Death Is the Cool Night, page 15
“Laura! What have you done?” Mrs. Reed cried out, rushing up to her daughter.
“Dear Lord!” Mr. Reed said.
She’d cropped those beautiful golden locks that framed her face, that seduced, that beckoned—all gone. Shorn tendrils still stuck to her shoulders. She looked like Joan of Arc, sad, consigned to her fate, other-worldly. She was destroying that which had lured men like Ivan to her. Men like me. My eyes burned and didn’t blink.
“I didn’t do it, Mother. I didn’t.”
She meant the murder.
“Oh, child.” Mrs. Reed put her arm around her daughter and cried. “Of course, you didn’t. No one says you did.”
Reilly did. And yes, even I did. Hadn’t I come here in part to forgive her for the crime?
I swallowed again and stared. She was as distant, as fragile as a stained glass image.
Still, I had to risk it. Her parents weren’t helping her. Not like this.
“Laura,” I said, staring into her eyes. “Don’t let them drug you. Laura, darling, please let me talk to you. I love you, Laura. I love you.”
Did my words penetrate? Her mouth opened just a bit. She looked like she was trying to remember me. Did her mouth move to my name—Gregory?
“Laura…”
“Good lord, man, can’t you see she’s unbalanced?” Mr. Reed glared at me. “Leave her alone!”
Mrs. Reed coaxed Laura to sit on the stair. While her mother stroked her hair, Laura continued to stare at me.
“Please, Laura, let me talk to you.”
A tear dropped from Laura’s eye.
Mrs. Reed turned to me. “For God’s sake, leave her alone now, Gregory. If you love her, you’ll leave her alone.”
***
I left her alone that afternoon. But I tried again the next day, traveling once again all the way to Roland Park, knocking on the door, being greeted by Gertrude, on and on.
I tried for three days, and we repeated the same act with different variations like a theater troupe looking for just the right way to play the scene.
Only on the last visit did I actually see her again. She appeared once more, at the top of the stairs, and I was gratified to see that this time, she had more color in her cheeks. She actually spoke to me, too. But the words were hardly comforting.
“I’m going away, Gregory,” she said. “And I think it best that you leave me alone. I’m very sorry.” From her tone, it was clear I was now part of some enemy camp. I imagined she now saw me of the same cloth as Roustakoff. And why shouldn’t she?
“Where is she going?” I asked Mrs. Reed, the ever-faithful Roman Guard.
“Someplace restful.”
“Where is she going?” I repeated with more insistence. “I demand to know!”
I demanded many things during all those visits. My demands were hollow and treated as such.
Mrs. Reed didn’t tell me, but Gertrude did. That day, her departure from the house coincided with my own. I walked with her to her bus stop.
“A sanitarium on the west side,” was all she would tell me, before bustling away as if I had the plague.
***
I was so lost in playing the piano that I didn’t hear the knocking at first. I had three obsessions that week out of jail—staying sober, playing the Mahler songs, and, of course trying to see Laura. I succeeded at all but the last.
The Mahler drew me again and again because the songs so perfectly captured my mood. The first song talks of seeing one’s beloved on her wedding day, marrying someone else. Despite the fact that I had a bride, she might as well be married to another man. Her parents were intent on seeing to that at some point.
Now my fingers found their way through the lilting fourth and final song of the series, with its calm walking tempo, sometimes a trudge, sometimes a stroll.
Die zwei blauen Augen von meinem Schatz,
Die haben mich in die weite Welt Geschickt
The two blue eyes of my sweetheart
Have sent me into the wide world.
“Gregory, open up! It’s me, Sal!”
Dramatically pulling my hands off the keyboard, I went to the door where Sal stood, collar turned up against the damp, brown bag in hand. As Sal entered, he shoved the bag at me.
“From Ma. Prosciutto, provolone, some pickled peppers.”
“Thanks. You didn’t have to.”
Looking around the dim, empty living room, Sal took off his coat. “What you been doing all week? Every time I go by, the place is dark. I thought maybe you was even back in jail for awhile.”
I smiled, sitting on the piano bench, holding the bag between my legs. Sal sat across from me in a chair he pulled up.
“Nothing much to do. I’m supposed to meet with Constantine next week.”
“Yeah, I know. I was talking with him. He tells me you don’t want any deals.”
“That’s right.”
“With character witnesses and whatnot, you could be out in—”
“Shit, Sal, not you, too!” Whirling around, I threw the bag on top of the piano and stood. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I paced to the window where dusk cast the street in blue shadow.
“Just think about it, okay? Just think about it. My uncle, he did five to ten and got out. Now he’s got three kids and a house and is doing just fine.”
“Aw, jeez, Sal.”
“Please. Just think about it.”
I didn’t respond.
“Constantine’s going to some fancy breakfast tomorrow. Some lawyer’s club thing. He’ll see the DA there,” Sal explained.
“And you think he can talk him up,” I said, peering through the living room curtains as if I were a fugitive hiding out. I pulled back. I was hiding out, but from the world in general, from life, from reality. As long as I’d been in pursuit of Laura, of seeing her, I had purpose. Now, that goal was gone. She was going away. And from her own mouth I’d heard she didn’t want to see me. That had been Laura speaking, not her parents.
“It’s the perfect time, man. He asked me to come talk to you once more. To see if you’d change your mind.”
I hung my head and stared at the floor.
“She’s not going to do it, you know,” Sal said. “She’s not going to save you, if that’s what you’ve been thinking. If anything, I wouldn’t be surprised if she took the stand against you.”
“You don’t need to rub it in. I’ve been there every day this week,” I growled. I turned to him. “Sometimes I think you believe I did it.”
“Look, I don’t care if you did it. But no, I believe you when you said you didn’t. I just don’t want you getting run over by this thing, Greggie.” His voice broke. I was taken aback. “It ain’t fair, but lots of life ain’t fair. And you’ve got to grab what you can. I trust Constantine.”
“I know. So do I.”
“So you think about it.”
“I have the weekend,” I said.
“It’ll be all right, Greggie. Don’t worry. No matter what happens, it’ll be all right.”
*****
Dear Laura,
I’m so sorry you’ve been hurt by all this madness. If you’d only stay in town…
***
Dear Larua,
I know we married quickly, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you…
***
Dear Laura,
Next week I meet with my lawyer to talk about offering a plea. I didn’t kill Ivan. You must believe me…
Chapter Twenty-two
I wanted a drink so bad that Friday evening that I searched my house from top to bottom looking for a bottle. I found some bourbon under the sink, enough for a good tumbler full. I poured the golden liquid into the glass, breathed deep its woody aroma, and brought it to my lips.
But I didn’t drink. I entered an epic battle that took place in a few seconds’ time. A Goliath of want urged me to take that drink. But, weak as I seemed, I slew him. I threw the glass into the sink, shattering it and my desire.
I sat and penned letter after letter to Laura, crumpling them all and throwing them away.
I walked to a telephone stand and tried calling her. Just one more try. That’s all. I’d leave it alone after this. Or so I told myself.
Five rings and I was about to click off, when—she answered! She, herself. Not her mother, not Gertrude. MGertrude was gone by then for the day, her mother occupied, her father reading the paper and drinking his own whiskey?
“Laura …” I didn’t know what to say.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Gregory.” I swallowed. “Your husband.”
“You shouldn’t call.”
“Have you stopped taking the drugs, Laura? You sound better, honey.”
“I’m not taking anything, no.”
“Where are they going to put you? You don’t need to go anywhere. You’re strong, Laura. You just need—” I wanted to say “me.”
“I need some rest,” she said, her voice warmer.
“I’m not drinking any more,” I rushed to add. “I’m sober.”
“That’s good, Gregory.”
“I know you didn’t do it, Laura—didn’t kill Ivan. I thought you did at first, but not any more.”
Silence. Then, “Why did you think I was a murderess?” She sounded like a Reed then, someone unused to being thought of except in the most flattering tones.
“I don’t! I don’t think you are. I …I thought you had just cause to kill him. He was a—”
“I don’t like to talk about it.” Her voice quivered.
“I understand. He was horrible to you—a monster. He didn’t love anyone.” Not the way I loved her.
“Please, don’t talk about him.”
“I … I want to see you. Before you go. Before I …” Before I went to prison?
“I don’t think that’s wise,” she said. “The doctor says I should stay away from anyone who upsets me.”
“I won’t talk about the case,” I assured her, thinking she was referring to the murder charges against me.
“I wish they’d arrest someone for it and be done with it,” she said.
Oh my god—she didn’t know.
“Laura, they have. They’ve arrested me.”
***
Her parents had told her nothing about my jeopardy. They’d put her under a doctor’s care, let that doctor dope her up, and told her a lawyer would see to fixing everything. They told her that I would point the finger at her, and that they would protect her from me. They told her the marriage needed to be annulled, that I’d taken advantage…
It tumbled out, in tears and broken sentences, in self-accusations. Just as I had accused myself, she, too, railed against her lack of judgment—how could she have been so childish, she asked.
She wanted to know about my precarious state, she wanted to help. She couldn’t stay on the phone. Her mother was coming upstairs. She told me she’d talk to me the next day—Saturday—and she thought she could get away on Sunday. She’d manage to get away somehow. She asked how she could get hold of me. I told her I’d be in our old place. It had a phone.
Now I could breathe again. I showered and shaved. I packed my few belongings, including the Mahler. I went to Sal’s and gave him the good news.
“She’ll testify for you?”
“We haven’t talked about that yet,” I said. “I’m meeting her Sunday.”
“Sunday?” He scratched his chin. “Why not tonight? Why not tomorrow?”
“I think it’s hard for her to get away.”
He grimaced, his face conveying what I felt—that she should be racing to my defense.
“So you’re going back to the new place?” he said at last.
“Yeah. She can call me there.”
“And it’s a heck of a lot nicer!” He laughed. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind a ride.”
I grinned. “If you can spare one.”
***
I waited for her call. I waited that night, as I smelled the lingering scent of her perfume on the pillows.
I waited all the next day, as I hesitated to leave the apartment for fear I’d miss her.
I had a new cell, a better one, with light and luxuries and pretty pictures on the walls. But it was still a cell.
Was she deliberately torturing me? Had she never intended to call?
Maybe she’d let something slip, and her parents knew about our conversation. Maybe they’d taken her away already, slipping medicine into her tea.
Maybe she’d been cruelly playing with me, avenging herself on me, the second Ivan in her life.
No drink tempted me that day. First thing I’d done upon entering the place was empty all the bottles.
I drank a lot of coffee. I finished our meager supply of food—this gave me a pang to think of how poorly she’d cooked. How I longed for her burnt toast and tough roast.
I waited.
I thought I heard the phone ring once and rushed out of a doze on the living room sofa to the kitchen.
But it was a phone next door, its sound carried into our apartment through an open door as its owner raced to capture the caller when returning from an errand.
I thought of going to see her but didn’t want to risk ruining her plans by tipping off her parents.
I waited.
That day felt longer than my stay in the jail cell. At least then, I’d been in a stupor, coming out from under the booze. Nothing cushioned this pain—no physical ache, no fog of alcohol. I had to suffer it straight up.
By evening’s arrival, I was convinced I’d been played the fool again. That’s when I wished I hadn’t thrown out the liquor. That’s when I was glad I had.
Damn you, Laura Reed.
Laura Silensky.
Even I didn’t think of her as really married to me. Hah! Even I knew it was a charade, the whole damn thing.
I lit a cigarette and looked at last week’s paper, still in the living room. But I couldn’t focus. I turned on a record—but it hit a scratch, so I pulled it off. I looked out toward the south at the glimmering lights of the city. Renata would be singing Micaela tonight. If I lived in a normal world, I’d be going to see it, my girl on my arm.
With a sigh, I turned back to the room and turned on some lamps. I sat, my face in my hands, trying to figure out what to do.
Better to turn my thoughts to something productive, to my meeting with Constantine on Monday.
It made me sick to think of pleading guilty. But sicker still to think of being found guilty.
To hell with that. I’d have to take my chances. I wasn’t guilty. The system was supposed to protect the innocent. It had to!
I couldn’t think about it.
I stood, went to the piano and played.
My fingers found that Mahler again. I’d played it so much that week, I didn’t need the music.
The fourth song, the one with the walking rhythm.
Die zwei blauen Augen … it began.
Hans. His eyes were crystal blue, so bright they looked like pale sapphires. Die zwei blauen augen.
I stopped, my hands hovering over the keys.
The Mahler—something in it was familiar …
I stood, racing to the shelves that held our music—my piano pieces and compositions, Laura’s vocal scores. I threw one after the other on the floor, looking for it. Staff paper gave hope, then crushed it when I realized it wasn’t the right piece. I ran to the bedroom—maybe it was there. I looked through boxes, more shelves. Nothing.
I went back to the living room, which was awash in music. The shelves were bare.
No, it wouldn’t be there.
The police would have it—I remembered. Ivan’s piece. They’d taken it because it had been inscribed to Laura—or so they assumed.
But Laura didn’t have blue eyes. Hers were green.
I hurried to the piano now, standing, eyes closed, remembering. My right hand found the opening bars of Ivan’s song.
In the halls of Fontainebleau …
I slid onto the seat, my left hand filling in remembered chords and melodies, slowly at first as I let memory lead me.
I kept playing, trying not to think, just letting the music fill my mind. I was searching, searching for one passage.
There it was! There, hidden in an inner voice. Under the line “those of us who love more bolding”—there it was, the little snippet of Mahler, the dotted sixteenth pattern of “Die zwei blauen Augen.”
I laughed. An inside joke—just the kind I played on Mrs. Sabataso when I hid her favorite classics in the middle of more popular tunes, just the way I’d done for Laura when she’d turned her nose up at Tommy Dorsey pieces …
Ivan had done the same! He’d hidden a message to “his only true love” in the middle of this piece, a little passage that said, “no matter what anyone thinks, you’re the one for whom this piece was written.”
My only true love. That had been the dedication.
Die zwei blauen Augen.
Hans.
Hans’s blue eyes were his most striking feature. He could hide nothing there.
I stopped playing, dropping my hands between my knees, thinking, remembering.
Had Hans killed him after all? He had certainly acted guilty—running away.
But why couldn’t I picture him as guilty—his fleeing was an act of fear, not of guilt. Gossip around the conservatory suggested he’d had to flee the police in Germany, that even his father in the Freikorps couldn’t protect a lover being carted off to a camp. He was deathly afraid of authorities.
Hans’s problem was that he was afraid to stay and fight. It was hard to imagine that gentle-voiced soul fighting Ivan, even for the love of Renata.
I remembered what Renata had said, in her argument with Hans:
“Hans, you cry just like a girl. Here, take my handkerchief! Basta! I do not tolerate this. Do you think I would not find out? Do you think I do not know you betrayed me? My only true love—you disgust me!”
At the time, I’d assumed she was raging at him over the Kliegman, after finding out he’d traveled to New York to sing it for the prize committee.
But could it be another type of betrayal that had infuriated her? A humiliating betrayal, one that such a fiery woman would have trouble tolerating.
Ivan had loved Hans, his only “true” love. She’d sent Hans away, with a coldness I’d not known she’d possessed.
