Free The Silver Swan by Elena Delbanco Page B

unfazed, Claude told himself she wasn’t being truthful. He was confident that he had had a privileged relationship with Alexander Feldmann and had earned his teacher’s esteem.
    “I see your mother’s here with you.” Mariana was mocking. “Is your father in town also?”
    “No, my father didn’t come. He has his own busy schedule, and because I play so many concerts, he follows my career much less closely than my mother does.” He laughed. “Besides, my father is so Eurocentric, he doesn’t feel a concert in New York is as important as any I play in a European capital! Were I to be playing the Dvořák concerto with the New York Philharmonic, he still wouldn’t come. He just doesn’t like America.”
    “It seems your mother does not share his opinion.”
    “She would go everywhere with me if I allowed her to. She hasn’t enough to do these days. But sometimes I prefer the company of women
other
than my mother.”
    Pursuing what he hoped was his advantage, he continued, “And I like you very much, Mariana. You are a beautiful woman.”
    She put her empty glass on the window ledge and looked away.
    Claude took her hand. “Did it make you terribly sad to see the Swan in the hands of someone other than your father tonight?”
    “I knew it would happen one day.” She paused. “But I always believed I would be the one to choose who that cellist would be.”
    “And are you disappointed in his choice?”
    She again looked at him intensely without answering. Behind them, a woman appeared.
    “Here you are! I’m Carol, Mrs. Libbey’s secretary. She asked me to show you around the apartment, to introduce you to her art. It’s a very special collection.”
    Carol was in her fifties — trim, and brisk. She extended her hand. Claude drew Mariana along with him, saying, “We’d be delighted.” Carol turned back to inquire, “Should we invite your mother to join us? She always loved these paintings.”
    “That isn’t necessary,” Claude answered. “I understand she’s been here several times before with Alexander Feldmann. Let’s just be the three of us.” Looking back, as he tightened his grip on Mariana’s hand, he saw grief in her deep, dark eyes.

    The apartment was vast. They moved from room to room, astonished at what they saw. Claude remembered Sophie’s request. He thought he should write things down to tell her about on the phone. But with Mariana so close, he didn’t much care to. It was hard to conjure Sophie here, her earnest, young face, polished and pure in the way of well-brought-upSwiss young women. He stood close to Mariana, keeping his fingers in contact with the fabric of her dress as he guided her from room to room. They were shown important paintings — an oil portrait of a princess by Hans Holbein the Younger, a series of Raphael drawings, a shelf of Cycladic sculpture, a library from Venice with a set of Canalettos, a Whistler, a John Singer Sargent, and two beach scenes by Winslow Homer which, Carol told them, Mr. Libbey had particularly loved.
    “He was from Maine; they had a place on Soames Sound. I myself barely knew him — he was dying by the time I came to work here — but he always said that Homer
spoke
to him.”
    Mariana was silent. She hugged her waist. Claude stared at her, pretending to look at the art on the walls but studying her profile and the plunging purple neckline. She yielded and leaned toward him.
    There were portraits of ancestral Libbeys — wearing white ruffled shirts and black coats. There was a dancer by Degas, a decoupage by Matisse. Carol discoursed at wearying length about who bought which picture when, and from which dealer, and where.
    A butler approached, half bowing. “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”
    In the dining room, an ornate crystal-and-gold chandelier sparkled above the table, and antique gold sconces hung between paintings of flowers: Renoir and Fantin-Latour. The table had been set with sumptuous linens, a silver