Death Is the Cool Night, page 4
Renata found the music she was looking for and pulled it out.
“Louise, his sister, she tells me they do not know. Probably after the Turandot we sang. He was a mostro himself, eh? He was drinking later—whisky—that made it worse!”
So Ivan went to the practice building, talked to Hans, and some time during that conversation when he was away from his things, someone put poison in his cola.
“Are they sure he didn’t do it himself?”
“Killed himself?” She paused, considering this. “I do not know. If I were the detective, I would look at this. But his witch of a sister says he had plans, so this is not the possible thing. But I do not know …he was a mostro, like I said.”
“Where was he found?”
“At his house on the Mount Vernon Piazza, the big house.” She thought for a moment. “I was still practicing. I came upon him later.”
“I didn’t know.” How horrible. I’d assumed someone else had discovered him.
She shuddered. “I thought he’d fallen asleep,” she said softly, her bravado gone. “I shook him to wake him. I slapped his face, thinking he was drinking too much. ‘Ivan, Ivan,’ I shouted.”
Now, true emotion played over her face, as she sucked in her lips and stifled a cry. “I called the doctor. It was too late.”
To console her, I suggested that no one should suspect her if she were the one to call for help.
“Good thought, my friend,” she said to me, a smile returning. “I will be all innocente.”
But I would not.
As my anxiety increased, I remembered something that consoled me. Laura, after talking to the detective, had said to me that she’d told him we were together. Yes, we’d been in the building together, but not in each other’s company—as far as I knew. I’d not yet corrected the detective’s possible misperception. Now I wouldn’t. Thank god—an alibi!
Renata walked around to me, placing music on the stand before me.
An alibi—for Laura, as well as for me. Was that the reason she’d laughed at the news of his death? She knew she had succeeded … no, I couldn’t bear to think of that. Such a pure creature. Roustakoff couldn’t have ruined her so much that…
“This is not Turandot,” I said, turning my attention to the score.
Not Puccini at all. Roustakoff’s name was on it, there in the upper right. How could that be—even without playing it I could tell it wasn’t his usual fare. My hands found the chords, lush and vibrant, even romantic, a love song of some kind. Renata began to sing in her clumsy accent:
In the halls of Fontainebleau
Perfumed ladies go
Their demure looks and down-turned eyes a silent rebuke
To those, like us, who love more boldly.
Do not leave me here
Alone.
Do not leave me here
My love.
Do not leave me.
Do not leave me.
Haunting, dream-like, with a subtle nod to folk-like tunes, the music reminded me of recent British compositions, the vocal line rising out of the harmony to the climactic last syllable, creating the bright major third in what otherwise could have been a sad minor chord.
A chill shook me. This was his last piece, the piece that won the Kliegman. And it was good, dammit. It was wonderful. I wished I had written it.
“Your voice isn’t quite right for this,” I said.
“What? Of course it is right for it. He wrote it for me—his fiancé, his love! I will sing it in New York, as he intended.”
“It’s for a man’s voice.”
“It is—like all art song—for a woman or a man.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “But it is for me. Look at the dedication.”
To my only true love, it read, hardly evidence of Ivan’s intent. He’d had many loves.
As if reading my mind, she said, “I was his fiancé. His only fiancé.”
“But …”
The night of Ivan’s death—his murder—returned. Thank god—more memories.
I’d been sitting at a piano, watching the rain. I’d opened the window to let in fresh air. I’d finished the liquor in my flask. I’d heard their voices in the stairwell nearby, its tall arched windows opened to the evening air as well.
“You can not stand in our way, Ivan,” Hans had said. “Please.”
“Begging is beneath you,” Roustakoff replied. His voice was tired, and there was something in it I hadn’t heard before, something human and afraid. But maybe it was the rain muffling Roustakoff’s usual sharpness.
“Hans, how many times have you thought you were in love?” Roustakoff continued. “Why should this time be any different?”
“She is not a thing that you own,” Hans had said more strongly, but with a hint of a tremolo coloring the perfect tenor. “We want to be together. We will not make it difficult for you. As soon as this is over—the opera—we will go quietly and get married.”
“Renata isn’t going to stick with you, my boy,” Roustakoff said, sounding as if he were giving the tenor advice. “You don’t know her the way I do. If I offered her the Kliegman solo, she’d leave you without so much as a second thought. Don’t fool yourself.”
“You wrote that piece for my voice!” Hans exclaimed, hurt. “I was just practicing it!” His voice trembled even more with shock and pain.
A rush of rain drowned out all sound, and I’d thought they’d gone away. But then, Hans’s whimpering voice spoke, as if he were fighting back tears. “You promised me.”
“Don’t talk to me about promises.”
“But that piece, it was for me, for my voice. You said—” Hans said pathetically.
“I did write that piece for a voice like yours, but if you won’t believe me when I tell you how false Renata is, I will … ”
I’d been so used to thinking of Roustakoff as a cold son-of-a-bitch that it hadn’t moved me one way or another to hear him threaten to break Hans’s heart. Poor sap, in love with Renata. I’d seen that in his eyes the first night, too, and rumors had flown around the conservatory before our first encounter. About Hans’s family, about Renata and Hans, about Roustakoff’s dalliance with a young singer.
Laura.
He was heartless. Just like his music. All of it except this one piece.
“Will you get out of her life?” Roustakoff had demanded.
Why had he been so cruel to Hans—Ivan only wanted Renata because someone else wanted her more.
“Ivan, you don’t love her really.” Hans had pleaded. I could have sworn the man was crying. “She is—gemütlich—comfortable for me to be with. My family would love her. My father …”
“Your father is a goose-stepping fascist. Do you think he’ll be happy with a dark-haired wop for a daughter-in-law? Oh, no, my dear. He’ll want someone of pure blood.” Roustakoff had laughed, but it was artificial, as if he were doing it just to hurt Hans. Then his voice changed, so much so that I’d thought at first that Hans was speaking again. It was flat and resigned, almost tender.
Rain covered the beginning of the rest of the conversation. Then: “You’ll get over her. You’ll sing my piece. And become famous. The Met will want you. Ponselle will come to Turandot and help launch your career. Everything will work out. Your life will be filled with treasure beyond belief. Artistic acclaim. Financial reward. Peace. Even love. You’ll see.”
The rain had intensified, muffling their voices beyond comprehension.
Maybe I should have told the detective about that conversation. But I couldn’t now, without telling Laura first, so she could say she’d heard it, too, in the practice room we’d supposedly shared.
I looked up at Renata. Perhaps Ivan had told her, too, she’d sing the piece. It wasn’t my place to get in the middle of that love triangle, even if one of its members was dead.
“I’m sure you’ll do a fine job, Renata. Just sing the lines with less vibrato, more like a boy soprano, perhaps.”
***
You couldn’t not stop and listen.
After my practice with Renata, I stood in the hallway, brightened by the yellow light of afternoon sun, hearing the honeyed tenor voice climbing up the melody, softer, softer until, with a penetrating purity, he sang the last line on that shimmering major third: Do not leave me now.
Silence.
And then, the sound of muffled weeping.
I found the studio and knocked on the heavy door. When he didn’t answer, I pushed it open.
He sat at the piano, his arms crossed and his head down.
“Hans?”
His head flew up. He sat up straight and composed himself. His face was red. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.
“I am sorry,” he said, standing. “Do you have this room now?” He gathered his things together, winding a knit scarf around his neck.
“That was beautiful,” I said, pointing to the one piece of music still on the piano. Ivan’s piece.
Flustered, he gathered it into a leather satchel. “Ja, it is a good piece.”
“I meant you sounded beautiful singing it. It’s perfect for you.”
He looked up, those blue eyes blazing with gratitude. “Danke. I will add it to my repertoire. I am sure it will be a very big piece, much sung.”
But he would not sing its debut. Renata had arranged that, as she had pointed out to me just a little earlier. What a shame—Hans’s voice was more suitable.
“Renata will sing it. She doesn’t do it nearly as well,” I probed.
“No, no, she does it very well,” he insisted, not looking at me. “She has the perfect sound for it. It is her piece. I am very happy for her.”
“Does she know Ivan was going to let you sing it?” I asked.
His head shot up, his eyes didn’t blink. “She will sing it and it will be beautiful. And I will be happy.”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. “You say that as if you have to force yourself to be happy about it, Hans.”
At first surprised by my lightheartedness, he paused, then relaxed into a smile. “Nein, I do not force. The detective asked me the same thing.”
I leaned on the piano.
“When did he talk to you?”
“Two times,” he answered. “First right after the death. Then a little later.”
So Reilly was still doggedly pursuing the case. I wondered if and when he’d talk to me again.
“What did he ask you?”
“Not many things. The same things. Where was I, who will sing the Kliegman, and, about Renata, ja.”
“He knows about you and Renata?”
Hans looked down, nodding. “Ja.” With great sadness, he murmured, “She tells him.”
Renata had told the detective she and Hans had been lovers. So sure of herself, so confident she was “all innocente.” She didn’t care who knew about her affairs. She was fearless.
*****
Four months earlier
Dear, dear Ivan,
My sweetest, most darling one! If you don’t see me on Tuesday, I think I’ll die. You promised me I could come to your home, your maid would be out and it would be a liaison dangereuse.
I have been practicing the Boheme, but Madame is not so sure it is for me. I told her that you had suggested it, and she was silenced.
Oh, my sweet, when I heard the Grieg in the hallway the other day, my knees went weak. I knew it was you, so ferocious at the keyboard, but so elegant. No one plays like you.
I think you are the one teacher who can really make me sing.
I will leave this billet doux at your door. You must find me. I have so many things to tell you, my love, that will make you unbelievably happy …
Your only true love,
Laura
Chapter Four
The detective did find me again, this time at my home on Potomac Street, a brick rowhouse with marble steps, basement kitchen, living room and bedroom on the first floor. I usually rented the top floor, but my last tenant had moved out in the summer after getting married and needing a home for his new bride. I missed that money.
“Mr. Silensky,” Reilly said, standing on my stoop on a Saturday morning over a week after the murder. “May I have a few words?”
Crap. I thought it had faded away. I’d been so busy with rehearsals, with making money. With drinking.
“Sure.” I rubbed my stubbly chin and blinked my eyes. Last night I’d stayed up late with Sal. We’d gone drinking. I’d flirted with his sister Brigitta afterward. Sal thinks I should ask her out or stop flirting. And then I’d had a tortured sleep where a parade of nightmares ripped open my gut, dreams of my accident—that I was used to—but another dream of killing Ivan.
But of course I’d dream of that. I loathed him.
I ushered Reilly into my living room, gesturing to a worn Victorian-style settee in an ugly olive green, and seeing the room through visitor’s eyes. An old Victrola stood in the corner opposite the sofa. The floor was covered with a thin, threadbare carpet of indeterminate hues. A battered upright was crammed next to the Victrola, and bumping up to this was a small half-moon table on wobbly legs, covered with unopened mail—bills I didn’t want to see—and some music. The walls themselves were papered in a pale blue print with vertical rows of faded roses. A picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus graced the wall above the table. My mother used to make a shrine there, with flowers and candles.
This room represented the cheap dreams, sentimental musings, and superstitions of Old World peasants trying to be something they were not, trying to imitate the very aristocrats they loathed and envied. But Reilly, with his too-tight suit and ruddy face, he knew this world. I didn’t need to apologize to him.
He sat, poised on the edge of the sofa, hands between his knees, holding his notepad.
“Working the weekend?” I asked him.
He gave one nod and smiled.
“I need to go over the events of the night Mr. Roustakoff died.” He looked at his notes. “You were with him in the big building?”
“The conservatory, yes.”
“And afterward—maybe two hours later—you went down the street … .”
“To the practice studios.” I pulled a creaking straightback chair from a corner and slumped in it. “Look, you don’t need to ask me for fingerprints. I will tell you right now that I handled the cola bottle. I understand the poison was in it.”
Half his mouth curled up. “Yeah.”
“He asked me to take it into the rehearsal for him. But that’s all I did with it.”
“You’re directing this show now, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“The rehearsals and all. For the show.”
“The opera. Yes, I’ve been asked to step in for him.”
“That’s kind of a big break for you?”
“It’s not much money, if that’s what you mean.”
But it wasn’t what he meant, and I knew it.
“What about this prize …” He looked at his notes. “The Kliegman. You’re second place, so you must be excited about your piece being played now.”
“No, that’s not how it works.”
“Says so in the rules.”
“What?”
“If the winner don’t show up for the radio broadcast, he can’t claim it.”
“I didn’t know.” I tensed. I wanted to be happy, but I couldn’t, not in front of him. “I’m sure they’ll make an exception. Ivan can’t help it that he’s dead.”
Reilly didn’t react to that, but consulted his notes once again.
“You went from the big building to the practice building,” he said. “And you were there with the Reed girl. What were you doing?”
“Practicing.” The lie came so easily.
“What kinds of stuff—the opera?”
“Schubert songs.” Another easy lie.
“How’d you hurt your hands?”
“An accident at Bethlehem Steel.”
He winced. “My cousin works there. It ain’t easy.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Why’d you work there if you play the piano?”
Play the piano—that’s how my family had referred to my obsession. As if there were only one piano in the entire world and their talented Grygor its fortunate player. My fellow musicians said “play piano.” Or, “I am a pianist.” “Tickle the ivories,” my Dad used to say, so proud to have learned such an American phrase. But therein lies the problem. Mine was not a family of musicians, even though my mother had once dreamed of singing when she was young. They were a family of laborers, workers with their hands. The kind of work that raises calluses and builds muscles. Beth Steel down by the river in Baltimore.
“My father and brother worked there. They got me a job one summer. To make money.” The summer before I was to enter Peabody on a full scholarship.
“Times are tough,” he said with genuine appreciation.
My mother had loved to hear me play. My father—he wondered if so much music made me soft, made me girlish. When he’d offered me the chance to prove him wrong, I’d taken it. My mother had died the year before, too late to hear of my success with the conservatory scholarship, and was no longer around to defend my artistic sensibilities, so forgive me if, in trying to please my father, I made one devastating mistake. I followed in his footsteps, working the line one summer, letting him smile at his friends as he looked at his big, strong strapping sons, letting the spark and hiss of molten steel shower me like grace from heaven.
Not grace. Something else. Something sulfurous. Something that took my brother and burned my hands. And a year later, after burying my dreams of becoming a serious pianist, I buried my father, a broken soul after losing his oldest son, sick and tired of life.
“Yes, money’s tight,” I concurred, irritated to have to remember this history.
“Your hands bother you much?”
“Constantly.” I rubbed them on my legs, staring him in the eyes.
“What you take for the pain?”
“I drink.” I laughed, and he chuckled with me.
“But the docs, they must’ve given you something.”
I stopped breathing. Yes, they had. Laudanum. The same thing that had killed Ivan. Panic gripped me. My breath stopped. I couldn’t let him see, I had to stay calm.
