown, while
Carleton, with his usual slow but steady, stately limp, made his
way over to Seventh Avenue and down to Fifty-seventh Street.

He couldn't help but chuckle.

If only Sammy knew! he kept thinking with a
surge of elation. But even if he'd told his friend what he was
sitting on, Sammy wouldn't have believed him. Nobody would. Until
recently, neither would I, he reminded himself.

It was a short walk to 205 West
Fifty-seventh Street, and his apartment at the Osborne, the
second-oldest luxury apartment building in the City. Reddish stone,
symmetrically placed bay windows, and the style of a heavily
rusticated Renaissance palazzo gave the building a dignity which
even its grime and ground-floor storefronts could not entirely
mar.

The night doorman greeted him with a smile.
'The opera again?' he guessed as he held the door.

Carleton laughed and waved his cane. 'You,
my friend, should be a detective.'

And with a rare dance step which attested to
his ebullient mood, Carleton made his way to the elevators doing an
ungainly imitation of Fred Astaire.

He was still dancing clumsily when he let
himself into the substantial splendour of his apartment. It was
enormous for a lone man, especially a man whose wants decreased
with every passing year. As far as he was concerned, there were
altogether far too many rooms filled with far too many bibelots and
dust- catchers - a lifetime's accumulation of well, just stuff.
Funny, how the older one got, the less material things meant.

I pity Stephanie the day I kick the bucket,
he thought. In fact, I pity anybody who has to clean this place out
and get rid of all these tschotskes.

Humming the 'Ombra Leggera', he flipped his
Panama hat at the coatstand; as usual, it landed perfectly on one
of the hooks. Then, leaving his cane by the front door, he limped
to the kitchen to rummage through the ancient refrigerator he'd
never bothered replacing, and eyeing the shelves Pham Van Hau, his
Vietnamese housekeeper-cum-handyman-cum-jack-of-all-trades
extraordinaire
kept stocked with food, decided to build
himself a substantial sandwich. He got out the pumpernickel and
Pham's speciality, a cold, cholesterol-rich pork roast which would
have made his doctor blanch, and cut a two-inch-thick slice, put it
between the bread, and added ketchup for good measure. Then,
pouring himself a healthy jolt of red table wine, he munched and
sipped contentedly as he limped his way to the room in which he
spent nearly all of his time.

Like many a person who lived alone, he
automatically flipped on the television for company. It happened to
be set to one of the local independent stations.

' . . . Weren't they wonderful, Joe?' gushed
the perky voice onscreen. 'And to think they haven't sung as a trio
since 1968! This truly was history in the making! You know, just
hearing them again took me right back to the heyday of Motown?'

'It did me, too, Shanna. Weren't those the
days? Anyway, on to more serious matters. According to the note I
was just handed, would you believe that in the last three hours
we've raised a total of . . . twenty . . . three . . . million . .
. dollars! Now isn't that something?'