Free The Silver Swan by Elena Delbanco

you enough,” he said, clasping the pianist’s arm.
    “We must do it again, eh? It was a pleasure to work together.”
    “I’ll ask my manager to be in touch with yours. Let’s get them to arrange some future dates. Next year, perhaps? The season after that?”
    “By all means.” Rossen looked at his watch. “But now we’re late for the Libbey reception. We should get going. As you know, I have two young kids and they get up early on Sundays. No chance of sleeping in …”
    “You go ahead. We’ll follow in a few minutes.”
    Claude changed his shirt and combed his hair. His mother helped him into his coat. “Tell me honestly, Maman, what didyou think — you who are my sternest judge? What will you tell Papa?”
    She laughed and reached up to kiss his cheek. “I’ll tell him you were a triumph and that you gave me the greatest joy I’ve felt in a long time.”
    “Good,” Claude said. “Then I’m happy.” He paused, frowning. “Except, I have one worry — I haven’t seen Mariana. She didn’t come to the greenroom. Do you think something’s wrong?”
    Francine’s expression changed. “You invited her to the reception. Surely she’ll attend, she is not rude. You mustn’t worry so much about her. We hardly know her, and only difficulties can arise out of knowing her better at this point. It’s all too complicated with the cello.”
    “But wouldn’t her father have wanted us to extend ourselves to her? Isn’t that why he brought us together?”
    “Come, let’s get to the party. I’m quite sure you’ll find her there,
chéri
. Your hosts await you.”

    At eleven, Claude and Francine arrived at the Jumeirah-Essex House. As they entered the lobby, Francine, looking around, complained that the Essex House had been bought by Arabs since her last visit, and ruined. “It is tarted up.”
    Claude hushed her. “We’re not supposed to say such things, Maman. This is America.”
    She shrugged. “Well, it’s true. Look at this lobby.”
    Their host, Mrs. Edith Libbey, had inherited a large fortune. Widowed by a banker, she possessed an important art collection. Sophie knew of it and she had told Claude to keephis eyes open. “It is legendary,” she’d said, urging him to pay attention on her behalf and make a full report. “I wish I could be there with you.”
    “Why not?” he had asked. “You could come for the weekend, just for the New York recital.”
    “You know I can’t. That weekend it’s impossible.” It was her mother’s sixtieth birthday, a celebration she could not miss.
    “I do know that. And I promise to report on everything I see.” Now, hoping to spend time with Mariana, he was relieved she hadn’t come.
    Mrs. Libbey occupied the penthouse. The elevator man consulted a list of invited guests and took them up. During the long ride, he stood with his white-gloved hands folded in front of him, saying not a word. When the doors opened, they stepped directly into the foyer of the Libbey apartment and were greeted by their hostess. Mrs. Libbey, a tiny, brittle woman with bright eyes — the only things that seemed to move in a face immobilized by decades of plastic surgery — shook their hands. Everything about her person seemed like tinder — papery, vulnerable to a passing spark. She greeted Francine familiarly, then complimented Claude on his performance and told him how much solace she had found in music since her husband died.
    “I often stay up here in my little aerie for days at a time, listening to music. You must have a look ’round at the art. Your mother too might like to revisit the paintings. Mr. Feldmann was most fond of them. It gave him such pleasure to look when he visited. I hope you will also find it interesting, Claude, if I may call you that? A musician must be sensitive to the visual arts. I always enjoyed that about your mentor.”
    A butler appeared behind her, dressed as formally as Claude himself, inquiring what they wished to drink. Claude asked