Heart and Soul Read Free

continuing my lessons with faithful frustrated Harold Stein. Once, I was waiting for the bus on Broadway and he got into a cab right in front of me. I recognized him instantly, of course—who wouldn’t? Twice, I came out of a practice room and he was walking past. Finally, I was hurrying to my waitress job and I literally slid around a corner and into his arms. Now, I’d spent years listening to recordings by Montagnier and Dumont (music students called them the Twin Peaks) and I had a lot of respect for them. Furthermore, I will never ever forget the wattage of that first smile David flashed at me. So that’s my defense.
    â€œShit! Oh my God, I almost killed you!” Pathetic, I realize, but at least I didn’t say Fuck me! which tended to slip out when I was flustered. (I was no stranger to my father’s firehouse.) “Bess Stallone, no relation,” I said, and held out my hand.
    â€œYes, I know,” he said, wrapping long, muscular fingers around mine.
    â€œShut up !” I said. David Montagnier knew my name! Jesus! He had a fabulous accent, sort of nonspecific European. He could make the menu from Schmuel’s Kosher Deli sound romantic. I know, because one time I made him read it to me just to test it out. Salami, pastrami, gefilte fish, and flanken. It was like a Puccini libretto.
    â€œAre you hurt?” David asked.
    â€œI’m okay,” I said. “Just abashed.” I felt quite pleased with myself over that one. “Abashed” happened to be my vocabulary word of the day—my effort at self-improvement—and it wasn’t often I got to use the selection du jour to such terrific effect.
    Meanwhile, David still had me by the elbow, and even though I was blushing to my roots, I was self-possessed enough to be pleased that a student from my old Music Theory class had spotted us and almost went into cardiac arrest from envy.
    â€œThe Ruggiero’s coming along well,” he said. David smiled again—whoa, fetch me my shades. “I heard you practicing,” he explained. “Would you possibly have time for a cup of tea and some pointers?”
    What if I’d said no? Not that it ever would have happened. But here it was, the major crossroads of my life.
    â€œSure,” I said. Sure I can not show up for my shift waiting tables at O’Neals. A lifetime of food stamps was a small price to pay for half an hour with those eyeballs.
    We went to a café on West 68th. I was annoyed that it was off the main drag where we couldn’t be seen by the entire Lincoln Center community. David ordered us herbal tea, which I hate.
    â€œI approve of what you’re doing with the phrasing in the Ruggiero,” he said. “You know, Bess, your playing makes me think of diamonds.”
    I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, I was flattered that he’d been eavesdropping, but I was also wary. How long had he been listening to me, anyway? The tea came. I started to reach for the sugar bowl, but David covered my hand. “It’s so bad for you. If you must use sweetener, I’ll ask for honey.”
    â€œHealthy food gives me hives,” I explained. But I put my spoon down and sipped at my tea. It wasn’t so bad. I was thinking back to that diamond remark. I felt as if, from under my mother’s hand-me-down turtleneck sweater, I was glittering like jewels in a Tiffany’s window. “About the Ruggiero…” I said, not wanting to lose my chance at words of wisdom from the Man Himself. Besides, the composer was so contemporary and weird that there was hardly anybody around who knew how to play her stuff.
    He leaned forward across the table, took my hands in his, and started examining my fingers. “Yes, excellent,” he said. “Beautiful.”
    I wanted to close my eyes so I could concentrate on the sensations he was producing in my body. Maybe as a pianist I had extrasensitive hands, but I