Chapter Six
David looked at his phone for the third time in as many minutes. Half an hour. He would leave in half an hour. That would give him time to grab a cab and get to the airport in plenty of time to meet Elizabeth’s plane.
He picked up a cup of coffee from the table in front of him. He wanted to make sure he was alert when he met Elizabeth for the first time in more than a month.
His thoughts kept going back to last night’s meeting with Jeremy, Melissa and Jeremy’s two friends, Wade and Danny. My God, he thought, that was a strange little get together. What did Jeremy hope to gain from that? Did he think one of his friends was going to break down under the pressure and confess to having stolen the manuscript from him at the coffeehouse? Wade hadn’t even been in the country when the knapsack had been grabbed. Danny had been around, but he seemed an unlikely suspect, even though he was the one who had the best idea of what the manuscript might be worth.
And Melissa. There was no way around it, she was an odd one. David had known a number of people like her back in college. Not well, of course, but enough to have a sense that most of them were just play-acting—generating a sense of angst and alienation that they didn’t really feel. Or at least had no excuse for feeling, in his opinion.
But Melissa, in her own macabre way, had seemed more authentic than most. The Goth-thing was really her, or at least really her at this point in her life. In ten years she might be a bored housewife, but for now, the black outfit, the long black hair, the nose rings he had noticed shortly after she sat down…all of it seemed the perfect embodiment of her estrangement from society.
But he still had no idea what Jeremy saw in her. Jeremy, of course, was somebody who was quite good at changing roles. That’s one reason why he had been cast in some minor parts in student opera productions despite not being a real singer. But what role was Jeremy trying to play just now? And how did Melissa fit into it? Was Jeremy already starting to feel old and having Melissa around proof that he was still hip and relevant?
And what did Melissa see in Jeremy? It had seemed to David that night that she saw absolutely nothing in him. In fact, he detected a coldness in Melissa that went beyond her glib, passive-aggressive moodiness. David realized that a certain distance was typical for any young person who characterized themselves as “post-modern” as she so clearly did. But there was something else. She was not merely aloof, she was almost hostile. Even to Jeremy…especially to Jeremy. Melissa might be sleeping with him, but she showed no eagerness to actually touch Jeremy, even when she sat down right next to him on the sofa.
Well, he thought, gulping down a last swallow of his now lukewarm coffee, it was probably nothing. Probably his imagination. Or worse…probably a projection of his on-again, off-again relationship with Elizabeth. He had been famously unsuccessful at figuring out their relationship as well.
At that moment, his apartment doorbell buzzed noisily.
He closed his eyes. Not Jeremy, he thought. Not again.
He sighed heavily as he rose to his feet and moved slowly to the door. But when he threw it open, he saw Elizabeth standing in the doorway, a friendly smile on her face. David stared blankly for a few seconds.
“Well hello to you,” she said brightly. “So this is the greeting I get after five and a half weeks?”
“Elizabeth…I mean…it’s you…” David stuttered helplessly. “I just didn’t expect…I was about to leave to pick you up at the airport.”
“I got a chance to take an earlier flight and I couldn’t resist it. Besides I know you hate airport scenes.”
David finally reached out to embrace her, his lips clumsily grazing her cheek.
He stepped back. “Well, you look absolutely wonderful. And besides, I don’t hate airports. I hate saying goodbye at airports.”
“Maybe,” she said, stepping inside the apartment and beginning to remove her coat,” but you’re not that great at hellos either.”
David smiled. “Well, there’s a lot of pressure at airports. Everyone expects something dramatic. All the people around you are waiting for it. You greet someone and everyone looks at you and immediately analyzes the situation. Are they lovers? Family members? Just friends?”
Elizabeth smiled and shook her head gently. “David, David…all the world is not a stage and absolutely no one but you cares what you do with your life.”
“Okay, if you say so,” David replied. “Say, can I grab your luggage for you?”
“No, I’ve already dropped my stuff off at the hotel. As you know, I’m between apartments right now, although I’ve got to change that situation real fast. If I have to stay at that hotel more than a day or two, I’ll end up spending every dollar I made playing in Europe.”
“You’re always welcome to…” began David, gesturing her further into the apartment.
“Of course. I know that, David,” she said, taking a few more steps inside. “But in case you haven’t noticed, your apartment isn’t really large enough for one human being, let alone two. I think I’ll take my chances in my over-priced hotel for a while. Besides, I’ve already checked out some sublet possibilities. I’ll bet I can find a new apartment before you know it.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help?”
“What you can do is fill me in on all the exciting adventures you’ve been having while I’ve been trudging through Europe giving recitals in very dim halls with very bad pianos.”
“Well please...sit down. Let me get you something.” David quickly disappeared into the kitchen. He was back seconds later with a cup of coffee. “I’m afraid it’s not that warm. And I don’t even remember if you like this kind. I’m so sorry, but I really thought I was going to be picking you up at the airport.”
“I think it’s much better this way,” she said kindly, seating herself delicately on a half-broken down club chair.
“I suppose you’re right,” David said mournfully. “But please. You first. You’ve actually been playing concerts and have a lot more to talk about than I do.”
“As I told you David, this was a class C tour all the way. You know where I’ve been. I sent you postcards from two small German towns and one tiny English village.”
“Of course,” said David, looking quickly around the room. “They’re here somewhere.”
“I’m sure they are. Now how about you? I’m so glad to be back in Philadelphia. I want to hear all about it.”
“I only cover a small part of it, I suppose,” said David. “But we have had a little excitement. Maybe not the best kind of excitement, but it’s something.”
“Great! As long as nobody’s dead, I want to hear about it.”
“It’s really Jeremy’s problem. You remember Jeremy West, don’t you? Pianist, about a year older than me? Did a little singing on the side?”
“Yes, I think I do remember him. I don’t think I was quite as fond of him as you were, but that’s beside the point. Sure I remember him.”
“He’s found a manuscript, while he was in London recently on his own little tour. This is a very special manuscript. He claims that it’s a new work by Beethoven, written in a copyist’s hand but with Beethoven’s handwriting in the margins that indicates that the work is actually by Beethoven himself.”
“A new work by Beethoven? How marvelous? Some newly discovered little song or piano piece?”
“No, the miraculous thing about this is—if Jeremy is right—it’s an entire symphony. In fact it’s numbered on the first page as the ‘ninth symphony.’ Now obviously this is not the ninth symphony. It’s a work written after the eighth symphony but before the ninth symphony that all of us know. In other words, it’s a work that was going to be his ninth symphony, but somewhere along the line he changed his mind about it. He never had it published and never had it performed.”
“That is miraculous,” said Elizabeth. “But what is it like? Have you seen it?”
“I’ve only seen the first two pages. Jeremy brought them to show me. They seemed
a bit strange, like no other music by Beethoven I’ve ever seen. But Jeremy figures that the work is authentic and will be worth a fortune.”
“I would think it would be…if it were really authentic. But neither of you is a Beethoven expert, so how can you be sure that it’s really his work…that the handwriting on the score is really his?”
“Jeremy already is sure. He says he’s studied Beethoven’s handwriting. I’m not so sure, but I’ve talked him into going to New York and showing it to the famous Beethoven scholar, Dr. Norman Gray. If anybody can give us a solid answer, it’s probably Professor Gray.”
“So that’s it! Jeremy has his fortune made!”
“Well, not quite. Here’s where it gets tricky. The same day that Jeremy brought the first two pages of the score to a coffee shop to show me, his knapsack was stolen with the manuscript pages inside. We’ve investigated all the normal leads to try to get it back but we’ve had no luck at all. We’ve even involved the Philly police—my old friend Sean McGill, a former grad of the conservatory as a matter of fact.”
“You’re kidding! What an extraordinary story!” said Elizabeth breathlessly. “That’s far more exciting than anything I have to tell you.”
“I can’t believe that, Elizabeth. You’ve actually been out there playing music for people.”
“Yes, it has been wonderful. No matter how small the hall…how bad the piano…how uninterested the people seem, it’s wonderful to be playing again.” She paused. “I know you miss it, David. There must be some way we can get you back to really playing.”
“I do play,” said David. “I play sometimes while I’m giving lessons. I play in the Conservatory Outreach recitals—a little Chopin, a little Rachmaninov in the last one.”
“No! I mean really playing. Playing a whole recital…or a whole concerto…in a place where people really love music, or at least some of them do.”
“That’s not going to be particularly easy to arrange, I’m afraid,” said David, looking down at his hand. “My hands are still not in great shape.”
“But I think you should stop waiting for miracles, David. You should do something about your hands. Now I know of a great doctor—Dr. Victor Benevenolli—that I really think you should see…as soon as possible.”
“I have seen a neurosurgeon, Elizabeth. You know that.”
“You’ve seen a neurosurgeon who admits he doesn’t really know how to help you. I can’t see that as being a particularly useful exercise.”
“Maybe there’s nothing than can be done.”
“Don’t say that until you’ve seen Dr. Benevenolli.”
“I have seen other neurosurgeons. Some of them seem to think there’s not a lot wrong with me.”
“Dr. Benevenolli is not that kind of doctor.”
“What kind is he?”
“You’ve heard of sports psychologists? He’s like that except he works with a lot of musicians.”
“A psychologist?”
“Yes. One with a proven record of success. You have absolutely nothing to lose by trying him. He knows about musicians. He knows that classical musicians usually don’t have much money and he sometimes reduces his fees for them. David, you’ve absolutely got to try him. I have his card right here.” She quickly removed it from her purse and placed in on the coffee table in front of him.
David paused. “I’m definitely not promising anything,” he said quietly.
“Fine, don’t promise anything. But just go and see him anyway. And right now, tell me what the next step is in this great mystery you’re investigating with Jeremy and Sean, the conservatory detective.
David perked up. “I’m not sure there is a next step planned right now, Elizabeth, at least not until after we see Dr. Gray. We’re going to show him the rest of the manuscript that Jeremy still has in his possession and hope Gray can still give us the information we need. But you seem so enthusiastic about this little project, I promise I’ll try to get you involved as best I can.”
Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “That’s all I can ask, David. That’s all I can ask.”