Cut And Run. Carla Neggers
go to Vermont for a week or so on a well-deserved vacation, and then I come back and spend the next few months working and recording. I don’t have another concert until spring. I’m cutting back some this year. You know all that, Shuji, so what are you trying to get at?”
“Don’t go to Vermont,” he said.
“What?”
“You heard me. Don’t go.”
“Shuji, I need rest. Dammit, I deserve a break!”
“You need work.”
“I work all the time. I’ve been on the road for four months—”
“The real excitement of being a pianist is in the practice room, not on the concert stage. Juliana, you’ve been operating at a killing pace the past few years. I know that. And you know I support your cutting back from a hundred concerts a year. But I don’t support your going to Vermont, at least not right away. You need to experience the excitement of the practice room again, and as soon as possible.”
“Jesus Christ, Shuji, I’m only going to be gone a week!”
Shuji took a deep drag on his cigarette, held the smoke a moment, then exhaled. Juliana coughed and drank some of her café au lait, but he paid no attention. As usual, he was absorbed totally in his own thoughts. If we were married, she thought, we’d last two weeks.
“A pianist doesn’t look forward to a vacation where there is no piano,” he said.
You shit, she thought, but held back. She owned a small, antique Cape Cod house overlooking the Batten Kill River in southwestern Vermont; during the winter, she liked to keep a fire going in the center chimney fireplace. She would sit in front of the flames with an old quilt spread on her lap and read books, not thinking about music. It was true she didn’t have a piano in Vermont. She didn’t even have a stereo. What she had was silence.
“Shuji,” she said carefully, controlling her impatience. “I am not you. I need this time out, and I’m going to take it.”
“It would be a mistake.”
“Why all of a sudden would going to Vermont be a mistake? It’s not as if I’ve never done it before.”
“I was in Copenhagen, Juliana.”
“Shit.”
“Yes.”
Copenhagen hadn’t been one of her more memorable performances. In fact, it had been distinctly forgettable. But Shuji didn’t comprehend things like bad nights, and Juliana knew better than to make excuses. “It was an inferior performance,” she admitted, “but skipping Vermont isn’t going to change that—and what the hell are you sneaking into my concerts for? Haven’t you got anything better to do?”
“I was in Paris also.”
“Well, then, you know Copenhagen was an aberration.” She had received a standing ovation and rave notices in Paris—and had earned them.
But Shuji was shaking his head solemnly as he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “I’m not interested in what went on on the surface, I’m interested in what’s going on beneath the surface.” He always talked like that; it drove her nuts. “I heard something in Copenhagen and in Paris—on a ‘bad’ night and on a ‘good’ night, if you insist. It was an uneasiness, I believe, a hint of unpredictability. No one else would notice, of course, but soon they will, if you let it get away from you. Be aware of it. Control it. Find out what it is, Juliana, and use it to your advantage. The only place you can do that is in the practice room.”
What he’d heard was J.J. Pepper creeping into her work, but that wasn’t something Juliana wanted to discuss with Eric Shuji Shizumi. “Fine. I’ll work on it after Vermont.”
“You’re in a funk, Juliana.”
“I’m not.”
His black eyes probed her face. “Are you afraid of burning out?”
“No.”
“I was, when I was thirty. You don’t remember. You were just a child and had no understanding of such things. But despite all the acclaim, the recordings, the bookings, I wondered if I’d still be around when I was thirty-five. Countless young pianists are just flash-in-the-pans, brilliant for a few years and then gone—poof. Sometimes it’s their choice; sometimes not.”
“I’m not going to go ‘poof’, I’m going to go to Vermont.”
“God knows the public’s fickle, always searching for a new star, and our competition system thrusts pianists into the public light at an incredibly young age. The pressures of being a virtuoso are enormous. You’re so exposed, so vulnerable. At thirty, the novelty’s worn off. You’ve made a great deal of money, and you must decide if you want to be in this thing for the long haul or not.”
“I’ve never considered not being a pianist.”
“Haven’t you?”
He gave her an unreadable half-smile, aware that she was lying. Of course she had. Lately, more than ever. But she couldn’t tell Shuji about the mornings she’d lain in bed wondering what her life would be like if she’d never taken up piano, if she never played again. What would she do? What could she do? She couldn’t tell him about her mounting exhaustion as the tour had worn on, about her fantasies of sticking a jazz improvisation into the middle of a Mozart sonata, about her tiresome fights with her manager, who wanted her to maintain a hundred-concert schedule and at the same time expand her repertoire and do more recordings. She couldn’t tell Shuji about her boredom with the review, the constant travel, the fancy dinners, the men she met. She couldn’t tell him about the growing monotony of it all and her fear that the monotony would follow her into the practice room, where it never had before. J.J. had counteracted some of the monotony, but she wouldn’t be around forever—and Shuji couldn’t know about J.J.
He was right. She was in a funk. But in nineteen years, she’d never once told Eric Shuji Shizumi he was right. They argued and struggled and discussed, but she never gave in to him, never permitted herself to be intimidated by his legendary status. When that happened, she would lose her independence as an artist and, she thought, as a person.
“I’m not worried about being around when I’m thirty-five, and I’m not in any funk.” She pushed aside her café au lait and sprang up, feeling tired and scared and so furious she couldn’t see clearly. Why the hell couldn’t Shuji just leave her alone! Why did he always have to push and press! “I hope to hell you’re happy, Shuji. You’ve ruined Vermont for me.”
“Good,” he said.
“Bastard. Go to hell.”
She stalked out, leaving him with the bill and a smug look on his handsome face.
From his shabby hotel room on Broadway, Hendrik de Geer put a call through to United States Senator Samuel Ryder. The Dutchman had been given the senator’s Georgetown number, and he wasn’t surprised when Ryder picked up on the first ring. It was precisely nine o’clock, when Hendrik had said he would call.
“You have your answer?” Ryder asked.
The Dutchman heard the tension in the young senator’s patrician tone, but he took no pleasure in it. “I will meet you at Lincoln Center on Saturday night.” His English was excellent, only lightly accented; he spoke Dutch only when there was no alternative. It was the language of his past. “After the concert. You’ll have a car?”
“Of course.”
“Meet me there.”
“All right. But take care the Stein woman doesn’t see you.”
Hendrik closed his eyes, just for a second, and felt the pain wash over him. The Stein woman…Rachel. But—“I need no instructions from you, Senator.” His voice was cold. “Bloch knows none of this?”
“Do