The Silver Swan by Elena Delbanco

Author:Elena Delbanco [Delbanco, Elena]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-59051-717-8
Publisher: Other Press
Published: 2015-05-18T16:00:00+00:00

Passing Tanglewood, Claude opened the passenger window to breathe in the mountain air. “Have you been forgiven for canceling your concert?”

“Oh, yes. It was so many years ago. And after a while, the talk and speculation died down and people seemed to forget I’d ever been asked to play. They stopped asking if I would perform again.”

They drove down the main street of Stockbridge and, two miles west of town, turned left toward Swann’s Way. In the lengthening afternoon shadows, light filtered through the woods. The trees, leafing out weeks later here than in Central Park, wore a pale, lacy green. They entered the long, unpaved driveway and began the steep ascent.

The house stood, its four brick chimneys raised like outstretched arms, in a high clearing, atop a large expanse of rolling, rising lawn. The long path from garage to house was bordered by stone walls and stately maples. Dappled light flashed off the patterned slate roof. “Come into Feldmann’s palace,” she said, leading Claude to the door, “where celestial music is made.”

She walked him through the rooms. He wanted to examine everything — each chair, each bed, each bookshelf — but she said there would be time for all that. He picked up a photograph of her as a child; in it she looked fragile. Then he looked at a photograph of Pilar and whistled. “What a beauty!”

“Yes, she was. She once was.”

“Did you have great times with your father when you were young? When he came to Lugano, he was always so much fun. He liked to make me laugh. But only when we weren’t working.”

Mariana was thoughtful before answering. “When I was a kid, I loved it when he came home. Life got so much more interesting. Sometimes, on Saturdays or school vacations, I would get dressed nicely and he would take me around with him to the luthier shops, orchestra rehearsals, or lunch in fancy restaurants, or even to the tailor who made his clothes. I thought he was very handsome and everyone we met seemed so pleased to see him. I felt very important to be with him.”

“I can imagine,” Claude said.

“But he wasn’t home very often, and even when he was, he didn’t have much time for me.”

As the sun dipped toward the western mountains, Mariana took Claude to her father’s studio, where she removed the copies of the Silver Swan from the safe Alexander had installed. For insurance purposes, and in order to protect the instruments from fire, flood, or theft, he had built a steel room within the room. She removed two oil paintings and slid open the false wall panel behind them. The heavy door behind the panel bore a combination lock — its code the date of his debut recital and her birthday. She opened it. Inside, in a climate-controlled vault, eight copies of the famous Strad hung on velvet straps. The Stradivarius was of course in New York with Baum & Fernand, but these mute versions — lined up like soldiers, as if they waited for someone to say “at ease” — were still hers.

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