Hearts Unfold (28 page)

“You're the
star, the one they paid to see.
 
Take
command of the stage, Stani.
 
They love
you. They've been waiting for you.
 
Make
them happy.”
 
He seemed to understand
that concept.
 
It harkened back to the
beginning, he told her, when he and Milo had agreed they could make a lot of
people happy just by listening to Stani play.
 
“And now it's about to happen, all over the world.
 
You'll be a rock star, Stani, just wait and
see.”

Indeed, with
his new hairstyle, and his flattering clothes, Stani was proving to be handsome
young man.
 
He had clear, dark brown eyes
and his skin was deeper in tone than might have been expected, given his bright
hair.
 
While he often wore an intensely
serious expression on his finely chiseled features, he could also flash a
sudden, brilliant smile that easily reached the back row of any concert hall.
 
He carried himself with confidence now,
moving easily with a natural grace.
 
Peg
was pleased with her handiwork, but at the same time she had the disturbing
realization that she had fallen a little bit in love with her star pupil.

Striving to
connect his knowledge of music to the rest of the world into which he would be
thrust once his concert career began in earnest, Peg encouraged Stani to
read.
 
He was already an avid reader, he
assured her, but now she pushed him to explore all types of literature and art,
expanding on his love of classical writings, history and poetry.
 
They toured galleries and museums, attended
concerts and plays, and even visited several trendy night spots, where he was
for the first time introduced to popular music.
 
He was an eager student, quickly developing his own opinions and tastes.
 
Gaining confidence, he was able to debate the
merits of this work or that, rather than instantly agreeing with Peg's
assessments.

Stani had a
particular interest in all things British, she learned.
 
He had no knowledge of his own ancestry,
other than the vague idea that his mother had been from the north of England,
maybe Manchester, and his father had been born in Scotland.
 
Every musician of note was identified by his
nationality, Stani pointed out.
 
As it
was, his passport said he was a British national, his address was Manhattan,
and his only family was of Eastern European descent.

Peg encouraged
him to think of himself as a citizen of the world, perhaps cast himself as
something of a mystery man.
 
He scoffed
at the idea, while acknowledging that he was a bit of a mystery to
himself.
 
A kid from East London, of
doubtful parentage, he had been taken in by two wonderful if somewhat
single-minded Hungarian transplants and now was being groomed for life on the
concert stage by the most amazing woman in all of New York City.
 
How was that ever going to fit into the liner
notes of his first solo recording?

Stani had
initially found Peg's efforts terrifying; but as she quickly let him know she
wanted to be his friend, to share rather than force his transformation, he had
relaxed and enjoyed the attention.
 
She
was fun, never criticizing, always encouraging with a smile that suggested they
were embarking on an adventure, rather than correcting his many faults.
 
It was his first friendship with a grown
woman, and he was flattered by her praise and approval.
 
There were times when he felt mildly confused,
wondering if she expected more from him that the light flirtation that
sometimes entered their conversations.
 
The idea that a beautiful woman like Peg Shannon might find him
attractive never entered his mind.
 
Yet
there were moments when he sensed something warmer, more intensely personal
between them.
 
He had the occasional
disturbing dream, which left him painfully self-conscious the next time they
were together.
 
Whatever their
relationship, he knew he would be eternally indebted to Peg for her help.
 
Without her, he was certain he would never
have felt this at ease in the world that surrounded him.
 
He hoped her reward would be the knowledge
that if he turned out to be a success, it was all thanks to her.

Milo and Jana
were amazed with what Peg had accomplished.
 
They were admiring of Stani's more mature style and new-found
confidence.
 
Milo in particular was
grateful for the vastly improved stage persona.
 
He had been certain that once audiences heard
Stani play, they would be duly impressed with his talent; but now thanks to
Peg, they would be captivated by this handsome, poised teenager before he ever
lifted his bow.
 
If Milo sensed that Peg
might have formed a personal attachment to Stani, he was merely pleased that
the boy had gained such a valuable ally.
 
Friends like Peg Shannon were the greatest asset a young artist could
have.

In January of
the next year, they set out for London, which would serve as their base of
operations.
 
Milo had carefully scheduled
performances in order to build interest, slowly allowing the concert-going
public to become acquainted with this new talent.
 
All the years of carefully bringing the boy
along to this moment were going to pay off, he was certain.
 
Stani was ready in every way.
 
His recorded performance of the Mendelssohn
Concerto had been brilliant.
 
His concert
repertoire was impressive, chosen to show off his technical brilliance as well
as his amazingly mature interpretation.
 
Mindful that touring could be grueling, Milo had scheduled numerous
breaks, when Stani would return to London for rest and relief from the strain
of constantly being in the limelight.
 
There would be many years of performing ahead; no need to risk pushing
him too hard while he was still so young.

There were no
disappointments.
 
Stani Moss was
instantly accepted by audiences, critics and most importantly by the leading
conductors and musicians of Britain and Europe.
 
He was acknowledged as a modern prodigy, acclaimed as a brilliant new
star, and applauded as an original, both musically and personally.
 
His looks, style and personality immediately
caught the imagination of the press, and he was photographed and interviewed by
both the classical and popular outlets.
 
When Peg saw his photographs in the leading pictorial magazines, she
sent him a telegram in Prague.
 
“Warned
you you'd be a rock star someday!”

They returned
to London in April to celebrate Stani's eighteenth birthday, and Peg flew in to
join them.
 
When Milo and Jana decided to
accept an invitation to meet old friends in Oxford for a few days, Peg
suggested Stani stay behind to take in the West End shows with her.
 
She needed an escort, and it would give her a
chance to hear all about the tour.

If Peg had
hoped to cautiously initiate a more intimate relationship, Stani seemed to have
anticipated her plan, offering himself as willingly as when they’d first begun
his transformation from awkward teen to polished performer.
 
She led him carefully, patiently to the pleasures
of lovemaking.
 
He proved once again to
be an apt pupil, sensual and romantic by nature.
 
He was, she assured him, a natural lover and
would someday make one special woman the finest of partners.

For Stani, it
was the best possible coming-of-age gift.
 
For Peg, whom he already admired and trusted, to initiate him into the
world of intimacy was only fitting.
 
She
had created his adult persona, made him comfortable in his own skin for the
first time in his life.
 
Now she had with
her own body shown him how beautifully a woman and man could share this most
passionate of relationships.
 
He would be
forever grateful to her, but he was well aware that they were not in love.

Now Peg came to
the apartment each day with the image of Stani as he had been at eighteen,
beautiful and confident, firmly fixed in her mind's eye.
 
As she worked alongside John Kimble, helping
to dress Stani and brushing his hair, she fought against accepting the changes
in him.
 
Nothing about him now resembled
that striking figure on the concert stage.
 
His hair had been shaved around the ugly gash on his scalp.
 
He still bore the fading yellow stain of a
large bruise on his forehead.
 
When he
tried to stand or walk, he struggled to maintain his balance.
 
Thin, almost emaciated, the fine bones of his
face seemed sharpened, the rusty shadow of his beard harsh against the pallor
of his skin.
 
But it was the total lack
of animation, the absence of his ready smile and the familiar expression of
intense concentration, as if he were always listening and absorbing, that
really frightened Peg.
 
His hair would
grow, the scars would fade, but how long before he emerged from this terrible
introspection?

Nothing she or
anyone else did drew him out.
 
Though he
was cooperative, he never responded to her teasing or seemed to notice when she
came or went from the apartment.
 
Jana
fussed over him, Milo kept a close scrutiny on his daily activities; the
therapists worked him hard; but his response to one and all was always polite
gratitude, nothing more.

It was only
with John Kimble, as they sat together over a chess board, neither making a
move for hours on end, or shared a long, often disjointed reminiscence of some
boyhood escapade, that Stani seemed completely at ease.
 
With John, who handled him so gently, yet
still managed to allow him some dignity, Stani shared the occasional
self-deprecating quip.
 
There was
something between them that intrigued Peg.
 
John obviously loved this young man he had last known as a boy, and the
feeling was clearly returned.
 
Stani
seemed, above all, grateful to have John back in his life, regardless of the
reason for his return.
 
And Peg had the
distinct impression that for John, caring for Stani now represented much more
than a job resumed.

Peg brought
copies of his favorite books, including a collection of Robert Burns, and left
them near his chair.
 
When she noticed
they had not been touched after several days, she took it upon herself to read
aloud to him, finally winning a lopsided half-smile as reward for her very bad
attempt at Scottish dialect.
 
Encouraged,
she shopped for workout clothes in his favorite dark colors, took scissors and
cut his hair short, leaving him with a becoming cap of curls.
 
Stani seemed to respond, slowly, to her
spoiling; but he still sat for long hours, gazing into nothing, or pretending,
she suspected, to doze.

Four weeks
after his return from the hospital, on an afternoon when they were alone in the
apartment except for the ever-present John Kimble, who had retired for his
customary nap, Peg discovered Stani attempting to remove a recording from the
cabinet over the stereo.
 
Just returning
from his bedroom with a sweater he had requested, she stood watching as he
struggled to take the disc from its jacket.
 
When he turned pleading eyes to her, holding out the album, she took it
from him.
 
It was his own recording of
the Mendelssohn Concerto.

“Please,
Peg.”
 
He reached for support, resting
his free hand on her shoulder.

“Stani, are you
sure?”

“I need to hear
it.
 
Please.”

There was
nothing to do but play the recording.
 
She knew Milo might object, but then again they had agreed to let Stani
set the pace.
 
She saw him back to his
chair, set the record turning, and stood watching, ready to lift the needle at
any point.

For a time he
stared into space, listening intently.
 
Gradually, he seemed to relax, closing his eyes; and she noticed that
his breathing seemed to rise and fall with the changing tempo.
 
His head tilted toward his shoulder, toward
the imagined violin, and the fingers of his left hand, resting palm up in the
sling, began to move as if from memory.
 
But it was his expression, as he was drawn deeper and deeper into the
music, so much like the old Stani that it set Peg's pulse racing.
 
He was totally entranced, carried to some
finer place in his mind; the peace that came with the music reflected in his
face.
 
When the recording ended tears
were flowing unheeded down his face, but there was also a look of fierce
determination.