Pieces of Her Page 15

  The research behind Martin’s theory was well substantiated. One might even call it a summation of facts rather than an actual theory. The problem—at least according to Alex Maplecroft—was that the Queller Correction was being used not as an academic term to describe a historical phenomenon but as a justification for setting current monetary and social policy. A sort of “history repeats itself,” but without the usual irony.

  Here were some of the more recent Queller Corrections: less AIDS funding to thin out the homosexual population, harsher sentences for African American crack users, regressive penalties for post-conviction felons, mandatory life sentences for repeat offenders, the for-profit privatization of prisons and mental health facilities.

  In a Los Angeles Times op-ed, Alex Maplecroft derided the thinking that went into the Queller Correction with this inflammatory line: “One wonders if Hermann Göring swallowed that cyanide capsule after all.”

  “Doctor?” Jane pulled Laura out of her thoughts. “Do you mind if—”

  The girl wanted another cigarette. Laura shook two out of the pack.

  This time, the bartender had a light for both of them.

  Laura held in the smoke. She watched Jane watching the mirror. She asked, “Why did you give up performing?”

  At first, Jane did not answer. She must have been asked the same question dozens of times. Maybe she was preparing to give Laura the same pat answer, but something altered in her expression as she turned in her seat. “Do you know how many famous women pianists there are?”

  Laura was no musical expert—that had been her husband’s hobby—but she had the tickling of a memory. “There’s a Brazilian woman, Maria Arruda, or . . .?”

  “Martha Argerich, from Argentina, but well done.” Jane smiled without humor. “Name another.”

  Laura shrugged. She had not technically named one.

  Jane said, “I was backstage at Carnegie, and I looked around and realized I was the only woman there. Which had happened before, many times, but this was the first time that I had really noticed. And that people noticed me.” She rolled the ash off of her cigarette. “So then my teacher dropped me.” The sudden appearance of tears at the corners of her eyes indicated the girl was still stung by the loss. “I’d trained with Pechenikov from the age of eight, but he told me that he had taken me as far as I could go.”

  Laura felt the need to ask, “Can you not find another teacher?”

  “No one will take me on.” She puffed the cigarette. “Pechenikov was the best, so I went to the second best. Then the third. By the time I worked my way down to the junior high band directors, I realized that they were using the same code.” She held Laura’s gaze with a knowing expression. “When they said, ‘I don’t have time to take on a new student,’ what they meant was, ‘I’m not going to waste my talent and effort on a silly girl who’s going to give it all up once she falls in love.’”

  “Ah,” Laura said, because that was really all she could say.

  “It’s easier in some ways, I suppose. I’ve been devoting three or four hours a day, every day of my life, to practicing. Classical is so exact. You have to play every note as written. Your dynamics matter almost more than touch. With jazz, there’s a melodic expression you can bring to the piece. And rock—do you know The Doors?”

  Laura had to shift her thinking in a different direction. “Jim Morrison?”

  Jane tapped her fingers on the bar top. At first, Laura only heard a frantic rapping, but then, remarkably—

  “‘Love Me Two Times.’” Laura laughed at the neat trick.

  Jane said, “Manzarek played both the keyboard part and the bass part at the same time. It’s amazing how he pulled it off, as if each hand worked completely independent of the other. A split personality, almost, but people don’t concentrate on the technical aspects. They just love the sound.” She kept tapping out the song as she spoke. “If I can’t play music that people appreciate, then I want to play music that people love.”

  “Good for you.” Laura let the beats play in the silence for a moment before asking, “You’ve been in Europe for the last three months, you said?”

  “Berlin.” Jane’s hands finally wound down. “I was filling in as a session pianist at Hansa Tonstudio.”

  Laura shook her head. She had never heard of it.

  “It’s a recording studio by the Wall. They have a space, the Meistersaal, which has the most beautiful acoustics for every type of music—classical, chamber, pop, rock. Bowie recorded there. Iggy Pop. Depeche Mode.”

  “Sounds like you’ve met some famous people.”

  “Oh, no. My part’s done by the time they roll in. That’s the beauty of it. It’s just me and my performance in isolation. No one knows who’s behind the keyboard. No one cares if you’re a woman, or a man, or a French poodle. They just want you to feel the music, and that’s what I’m good at—feeling where the notes go.” A glow of excitement enhanced her natural beauty. “If you love music—really, truly, love music—then you play it for yourself.”

  Laura felt herself nodding. She had no musical point of reference, but she understood that the pure love of something could not only give you strength but propel you forward.

  Still, she said, “It’s a lot to give up.”

  “Is it?” Jane seemed genuinely curious. “How can I give up something that was never really offered to me because of what’s between my legs?” She gave a hard laugh. “Or not between my legs, or what might come out from between my legs at some point in the future.”

  “Men can always reinvent themselves,” Laura said. “For women, once you’re a mother, you’re always a mother.”

  “That’s not terribly feminist of you, Dr. Maplecroft.”

  “No, but you understand this because you’re a chameleon like me. If you can’t play the music people appreciate, then you play the music that they love.” Laura hoped that one day that might change. Then again, she hoped every morning when she woke up that she would hear Lila’s awful music on the radio, watch Peter run around the living room looking for his shoes, and find David talking low into the telephone because he did not want his mother to know that he had a girlfriend.

  “You should go.” Jane pointed to the clock. The forty-five minutes were almost up.

  Laura wanted to keep talking, but she knew she had no choice. She reached into her purse for her wallet.

  “It’s on me,” Jane offered.

  “I couldn’t—”

  “I should say it’s on the Queller family tab.”

  “All right,” Laura agreed. She slid from the stool, stifling a wince from the pain as she put weight back on her leg. Her cane was where she had left it. She gripped the silver knob in her hand. She looked at Jane and wondered if this was the last person she would have a normal conversation with. If that turned out to be the case, she was glad.

  She told the girl, “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

  “You, too.” Jane offered, “I’ll be on the front row if you need a friendly face.”

  Laura felt enormously sad at the news. Uncharacteristically, she reached out and covered Jane’s hand with her own. She could feel the coolness of the girl’s skin. Laura wondered how long it had been since she had touched another human being for comfort.

  She blurted out the words, “You are a magnificent person.”

  “Gosh.” Jane blushed.

  “It’s not because you’re talented, or beautiful, though you certainly are both. It’s because you’re so uniquely you.” Laura said the words that she wished she’d had time to tell her own daughter: “Everything about you is amazing.”

  The blush reddened as Jane struggled for a pithy response.

  “No.” Laura would not let the girl’s sarcasm ruin the moment. “You’ll find your way, Jane, and it will be the right way, no matter what, because it’s the path that you set out for yourself.” She squeezed the girl’s hand one last time. “That’s my advice.”

  Laura felt Jane’s eyes f
ollow her progress as she slowly walked across the room. She had sat at the bar too long. Her foot was numb. The bullet lodged inside of her back felt as if it was a living, breathing thing. She cursed the shard of metal, no larger than the nail on her pinky finger, that sat dangerously close to her spinal cord.

  Just this once, this last time, she wanted to move quickly, to recapture some of her former agility, and complete the task before Jane could find her seat on the front row.

  The lobby had emptied of important men, but their cigarette and pipe smoke lingered. Laura pushed open the door to the ladies room.

  Empty, as Nick had predicted.

  She walked to the last stall. She opened and closed the door. She struggled with the lock. The sliding bolt would not fit into the slot. She banged it twice, the metal singing against metal, then finally got it to stay closed.

  Laura was overcome by a sudden dizziness. She pressed her hands to the walls. She took a few moments to stabilize. The two drinks on top of her jet lag had been a mistake, but she could be forgiven her fatalistic choices on today of all days.

  The toilet was old-fashioned, the tank mounted high on the wall. She reached behind it. Her heart fluttered as she blindly searched. She felt the tape first. Her panic ebbed only slightly as her fingers traced their way up to the paper bag.

  The door opened.

  “Hej-hej?” a man said.

  Laura froze, heart stopped.

  “Hello?” The man was dragging something heavy across the floor. “Cleaner here. Hello?”

  “Just a moment,” Laura called back, the words choking in her throat.

  “Cleaner,” he repeated.

  “Nej,” she said, more stridently. “Occupied.”

  He gave a vexed sigh.

  She waited.

  Another sigh.

  Another moment.

  Finally, he dragged whatever he had brought into the toilets back across the floor. He closed the door so hard that the stall door slipped its flimsy lock and creaked open.

  Laura felt the sliding bolt press its finger into the small of her back.

  Improbably, a laugh tickled the back of her throat. She could only imagine what she looked like, skirt rucked up, standing with a leg on either side of the toilet bowl, her hand up the back of the tank.

  All that was missing was the sound of a passing train and Michael Corleone.

  Laura pulled down the paper bag. She shoved it into her purse. She went to the sink. She checked her hair and lipstick in the mirror. She studied her reflection as she washed her trembling hands.

  The eyeshadow was jarring. She had never really worn make-up in her normal life. Her hair was normally worn back off her face. She normally wore jeans and one of her husband’s shirts and a pair of her son’s sneakers that he normally left by the door.

  Normally, she had a camera swung around her neck.

  Normally, she was frantically running around, trying to book sessions, working sessions, planning recitals and rehearsals and practice and meals and time to cook and time to read and time to love.

  But normal wasn’t normal anymore.

  Laura dried her hands on a paper towel. She put on fresh lipstick. She bared her white teeth to the mirror.

  The cleaner was waiting outside the ladies room. He was smoking, leaning against a large trash can that had spray bottles looped around the sides.

  Laura suppressed the urge to apologize. She checked the paper bag in her purse. She pulled closed the zipper. The dizziness returned, but she managed to shake it. There was nothing to do about the churning in her stomach. Her heart was a metronome at the base of her throat. She could feel the blood pulsing through her veins. Her vision sharpened to the point of a tack.

  “Dr. Maplecroft?” A flustered young woman in a floral dress approached from nowhere. “Follow me, please. Your panel will start soon.”

  Laura tried to keep up with the girl’s brisk, almost panicked walk. They were halfway down the hall when Laura realized she was getting winded. She slowed down, letting her hand rest longer on the cane. She had to remain calm. What she was about to do could not be rushed.

  “Madam,” the young girl pleaded, motioning for Laura to hurry.

  “They won’t start without me,” Laura said, though she wasn’t certain, given Martin Queller’s reputation, that the man would wait. She found the pack of tissues in her purse. She wiped the sweat from her forehead.

  A door flew open.

  “Young lady.” Martin Queller was snapping his fingers as if to call a dog. “Where is Maplecroft?” He glanced at Laura. “Coffee, two sugars.”

  The girl tried, “Doctor—”

  “Coffee,” Martin repeated, visibly annoyed. “Are you deaf?”

  “I’m Dr. Maplecroft.”

  He did a double-take. Twice. “Alex Maplecroft?”

  “Alexandra.” She offered her hand. “I’m glad for this opportunity to meet in person.”

  A group of colleagues had congregated behind him. Martin had no choice but to shake her hand. His eyes, as was the case with so many before him, went to her hair. That’s what gave it away. Laura’s skin tone was closer to her white mother’s, but she had the distinctive, kinky hair of her black father.

  Martin said, “I understand you now. You’ve let your anecdotal experiences color your research.”

  Laura gazed down at the stark white hand she was holding. “Color is such an interesting choice of words, Martin.”

  He corrected her, “It’s Dr. Queller.”

  “Yes, I heard about you while I was at Harvard.” Laura turned toward the man on Martin’s right; the German, judging by the sharp gray suit and thin navy tie. “Dr. Richter?”

  “Friedrich, please. It is my pleasure.” The man could hardly be bothered to hide his smile. He pulled over another man, gray-haired but wearing a fashionable, teal-colored jacket. “May I introduce you to our fellow panelist, Herr Dr. Maes?”

  “So good to meet you.” Laura shook the Belgian’s hand, feeding off Martin’s obvious disdain. She turned to the young woman. “Are we ready to begin?”

  “Certainly, madam.” The girl escorted them across the hall to the stage entrance.

  The introductions had already begun. The lights were darkened in the wings. The girl used a flashlight to show the way. Laura could hear the rumble of male voices from the audience. Another man, the announcer, was speaking into a microphone. His French was too rapid for Laura to follow. She was grateful when he switched to English.

  “And now, enough of my babbling, hey? Without further ado, we must welcome our four panelists.”

  The applause shook the floor beneath Laura’s feet. Butterflies flipped inside her stomach. Eight hundred people. The house lights had gone up. Just past the curtain, she could see the right side of the auditorium. The audience, most all of them men, was standing, their hands clapping, waiting for the show to begin.

  “Doctor?” Friedrich Richter murmured.

  Her fellow panelists were waiting for Laura to lead the way. Even Martin Queller had the basic manners to not walk out ahead of a woman. This was the moment Laura had waited for. This was what had forced her out of her hospital bed, pushed her to complete the excruciating therapies, propelled her onto the four airplanes she’d taken to get here.

  And yet, Laura felt herself frozen in place, momentarily lost in what she was about to do.

  “For Godsakes.” Martin quickly grew impatient. He strode onto the stage.

  The crowd roared at his appearance. Feet were stamped. Hands were waved. Fists were pumped.

  Friedrich and Maes performed a Laurel and Hardy-like pantomime of who would have the honor of letting Laura precede them.

  She had to go. She had to do this.

  Now.

  The air grew suffocatingly close as she walked onto the stage. Despite the howl of cheers and applause, Laura was conscious of the hard tap of her cane across the wooden boards. She felt her shoulders roll in. Her head bowed. The urge to make herself smalle
r was overpowering.

  She looked up.

  More lights. A fugue of cigarette smoke hung in the rafters.

  She turned toward the audience—not to see the crowd, but to find Jane. She was in the front row, as promised. Andrew was to her left, Nick to her right, but it was Jane who held Laura’s attention. They exchanged private smiles before Laura turned back to the stage.

  She had to start this so that she could end it.

  Microphones pointed rifle-like at four chairs that were separated by small side tables. Laura had not been part of any discussion regarding seating, so she stopped at the first chair. Beads of sweat broke out onto her upper lip. The harsh lights might as well have been lasers. She realized too late that this was the part she should have practiced. The chair was typical Scandinavian design: beautiful to look at, but low to the ground with not much support in the back. Worse yet, it appeared to swivel.

  “Doctor?” Maes grabbed the back of the adjacent chair, holding it still for her. So, Laura was meant to go in the middle. She lowered herself into the low chair, the muscles in her shoulders and legs spasming with pain.

  “Yes?” Maes offered to lay her cane on the floor.

  “Yes.” Laura clutched her purse in her lap. “Thank you.”

  Maes took the chair on her left. Friedrich walked to the far end, leaving the chair beside Laura empty.

  She looked past the pointed end of the microphones into the crowd. The clapping was tapering off. People were starting to take their seats.

  Martin Queller was not quite ready to let them settle. He stood with his hand high in the air as he saluted the audience. Poor optics, given Maplecroft’s line about Göring. As was the slight bow he gave before finally taking the chair center stage.

  Now the audience began to settle. The last of the stray claps died down. The house lights lowered. The stage lights came up.

  Laura blinked, momentarily blinded. She waited for the inevitable, which was for Martin Queller to adjust the microphone to his satisfaction and begin speaking.

  He said, “On behalf of my fellow panelists, I’d like to thank you for your attendance. It is my fervent hope that our discourse remain lively and civil and, most importantly, that it lives up to your expectations.” He looked to his left, then right, as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a stack of index cards. “Let’s begin with what Comrade General Secretary Gorbachev has dubbed the ‘Era of Stagnation.’”