Free The Silver Swan by Elena Delbanco Page A

for a very dry martini, and his mother a glass of red wine. Edith Libbey escorted them down three carpeted steps into an enormous room with windows facing north over Central Park. As they entered, everyone stopped talking. “And here, at last,” proclaimed Mrs. Libbey in her whispery voice, “is our guest of honor. I’m sure you’ll agree he’s been too long in crossing the pond to offer us his talent.”
    Claude smiled, puzzled. This was an expression he had not heard before: “the pond.” He would remember it. The guests applauded and resumed their conversations. Mrs. Libbey gave the Roselles a chance to admire the view. To Francine, she said, “I’m very glad to see you looking so well. It’s been years since I’ve had the pleasure of entertaining you and Alexander. How very sad that he’s no longer with us, but at ninety, one must expect the end to come.” Looking heavenward, she said, “Soon it will be my turn.”
    “I doubt it,” Claude said quickly. “You’re not old enough, surely.”
    She smiled at him for the first time, pleased. “One can never count on anything after the age of seventy.”
    “Well, then, you have a long period of certainty ahead.”
    His mother, out of Mrs. Libbey’s line of sight, rolled her eyes.
    Edith Libbey smiled again. “I will ask my secretary, Carol, to show you my collection. Meanwhile, please make the acquaintance of those guests you have not met. We are sixteen tonight at our midnight supper, and now that everyone is here, I must consult with my chef.” In tiny, hurried steps, she crossed the room and disappeared through carved wooden doors.
    Claude and Francine separated to greet the other guests. They knew William Rossen, of course, and Claude’s concert manager. People were drinking, talking, and plucking hors d’oeuvres off trays passed by the catering staff. As he circulated, Claude looked for Mariana. He caught a glimpse of her in shadow at the far end of the room. Leaning against the window with a drink in her hand, staring down at the glittering city, she seemed very much alone. Her rigid posture, turned away from the other guests, did not invite conversation. Relieved to know she had come after all, Claude had to shift his attention to a man at his elbow, who introduced himself as a board member of Lincoln Center.
    “Congratulations,” said the man — Claude did not catch his name. “You did yourself — did all of us — proud. I so admire the Brahms sonatas.”
    “Yes, they are marvels, aren’t they? Was the program overlong?”
    “Not for this member of the audience. Had he written another piece for cello and piano, I would have welcomed it too. Brahms was a pianist, of course — I needn’t tell you that — but he understood the cello, didn’t he? He had, or so it seems to me, a particular sympathy for the cello’s register — I needn’t tell you that either — and the sonatas are among his most simpatico works …”
    As soon as he was able to disengage himself, Claude walked toward Mariana, coming up behind her and looking over her shoulder at the view. His face reflected back in the window, as did hers. He could smell the delicate fragrance she wore.
    She was silent as she took a step forward and turned her face toward his. Their eyes met for several moments before Claude moved back and smiled at her. “You are as lovely asyour father always said you were.” Still, she said nothing. “Tell me, Mariana, did you approve of my playing tonight? I felt I was playing in your father’s memory, to honor him. And I was also playing for you, knowing you were there. It matters very much to me what you thought.”
    “Yes, my father would have approved,” she said coolly. “Apparently, he was immensely proud of you.” Now she dropped her eyes and took a sip of her drink.
    “Ah, do you say that because he gave me the Silver Swan or because he spoke of me?”
    “My father spoke almost exclusively about himself.”
    Disappointed but