all of it adding to the consequence of his patron, which the Graf von Firstengipfel would be reluctant to give up.”
“That’s fascinating, of course,” said Vanessa, not entirely candidly. “But the actual program is where my interest lies.”
Nicola pretended to be slighted. “Oh, well, if that’s all—” She sniffed as she scanned down the page, and turned it. “Ah. Here we go. Six Fugues on Themes of Handel. That’s Dziwny’s own composition, as you know.”
“As I know,” Vanessa echoed, the complex passages coming to mind. Her fingers twitched as if sketching out the cadenzas.
“Then Nursery Songs. That’s by a student of Boccherini, according to the material here. It’s a flashy piece but essentially trivial; hardly anyone plays it anymore, but it has a certain appeal, with all kinds of ornaments and runs, just the sort of thing Dziwny was said to do better than any of his contemporaries, like his knack for fugues,” said Nicola.
“Knack?” Vanessa repeated.
“Oh, yes, I think so,” said Nicola. “He had the mental facility for them, they were his means to an end, not the end itself, a kind of magic trick that caught the attention of the public.” She looked down at the page again. “Anyway, there was an intermission; they served lemon ices and champagne. Then the Grand Toccata and Fugue on a Polish Folk Song, his newest work. He’d played it in public only twice before. He never finished that performance.”
“Is there anything in that journal that says when he actually did it? And what he actually did?” Vanessa could not keep the eagerness out of her voice.
“Yes,” said Nicola. “There is some mention of it.” Her frown became a scowl as she read the journal, translating as she went. “He had reached the second full statement of the central theme, a passage with a great deal of octave work in it, and when he reached the long fermata, followed by the repeated figure in the left hand, his right went into the pocket of his coat, and he drew out a small pistol. He put it under his right ear, and before anyone could properly discern his intent or move to stop him, he fired. He fell sideways, his head striking the keyboard, then there was consternation everywhere. The Graffin fainted and had to be taken from the ballroom by the Graf, who ordered that the room be vacated at once. It was an appalling incident, no matter what the reason may actually have been; with such a tragedy, the world will assume the worst, and will no doubt fix the blame on the Graffin. The servants were charged with the task of disposing of the body. Or reposing the body. Some of these verbs are pretty irregular, even for early 19th century German. It seems to say There was anxiety or perhaps All felt anxiety because of this calamity.” Nicola put the journal down. “The rest is about the inconvenience of having to leave the next morning just as it was coming on to snow.”
“That’s pretty dispassionate,” said Vanessa.
“Well, the Baron was said to be a cool one. Still, watching a man blow his brains out can’t have been good entertainment, can it?” Nicola closed the journal. “I think he probably heard the event described, just because of the tone of it. His wife was most certainly in attendance, and she would have told everything to her husband; we know she accompanied the Graffin to her room and stayed with her for the whole night—she wrote a letter to the Graffin’s brother about the event, but put her emphasis on the Graffin, not on Dziwny.”
“Have you seen that letter?” Vanessa asked.
“Yes. It’s in a private collection in Salzburg. The owner allowed me to read it and copy down its text.” Nicola smiled faintly. “Would you like me to read it? I’m afraid the Baroness didn’t write very well, more like a third-grader than an adult—hardly surprising, given the state of women’s education at the time.” She reached out for the handle of the tallest file cabinet in the room.
“Never mind,” said Vanessa. “I get the picture.”
“It’s not a very pretty one,” said Nicola. “If you change your mind, I can make a translation and fax it to you while you’re on the road.”
“Thanks,” said Vanessa. “I’d appreciate that. I’ll put Howard on it, too. He’s the one pushing to tie in the suicide with the concert I’m preparing.”
“Are you actually going to buy the forte-piano?” Nicola asked.
“I wish. Shotwell’s asking a horrendous amount for it; I can’t justify spending that amount on it.” Vanessa shook her head. “No, I’m leasing it from him, for a pretty ridiculous fee, but at least I can almost afford it.”
Nicola shook her head in disapproval. “Do you really plan to perform the same program Dziwny did?”
“Yes,” said Vanessa mischievously. “It’s quite a hook, don’t you think? I hope it makes for more money, given what I’ve had to lay out in leasing fees.”
“It’ll bring the critics out in droves,” said Nicola in a disapproving way.
“That’s the general idea.” Vanessa came around the desk to give Nicola a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for this. You’ve been wonderful.”
“If you say so,” Nicola remarked unconcernedly.
“I’ll make sure you have a ticket to the first performance,” Vanessa promised as she started out the door.
“Perish the thought,” said Nicola as a parting shot.
* * * *
“Look at this!” Howard Faster exclaimed jubilantly as he hurried in from his lunch, the hotel door banging with the force of his entrance. “Mickey Resselot just brought them over.” He thrust half-a-dozen newspaper clippings toward Vanessa. “And there’s more coming.”
“Fine,” said Vanessa distractedly as she continued to study the score in her hands. “I’ll look at them later.”
“You’ve never had press like this!” he crowed, ignoring her preoccupation and putting the clippings down on the round table by the window. “Chicago! Cleveland! New York! Minneapolis! LA!”
“And the concert is scheduled for Seattle,” said Vanessa with a slight smile. “Do you think they’ll all send someone to cover the concert? I doubt it. This is just the sensation of the week, something to talk about.”
“So long as they do talk about it—in advance, yet—I don’t care if they cover the event or not,” said Faster, adding with a smirk, “There’s more: PBS may want to tape the concert if this keeps up.”
“Isn’t that aiming a bit high?” Vanessa asked, putting the score aside with a suggestion of exasperation. “I can’t concentrate with you bouncing off the walls.”
“Of course it is! We should be aiming high, with all this lift! Besides, I’ve had feelers already, and that means someone there is thinking about it; I’m just following up. You know, I think I’m going to see if A&E wants to put in a competing bid. If nothing else, that should add to the excitement.” He gathered up the clippings again. “You could finally get the break you’ve been working for!”
“On a gimmick,” said Vanessa.
“Not a gimmick, on a hook. A hook, Vanessa. There’s a big difference.” He took one of the three chairs in the small parlor of her suite and pulled it up to the table. “You can get attention because
