Two-Part Inventions (2 page)

Of course, those obituaries were written well in advance. Weird, wasn't it, he mused, to think that all the famous people walking around were already memorialized in the files of the
Times
, where the obits sat waiting for them to kick off. Then the people would be dead and the obits would come to life. Some intern must be assigned to keeping them up-to-date, like a hospital's life-support system. Well, that intern hadn't caught up with the online chatter about Suzanne, which started a week or so after her death. Most likely it was her death that got the serious listeners worked up again, though there'd been an earlier query or two, a few puzzled comments, on a couple of the websites. Nothing to worry about, he'd thought at the time. Naturally, he never mentioned anything to Suzanne. Now the rumors had slithered through the web—never had that designation, web, seemed so maddeningly apt—though the slower-moving newspaper of record had not yet caught up.

Despite his relief that Suzanne didn't have to face these insinuations—accusations, really—now and then came a creeping suspicion that she might have enjoyed the notoriety. He thought he had known her thoroughly, but you never know anyone thoroughly, do you? Even a wife or lover. Especially a wife or lover. Who knew him, for instance? No one. Suzanne had impeccable manners, the graciousness of a born aristocrat (where this came from was anyone's guess, certainly not her family). But he had seen her angry, and he knew how her will could harden. He had also seen her in moods of abject passivity—the obverse of her despotic ambition. He was the only one who had seen that in its raw state and it was awesome. Perhaps in some people the desire for renown—which luckily did not burden him—didn't distinguish between praise and opprobrium. Perhaps it was simply the name in the papers, or now on the Internet, that mattered.

But no, he couldn't seriously think that. Her passion for
music was so genuine and intense; she wouldn't have wanted to be seen as in any way subverting what she loved. He still wasn't sure how much she had known or suspected all along—except for that dreadful night last week, they hardly discussed the recordings once they were done—or how surprised she would have been at the lengths he'd gone to on her behalf. She had taken her knowledge or ignorance to the grave, or rather to the flames she told him years ago she would prefer, like her father.

Before long, he trusted, the right moment would come: He would find the means to clear her name, and his own as well. As soon as he recovered from the shock of her death. He could construct a story, a spin that would shift the interpretation of the whole affair.

He'd gotten in the habit, in those first few weeks, of checking the music sites, just in case. It was difficult to remain impervious when one afternoon, clicking from link to link, he came upon the interview with Elena in Andante. Elena, of all people. Anything for free publicity, he thought, yet it wasn't as if she needed it. She was doing a series of concerts at the Ninety-second Street Y this winter, and next fall at the Metropolitan Museum; her photo was splashed all over their brochures, still glamorous, the long blond hair swept back from her face, the stark, dark clothes, the aloof, intimidating look she affected for the camera. She had all the fame she could hope for, not to mention the financier husband and the Park Avenue apartment, but it was still not enough. And there was that semi--scandal linking her and her stepfather, which she sailed through until the rumors passed. But with all that, she had to exploit Suzanne's death, too.

He really shouldn't be surprised, he thought, going to the kitchen for some bourbon before he faced the screen. He must bear in mind that it wasn't really about Suzanne. Elena had had a grudge against him ever since he dropped her way back in high school. Christ, imagine a woman still clutching a rejection from over thirty years ago. Hell hath no fury, as the saying went.... They were practically children, playing at a teenage romance that lasted no more than a couple of months, if that; he could barely remember. He never slept with her—he would have remembered that—and a good thing, too, though at the time it was galling. She must have had plenty of experience back in the Soviet Union, so why shouldn't he get some, too, was his attitude. But there was never an opportunity. Her mother was always in the apartment, a skinny woman with wild fuzzy black hair and witchy makeup—chalky face, mauve lips. Elena told him the mother was a translator but she didn't speak much English to Phil, only grunts and frowns that made it clear he wasn't welcome. He should never have taken up with Elena, she wasn't his type at all, overconfident, full of herself, but he'd felt sorry for her at first. The new girl in the special high school, with her peculiar English, just arrived from the Soviet Union, where her life couldn't have been a picnic. She must be lonely, bewildered, or so he thought. He wanted to help. It wasn't long before he saw she was ready to use him in any way she could. That was the turnoff.

It was inevitable, in their work, that they would meet on and off over the years, always cordially, if not quite as friends. She'd been Suzanne's friend later on, at Juilliard, but not for long afterward. And now here she was online; when he clicked, bourbon in hand, the darkened screen lit up to show a large
photo in living color, to accompany her Q & A with the unctuous interviewer from Andante. It would appear in the print version as well, the introduction said. Oh, terrific. Well, he'd ride it out as he had the others. The classical-music world was minuscule, really. It wasn't as if he couldn't go out of the house without being accosted like a rock star. He must remember how small and ingrown this world was, how few people cared about classical music or musicians. And even fewer gave a damn about the technical side—a few bars, or a movement borrowed here or there, would hardly make a banner headline, like the election of a phony president.

No doubt Elena, with her grudge against him, would make Suzanne out to be his victim, the deluded innocent. Well, innocence and delusions aside, any sensible person could see how loyal and devoted he'd been, how he'd done everything feasible to get her what she needed and deserved. They should be applauding him, not making practically libelous insinuations. Even Suzanne, until her dying day, had been delighted with the recordings, at least until quite recently. She'd been willing, more than willing, ready and eager, to do the phone and online interviews he arranged and to say what he suggested she say. When it comes to their background, he used to tell her, all artists tinker with the facts a little bit; it makes for a more intriguing story. So you say you studied in Paris with Nadia Boulanger or at Juilliard with Olga Samaroff, drop a few famous names. They're dead anyway, what does it matter? It's the music that matters, and the music we don't tinker with. We do everything to make it come out true and pure and perfect.

“That's correct, I was a close friend,” the text of Elena's replies began, “and yes, we did meet when we were very young, at the
High School of Music and Art in New York City, back when it was located uptown near City College. I was a newcomer, I'd just arrived from the Soviet Union with my mother, and Suzanne was kind to me.”

Kind to her! Phil took a long swig from the bourbon and water. Suzanne? After a few weeks Suzanne became furious with Elena and didn't speak to her for the remainder of high school. She was nothing if not tenacious, and she, too, could hold a grudge.
He
was the one who was kind. Elena had managed to revise all that ancient history. Maybe she'd even convinced herself that her version was true.

“She intrigued me, her silences, then sometimes her exuberance. I could tell even then she was an extraordinary talent, even though she was modest about it in public. But she knew her worth.”

“It's hard getting accurate information about her past.” This from the interviewer. “There are so many different stories circulating, from the various interviews she gave. She's something of a mystery, isn't she? I mean, after those concerts in her twenties she stopped performing in public and was pretty much forgotten, and then years later those amazing CDs appeared. So what was she like back then?”

“Well, once you got to know her she could be very lively, enthusiastic. Fun to be with. But even so, there was something reserved about her. Kind of wary. It wasn't so much mysterious, I think, as that she was a trifle shy, hesitant. She didn't have the temperament of a performer, you know, thick-skinned, outgoing, you could even say aggressive, though she definitely wanted the rewards those traits bring. She was quite striking to look at, I don't think she knew how striking: great dark eyes, olive
skin, that unruly mass of hair flying around when she played. She was tall and thin and affected an arty look that was in style then, you know—or maybe you don't—the black turtlenecks and dangling earrings, ragged jeans. Anyway, she was certainly one of the most talented, and fantastically ambitious, I realized when I got to know her. Yet kind of an innocent in some ways. I mean naive about the world. But as far as music, she knew exactly how good she was. Later we were students together at Juilliard and there, too, she stood out. We had a fantastic group of pianists, Emanuel Ax, Garrick Ohlsson, other names you'd recognize, but everyone knew she was outstanding. She was a born musician; she only needed to hone the technique.”

“You must have expected great things of her. Do you have any idea why she stopped performing in public?”

“I was never clear about that. We lost touch shortly after Juilliard, so I really can't say what happened. She did those few recitals in New York where she wasn't at her best, but still, she could have recovered from that and kept going. She had plenty of contacts who would have helped her. I don't really know. I think she was ill for a while, something that prevented her from performing. But that's all rather vague. They were secretive about it, she and her husband, I mean. He was also her manager, you know. Philip Markon. As I said, she wasn't good at self-promotion. Maybe she got discouraged. In this business you have to be very tough. She just dropped out of sight.”

Secretive? Was that what they called it now? Whatever happened to privacy? Wasn't Suzanne entitled to that? Hadn't the disappointment of the debut concert been public enough? Why advertise her weariness, her depression, the baffling weakness that overcame her unpredictably, for no apparent reason? And then the pregnancy and the miscarriage compounding things.
A run of bad luck until even he, Phil, with his boundless sympathy, had suspected what the doctors hinted at: a fleeing from the world, a kind of morose self-indulgence. It wasn't until years later that a doctor finally diagnosed her with fibromyalgia. By then Suzanne was almost ashamed of her intermittent symptoms; it was a relief to give a name to what had puzzled and plagued her for so long, frightening though the name was. The burden of shame and guilt slipped away and she was able to play again as best she could. On her best days she was as good as she'd ever been.

Elena had telephoned now and then over the years, but Suzanne saw her rarely, though Elena kept inviting her to lunch and sending tickets to her concerts. It wasn't only the betrayal Suzanne had felt over the affair with Richard—Philip was sure she got over that. It was Elena's persistent luck, the reverse of her own: the career, the flamboyant good health, the temperament made for the competitive life, the child. Nothing could jar or tarnish Elena; she was built of stone and steel. And of course it didn't hurt that her stepfather was a renowned cellist, so that all through her high school and college years musicians were dropping in at their apartment for dinners and postconcert get-togethers. No, Elena was the last person Suzanne wanted to see, the person who had appeared out of the blue and taken the life intended for her.

The last time Phil had run into Elena was maybe five years ago, during intermission at a concert at Avery Fisher, a chamber group he had an exclusive contract to record. It was a few years after Suzanne's CDs started getting those fantastic reviews, first online and then in print. Elena had asked after her and praised the recordings. She'd love to visit, she said. It had been so long and they'd been such good friends, once. Couldn't she drop
in? Phil put her off, saying Suzanne wasn't well, wasn't seeing anyone. Maybe in a few weeks he'd give her a call. He waved to someone he knew across the lobby and dashed off.

“You say you lost touch not long after you both finished at Juilliard,” the interviewer persisted. “Wasn't there some kind of rift between you?”

“That was a personal matter. I wouldn't call it a rift. A misunderstanding. It's a very busy life, lots of traveling, you can't keep up with all the people you'd like to. I didn't see her for a number of years but I got news through mutual friends, and when the CDs started to come out from Tempo, of course I listened to them. It was unusual, everyone knew that, even risky, an individual artist on a CD who didn't have a big reputation as a performer. But they were promoted and marketed well and turned out to be very successful.”

Phil was surprised she would accord him this credit. Damn right they were promoted and marketed well. He knew his business better than anyone; he had run it single-handedly ever since he began. Even during hectic spells when he hired temporary assistants, he kept a close eye on everything. That was the only way. Marketed well, sure, but how about the music itself? No amount of marketing could sell a lousy CD.

“But the important thing,” Elena continued, as if in response to his urging, “is that the playing was marvelous. Rigorous, unsentimental, fluid. It was much better than those early concerts, when the reviews complained that the rhythm was erratic and the interpretations bland. That was never the way I remembered Suzanne's playing. Those CDs were beautiful, and beautifully made, in anyone's judgment. I was happy for her.”