The Silver Swan Read Free Page A

where it was created; she saw another old man, brush in hand, applying his expert strokes of varnish as the instrument itself became a glistening source of light. This treasure, passed down through centuries and now possessed by Alexander Feldmann, would soon enough be hers.
    The best violoncelli had names. She remembered some of them: the Bass of Spain, the Gore-Booth, and the Piatti. They were often named after the people who owned or performed on them: the Batta, the Countess of Stanlein, the Paganini, the Servais, the Duport, the Davidoff. “Perhaps,” Alexander often said, “this will become the Feldmann. It may someday be named for me.”

    He came to the end of the suite and, exhausted, let his bow arm fall to his side. Mariana took the instrument from him. On the piano she saw the soft cloth he used to wipe the residueof resin off the varnish. She retrieved it and, by the light of the lamp, cleaned the wood under the bridge.
    “Don’t put it away just yet, darling,” Alexander murmured. “I would like to hear you play the Swan for me with the strength of your youth. I find I no longer can make it sing.”
    “I can’t say I agree,” she answered. “You’ve lost very little.” This was not exactly true, but it was what her father wanted to hear. With her free hand, she moved a chair in front of him and placed the Swan between her legs. “What do you want me to play?”
    “The D Major,” he said. She paused a moment and then plunged into the suite with force. He sat — eyes closed, smiling — and with his right hand beat time.
    Mariana returned the Swan to the safe in Alexander’s studio and wheeled him to the dining room for dinner, drawing his chair up to the head of the long, polished table. She lit candles on the sideboard, tucked his napkin under his chin, and went to the kitchen. Returning with two bowls of onion soup, she joined him.
    “I wonder how I shall be remembered,” Alexander began. Mariana sighed, anticipating another dinner spent discussing her father’s legacy, but she humored him as usual. “Really, Papa, your recordings will be played forever. No one will surpass your performance of the Dvořák concerto.”
    “How sad,” he continued, “that I never recorded the Bach suites. I waited too long, it appears. That is a great loss for the world.” Feldmann paused. “I wonder if it’s too late.” Mariana didn’t answer. She too wished he had recorded them, but it was certainly too late. As they finished dinner, he grew troubled. “My sweetheart,” he said, patting Mariana’s hand, “youare so good to me. But what will you do when I’m gone?” He paused again. “You know I have been ready to die for a long time now, but I cannot — because I know how much you need me and depend on me.”
    Mariana suppressed exasperation as he looked at her wistfully.
    “You should have a husband.”
    “I had many a boyfriend as a kid, Papa, and you made it very difficult for all of them … and for me. Remember how intimidating you could be? She smiled as she said this, but clearly she was annoyed. “I think you were jealous every time I went out. You scared everyone away. And when I fell in love with Pietovsky, I thought you’d have a stroke, you were so agitated,” she continued, an edge in her voice.
    “Well, he was a married man, Mariana, and no good for you. What father would want that for his daughter? All we wanted, your mother and I, was that you find a good husband.”
    She stared at him in disbelief. “If I had a husband, good or bad, I couldn’t have lived here with you for all these years.”
    “And,” he continued, ignoring her answer, “you should never have stopped playing; you had such a rare talent. Such a tragedy. I hold Pietovsky responsible for this.”
    “And yet you remained dear friends.”
    “You should have had a fantastic career. Your life was unfolding so brilliantly.”
    “Don’t blame Pietovsky. Besides, if I had had a great career, I would