Death Is the Cool Night Read online

  Then it had been Hans’s turn. As Calaf, the tenor had sung the line repeating the riddle, and victoriously rose to the answer, his voice growing tremulous with anticipation as he sang the high last line with the solution—“hope!” His voice was clear and bright, a honeyed texture rounding it out. So bewitched was Laura by his magnificent singing that she leaned back, her hands in her lap as Roustakoff whispered the chorus’s reply—“la speranza,” hope.

  Roustakoff had dropped his hands at his sides. “Bene!” He beamed at the singers, then frowned at me. “Even without the help of artful accompaniment.”

  Of course my playing hadn’t been “artful.” My hands had tormented me before I’d even sat at the piano, cramping where the skin pulled tight across the palm and between index finger and thumb. I’d reflexively rubbed my hands on my trousers to ease the pain, staring accusingly at the keyboard, once my comfort, now an instrument of torture, wishing I could risk a drink from my ever-present flask.

  “Five bars before letter ‘G’,” announced Roustakoff, referring to the rehearsal cues on the singers’ scores. Lifting his hands in the air like a bear ready to pounce, the conductor swiftly gave the downbeat and I tried to lose myself in the lush music, biting my lower lip when I felt a cramp start in my right hand. Just as Renata was about to enter with her part, the hand twitched uncontrollably. I pulled away from the keyboard as if it were a scalding hot iron and waited for the inevitable curse from the conductor. It didn’t take long.

  And that had been the moment when Roustakoff had poised the sword over my head ready to fall.

  “Damn it, boy! If it’s beyond you, get someone else to play it!” Roustakoff turned back to Renata, and assumed his position, hands poised in the air. “Again!”

  Gritting my teeth, I took in a breath and held it. I closed my eyes, having memorized the passage after many repetitions.

  The first time Roustakoff had abused me in front of others, I had discovered a sad truth. People pitied me, that was true. But in pity is the seed of disgust. And when Roustakoff chastised me, the conductor was tacitly giving them all permission to feel comfortable with their disgust. Of course, they rarely showed it by looking at my hands. No, instead I noticed them quietly disapproving of my unfashionable clothes, disheveled hair, or rundown shoes. We wouldn’t mind his hands so much, their looks seemed to say, if he took better care of himself. They kept their distance.

  Another half hour the conductor worked us. We accomplished little in the extra time, except a renewed appreciation for Roustakoff’s sarcasm. I matched his sneering with my own, even whispering a comment—now forgotten—to Laura at one point.

  “Silence!” Roustakoff’s voice boomed into the space and I heard in my mind’s ear the chorus as they sang the hissing “Silenzio.”

  Roustakoff didn’t take his eyes off me. “You have used the breaks as an opportunity to mock me and other teachers here. I will not tolerate your insults during my rehearsal.”

  He’d turned back to the podium and begun again, but by then my hand decided to punish me as well. The slicing pain, the electric shock of abused muscle, sinew, and skin. I could play no longer. And that was when he’d won the day, with his “putting us out of our misery” comment, making my misery no more nor no less than that of the singers or even little Laura Reed turning pages beside me.

  What a bastard.

  Now Roustakoff was dead and I was alive, claiming his moment of victory. I could not resist feeling vindicated, no matter what troubles awaited me.

  Noise in the hall grew exponentially as instrumentalists took their places and began tuning and practicing difficult passages. Choristers meandered to the chairs set up behind the orchestra while the men who would sing the roles of Ping, Pang, and Pong—providing comic relief in the otherwise serious opera—were in place in front, as was the soprano who was singing the slave girl Liu, and the bass who was singing Timur.

  I turned, spotting the college president speaking with a petite dark-haired woman in the back of the hall. Ponselle. The great singer herself was here.

  When the president came forward with Ponselle, I stepped down from the platform and smiled at the diva, taking her offered hand. Quick introductions followed, and then I returned to the podium and tapped my baton on the edge of the music stand—the age-old signal that the rehearsal was about to begin.

  The room slowly hushed as all eyes turned to me. I was surprised that my voice trembled as I welcomed everyone, then introduced the “special visitors.”

  The president, a stately man impeccably dressed, moved forward and gracefully extolled the virtues of Miss Ponselle’s career, her phenomenal scope, how fortunate they were to have her in this city and in this conservatory as an honored guest, and then led the room in a round of genuine, sustained applause. Ponselle nodded her head and smiled in acknowledgement.

  The room hushed again.

  “I am sorry to report,” the president said, holding his hands in front of him, “that your esteemed conductor, Maestro Roustakoff, will not be with you for this opera.”

  The room seemed to grow quieter still as he went on. “He has passed away unexpectedly. Our sincere condolences go out to his loved ones.”

  There were a few gasps in the room, a whispered “oh, no.”

  But from the middle of the soprano section, I heard a faint gurgle of laughter. It was soft—but the hall amplified everything and my keen ears picked up its timbre, hanging in the air like the first tones of a wind chime blown by a spring breeze. My gaze darted around as the president began an impromptu eulogy, summarizing Roustakoff’s accomplishments as conductor and composer and how he would want the opera to continue.

  At last, I found the source of the laughter—Laura Reed. Her face rosy from blush, she was smiling now and her eyes were closed as if in rapture. And then—as if on cue—she fainted dead away, sliding to the ground with a reverberating thud.

  More gasps and fluster. Choristers moved away, another soprano bent over Laura and fanned her face. The president’s mouth fell open and he said, “Well now” before ordering someone to call for a doctor.

  Now the head of this troupe, I assumed the role of leader and pushed through the instrumentalists and singers, kneeling down beside her prone figure. Her golden hair splayed around her like a halo and my first inclination was a selfish one—to touch this cloud while I had the chance, but I stayed my hand and instead felt her forehead. It was clammy. Her eyes fluttered, then opened. They were shimmering green.

  “Dead,” she whispered, smiling.

  “Be quiet,” I said. “They’ve gone to fetch a doctor. Have you been ill?”

  Her brows creased. “A little. I’m better now.”

  She raised her head slowly, and I ended up cradling her against my chest. Her hair smelled like roses, just as it had yesterday. When I looked up at the crowd, I saw admiration in the eyes of many of the choristers and instinctually felt myself puff up with bravado.

  “Clear out,” I said in a firm voice to the group. “I think we should postpone rehearsal. Same time tomorrow—be prepared to stay longer.” I issued this last command with a touch of impatience. I was Roustakoff now.

  As the singers and instrumentalists wandered away, the hall filled with noise once more. From the corner of my eye, I saw the president standing nearby with Miss Ponselle, his hands in his pockets as if unsure what to do. Once again, I took charge.

  “Miss Ponselle, I apologize,” I said, still on the floor with Laura. “But I think you should probably go. I hope you can return tomorrow.”

  She smiled and nodded, and the president looked grateful for the opportunity to lead her from the room.

  “The nurse is on her way,” he said gesturing to the door where a white uniformed woman hurried into the hall carrying a black bag.

  When this little tugboat of medical efficiency came in, I was pushed out of the way. I heard hushed conversations and could tell the nurse was asking Laura about “female” things so I discreetly stepped to
the window and pulled out a smoke, quickly lighting it while I looked over the park and toward the townhomes where Roustakoff lived. Had lived.

  Someone must have loved him. His fiancé, his family, the German tenor who’d come to America at his bidding—they would be mourning. For them, I could feel some measure of sadness, reassured as this more natural response washed over me.

  In a few moments’ time, Laura was on her feet, and the nurse was snapping closed her case. I turned and walked back to the scene.

  “Is there something I can do?”

  Laura was pale—no bloom of rose painted her cheeks. But somehow this made her even lovelier. She looked like one would imagine angels appearing— her skin almost translucent, her eyes bright.

  “I think she’s fine,” the nurse said. “Didn’t eat anything for breakfast or lunch. Girls today are foolish about such things.” She turned to Laura. “Do you have a way of getting home, dear?”

  “I have my car.”

  “It would be better if someone could escort you.” The nurse turned to me.

  I had hoped to study the score.

  “I don’t want to be a burden,” Laura said, not looking at me. “I’ll find a way.”

  The nurse harrumphed and probed her further, but Laura kept insisting she’d be fine, she’d get someone to take her home, or have her mother drive in to town to fetch her. Satisfied at last, the nurse left.

  But the more Laura had protested to the nurse, the more I now wanted to escort her after all. I couldn’t help wondering if Laura was so quick to dismiss the nurse’s suggestion because I wasn’t part of that crowd, the landed gentry of this very divided city. Even that cad Roustakoff would be more welcome in her neighborhood. Would she be embarrassed to have me accompany her home, afraid to show up at her comfortable house with a ragtag musician with mottled hands?

  “If you have your car, I will drive you,” I said firmly. “It’s no trouble, really.”

  She looked a bit surprised at first and ready to protest further, but she merely smiled, a little self-satisfied, too. “Thanks. You already know where my home is.”

  *****

  One Year Earlier

  Dear Hans,

  I was thinking, with both gratitude and some regret, of the time you took me to the Katakombe cabaret with your friends, and we laughed so hard at Werner Klink that my side ached and I thought I had burst my appendix. Do you remember? Those were happier times, nights in the Kurfeurstendamm, in the jazz clubs and dance halls, coming home in the gray light of dawn, and then the grueling practice during the day. I believe it can be that way again some day.

  You introduced me to so many pleasures, my friend, that I cannot help but return the favor. I’m doing all I can to book safe passage for you. After Fontainebleau, you will need to get to Spain. You should be able to flee from there to Morocco and then to the United States. I’m preparing for several concert operas in the coming year, if I can convince the turtles at the conservatory to see things my way. There is so much to be had here—I’m entering that composition I showed you last summer into the Kliegman and have high hopes.

  Now, my dear friend, I must ask a favor of you, one I hope does not cause you too much trouble. My travels took me to Milan, as you know. There I met the most entrancing spinto, really a dark lyric, a voice like honey. I fell in love with both her voice and her spirit. And she, like you, is a refugee, tossed about by the forces of the day, over which she has no control. I will marry her. Together, you can both travel to America, my fiancé and her guardian. I’ve sent her a telegram and given her your name. She’ll join you in France and then you both should head south.

  I need not tell you what she looks like. Just think of Prosper Merimee’s tale of the gypsy—“dark hair, erotic scent, her red skirt over white silk stockings, her shoes of red morocco tied with flame-colored ribbon, a lacy mantilla over her shoulders and cassia flowers in her chemise.” She may not wear a mantilla, nor put cassia flowers in her hair, but Renata is every bit Carmen. You will love her, too, I am sure.

  Your dear friend,

  Ivan

  Chapter Two

  “It was your first time,” Laura said. “You’ll be more comfortable tomorrow.”

  She was comforting me? I bristled, gripping the big wheel of her family Packard more tightly. I didn’t get to drive much and was shifting gears clumsily, so I already was in a foul mood. Now she was trying to tell me that my leadership of the ensemble was adequate for a “first time.”

  I studied her when I had the chance. Classic features, perfectly done face, Revlon lips, a pale blue cashmere sweater over gray skirt, black shoes unmarred by scuffs, gray gloves, a black tam. Everything about her looked expensive. Why had she laughed at the announcement of Roustakoff’s death? Better yet—why had she fainted? She already knew, from the detective’s questioning, that he was gone.

  “Do you know how he died?” I asked, tapping a cigarette against my knee at a traffic light, fighting the urge to smoke. It was my last one.

  She shrugged. “The policeman said that part was pending.”

  “Why do they think it’s worth investigating?” I probed.

  Again a shrug. “All unexpected deaths, I guess, get this treatment.”

  At her direction, I turned onto Roland Avenue, driving us through a tree-lined boulevard of old homes and old families. Baltimore was such a snobbish little town pretending to be more important that it was, with its neat segregation of ethnic types—old money families to the north, its scrambling ethnics to the east and south, its Jews neatly tucked in the west. And the Negroes getting whatever was left. Even my neighborhood was divided, with Italians on some blocks, Germans and Poles on others, Cechs on others still.

  “And his sister would want a thorough investigation. Do you know Louise Ruxton Watts?” she asked. “She’s DAR with my mother.”

  Ruxton. That had been Roustakoff’s real name, until he’d traced his blood lines back to Russian and French royalty. My god, his family must have steamed over that, Anglicans all, with a great-aunt ensconced in some British estate. But in the music world, foreign ruled. It was the mirror image of this society, where too many vowels in a name had you knocking at the servant’s entrance.

  And we were there, at her home with its own servant’s entrance, a Tudor-style thing on a corner with trees and a garden with a drive around the back.

  And then we were walking up a path that led back around to the front door, and now I remembered how I knew her. I’d played for a party here.

  Like all such forgotten memories, it unsettled me, igniting once again the fear that I’d lost some time last night. Those lapses gave retrieved memory a more sinister aspect as I struggled to recall if this was a lost time, or simply a normal forgetfulness.

  Last spring I’d been hired by a family to play for a party celebrating their son’s graduation from the Naval Academy. This had been the home.

  As we walked up to the door, I remembered. Large home, decorated with nonchalant wealth. A Boesendorfer piano by French windows near the terrace. The house trapping the still, sinister warmth of a spring heat wave. But I had been near the windows during the party, where fresher air had touched my cheek as my renditions of the latest popular tunes competed with the tinkling of glasses and conversation. As the partygoers had laughed in the humid air, the men’s faces had glistened with sweat—they’d stood there in their suit jackets and ties, moving slowly, talking in low tones, making the world operate at their pace. I remembered. I’d gone to the movies later that night, and smiled at Abbott and Costello’s antics in “Buck Privates.”

  Laura Reed wasn’t the type who’d have to turn in milk bottles for the dime ticket to the cinema.

  No, but she’d been kind to me. She had appeared from the party crush just as my hands had betrayed me. Sitting on the cushioned piano stool, I’d rubbed them on my trouser legs as I had on Sunday. She’d startled me, noiselessly approaching from behind, offering a drink of iced tea. Yes, roses. She’d had
the same scent of roses then and worn rose too—a short-sleeved dress that had made her look girlish. I’d thought of her as too young and out of reach for me, thanked her for the drink, and resumed playing.

  Now, I felt pity for her. This innocent girl had fallen under Roustakoff’s spell. He had probably ruined her, as he’d done with so many others. Surely she hadn’t deserved that.

  “Mother!” she called as she opened the door and let us both in. “I’m home!” She took off her hat and gloves, and I took off my own hat, holding it in front of me. Now that I’d seen her safely home, I’d leave, find a bus, go.

  Her mother appeared in the hallway, coming from the back of the house. Walking slowly as if even the queen would have to wait for her, Mrs. Reed didn’t take her gaze off me. She was sizing me up, deciding whether I was suitable for the servants’ or the family table. Her eyes didn’t give away her decision.

  “Welcome home, dear. Who is your friend?” she asked.

  “Gregory Silensky, this is my mother, Amanda Reed. You’ve met. At Rick’s party. Gregory played.”

  A Negro maid in gray uniform and white apron appeared behind Mrs. Reed. Silently, she took Laura’s things and hung them up.

  “Thank you, Gertrude,” Mrs. Reed said, without looking at her.

  “Did we interrupt you? We won’t bother you, will we?” Laura asked. She gave her mother a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “No, not at all.” But she sounded insincere. “Gertrude and I were just going over the week’s menus,” Mrs. Reed said, smiling. Her smile didn’t move while she talked. “I’m asking the Smalls to dinner some time soon. And we’re meeting them at the club, too, later this week. You know their son—Tom.”

  Laura froze. “Did Carol mention him to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did. She and Daniel will join us at the club.” Mrs. Reed’s smile faded and she tilted her head to one side. “Is there a problem, Laura?”