Ruth Sims - Counterpoint-Dylan's Story by Ruth Sims

Author:Ruth Sims [Sims, Ruth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Theonly antidote to loneliness, Dylan decided, was to

occupy each waking minute. On a Saturday evening when melancholy threatened, he decided to call upon Schonberg, as the Gypsy had suggested. Schonberg’s home, a narrow, dark house that wanted a coat of paint, was put to shame by the newer, larger homes on either side. It put Dylan in mind of a genteel, impoverished spinster aunt visiting haughty relatives. His knock was answered by Geoffrey Dohnányi, who gave hima startled smile as he stepped back to let himin. “I didn’t think you would come,” he said. “It’s a good time to call. It’s the Maestro’s birthday and we have friends in.”

Embarrassed, Dylan started to turn away. “Oh— I’msorry. I’llcome back another day.” Geoffrey grasped Dylan’s arm, pulling him along. “Nonsense. I insist you come in. The Maestro will be happy to see you.” The chatter ofvoices came fromthe adjoiningroom.

Reluctantly Dylan followed him into the parlor where around twenty people chattered, often laughing. Music was obviously a living thing there. On the piano, along with ragged heaps of music scores, was the violin case Geoffrey had had with him at the shop, the small silver initials “GD” branding it as his. Two intricately carved woodenmusic stands were beside the window.

A small oil portrait and a photograph on the mantelpiece caught his eye. The painting was obviously of Schonberg in his twenties, looking more than ever like Beethoven. Though he had never been handsome, his vibrant personality shone forth. In the photograph beside it, he was middle-aged, beginningto graybut still standing straight-backed as Napoleon III pinned something small and shiny to his coat. Over the mantelpiece was a darkened print ofVictoria, the pretty girl-queen. It was flanked on one side by a drawing of Beethoven and on the other side by a picture of the irrepressible and recently deceased Hungarian, Franz Liszt, as a youngman.

“Rutledge! How good that you have come!” The glad greeting broke into Dylan’s thoughts. He half turned toward the voice and froze. The fragile, shuffling old man coming toward him with Geoffrey’s hand beneath his left elbow could not be Schonberg! How could he have failed so muchinjust a year?

“It is a privilege to be here, Maestro,” he said, and in trying to cover his dismay, his voice was too loud, too hearty. He extended his hand and watched, unnerved, as Schonberg with an effort, raised his right arm. There was not muchgrip left inthe hand that Dylan took inhis.

There was quiet understanding in Schonberg’s voice as he said, “Don’t fret, my boy. Things are as they are. I have something the doctors can neither identifynor cure.”

“Theywillcure you,”Geoffreysaid.

“Ah, Geoff.”The sick mangave a fond wagofhis head. “Well, as long as I’m alive I intend to live.” he said. He paused to exchange a little chat and laughter with some of the guests, and then turned to Dylan, “Please. Help yourself to food and wine and then come talk to me.” To Geoffrey, he said, “If you would be so kind as to escort the kingto his throne….

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