Storiesonline.net
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                                 Rachel
                             by Will Bailey

Copyright© 2004 by Will Bailey


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Description: Morry Stewart was a successful classical composer and pianist. He was also a drinker and a womanizer. More accurately, he was a rat with women. The combination of a fatal car accident and a brilliant young woman would change his life in ways he'd never have dreamed were possible.
As always, if you like a good read, this is for you. If you want a stroke story, download something else.

Codes: MF Mf FF Mm mm Mult slow rom 1st teen cons lolita oral
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Chapter 1


The irony was amazing. Kelly had been diagnosed with inoperable ovarian cancer. She was given less than a year to live. But during the time that we coped with this, her quality of life was good. She was often tired from the chemotherapy, and she lost her hair, but nausea and other side effects were kept at bay by the other drugs she was given.

Then there came that fatal trip.

Kelly went to Collingwood to visit her parents at their retirement cottage. I was playing a concert that night. She laughed when I worried. She was driving the Audi Quattro. Although it was November, the skies were clear, and she was driving the ultimate traction machine. Then it began to snow.

About midnight, I got the call from the Ontario Provincial Police. Black ice. The Audi suddenly went sideways, jumped the median and wound up in the path of an 18 wheeler. My Kelly was dead. Instantly, they said. Oh God, I fervently hoped it was instant.

Kelly and I had owned everything jointly. We were cosigners on all our loans, including our mortgage. But Kelly was the principal borrower in every case. That meant that the loans were life-insured on her but not on me. She had a steady job as a professor at the university and later as an administrator. I was a freelance composer and pianist. My income was up and down, hardly steady. Besides, I'd had a heart attack about 20 years ago. If I died of another heart attack, which seemed statistically likely to the insurance Johnnies, I wouldn't be insured. Preexisting condition. But Kelly was in perfect health. Her parents had lived well into their 80s. And she probably would have as well. Except for little things called "cancer" and "accident."

So the insurance paid off the house and our loans. Kelly had a good insurance policy from the university. I think it was about half a million. She had another policy for a bit over a million that she had taken out herself. I didn't even know about it. Well, perhaps she may have told me, but, as Kelly often said, the best way to get my eyes to glaze over is to talk about anything involving finances or business. Now I wouldn't have to worry so much about that. Both policies paid double indemnity for accidental death. And I was the sole beneficiary.

When it was added to all Kelly's insurance, the settlement left me with a few million in the bank and no debts. My lawyer, Isadore Mandelbaum, put me in touch with some dependable people to invest my money conservatively and look after it. I had a reasonably good guaranteed income -- about $100,000.00 annually -- with no significant debts -- plus, of course, whatever I made playing and composing, which could be quite respectable in a good year.

After Kelly's death, I kept largely to myself for months. As far as most of the music community was concerned, I had dropped out of sight. Close friends like Izzy Mandelbaum, my manager Ken Davenport and Robert Helwig, my oldest friend from the old days, kept in touch. Others were well-meaning, but one by one they stopped calling. In a way it was a relief. One exception was my next-door neighbor Bobby Simms.

Bobby had bought the little place next door about a year and a half previously. He lived there with his Yorkshire terrier Pooh. Bobby was a successful hairdresser. He had a salon in the fashionable Yonge and Eglinton area of Toronto. Bobby lived up to the stereotype of the gay hair dresser. My friend Ken, an open gay for many years, described Bobby as "not just gay but ecstatic". But I discovered that the most important thing about Bobby was not his sexual orientation but his innate goodness. Bobby was the salt of the earth.

At Kelly's funeral, Bobby had hugged me and wept. He'd made me promise to call him if there was anything I needed, "anything at all," he'd said. I thought at first that he might be coming on to me, but I soon learned otherwise.

My first reaction after people left me alone was to take refuge in the bottle. I'd been a drinker since university, but now I never went to bed sober. In fact, for months I was always drunk after 5:00 in the afternoon.

Bobby took to visiting me with special dishes that he "just happened to have cooked too much of." He was always worried that Pooh was making too much noise. In truth Pooh was a noisy little beast, but, like Bobby, there was no harm in him. I found his yapping vaguely comforting. Of course, the real message of Bobby's visits was, "I care about you, and I'm worried about you." He was a great guy.

Gradually, I started to pull myself together. I was still drinking more than most, but I rarely woke up with a raging hangover. Most days, I hung out in my studio. I composed very little, but I played the piano constantly. Unconsciously, I started to regain my technique, and playing became more effortless and more contemplative. As my fingers began to work better, I found myself gravitating more and more to Rachmaninoff, especially the Études Tableaux, those wonderful enigmatic pieces that Rachmaninoff had so tantalizingly labeled as graphic descriptions and then refused to tell us what they described. They're among the most rewarding and challenging works in the piano repertoire. I had loved them for years. I remembered the words of my last piano teacher, Madame Levinsky. She'd said, "Morry, there are two types of people in the world: those who admit that they like Rachmaninoff and those who won't admit it. You have not yet admitted to yourself your love for this music, but you are too good a musician not to love it. Play with your heart, not your fingers." Corny but true.

One afternoon just as I had lost myself in Rachmaninoff, the phone rang. The number on the caller ID was not one that I knew, but I answered anyway. "Morry, hi. This is Aaron Kline." I was very surprised. Aaron was Bobby's partner in the hairdressing salon. Unlike Bobby, he disproved the stereotype of the hairdresser. Aaron was straight, married and had a teen-aged daughter. He lived in the neighborhood, just a few blocks away. I knew him, of course, but not well. I was very surprised to have him call me, and I told him so.

"Morry, to tell the truth, I'd like to ask a favour of you. My daughter Rachel is really talented. She's been studying music theory with a teacher from the conservatory. They seem to have hit an impasse. I wonder if you could help out."

I don't teach. I have tried it in the past and found it a bad fit. I told Aaron this as delicately as I could, but he insisted that he wasn't trying to hire me to teach Rachel. She clearly couldn't continue with the current teacher. Aaron simply wanted me to talk to Rachel, look at her work and determine if it was worth her time and his money for her to get another teacher. I could sense Bobby's hand in this. I suspected it was yet another of his ways of bringing me out of my shell.

I asked Aaron what level Rachel was at. He told me that she'd completed her grade 10 piano and grade 3 theory. That meant that she'd completed all the courses offered in those subjects at the Royal Conservatory of Music. She had been taking harmony and counterpoint from a private teacher. It sounded as though she was a very advanced student for her age. Reluctantly, I agreed to see Rachel. We settled on Saturday morning. I set my computer to wake me well ahead. Otherwise I'd forget.

Aaron called on a Tuesday. I remember that because the next day, Wednesday, I bought a car. I'd been toying with the idea for a while. Izzy Mandelbaum kept telling me that I'd waited long enough. Sooner or later I had to take the plunge. Since Kelly had died in an Audi, that make was out of the question. I knew that the accident wasn't the car's fault, but the association was too negative. I was still very fond of German iron, so I thought I'd check out BMW and Mercedes-Benz.

The great thing about making your own schedule is that you can shop when everyone else is stuck in an office. There was a Mercedes dealer just a few blocks from my house. I took a stroll over on Wednesday morning. The showroom was empty except for a couple of bored-looking salesmen and me. I looked around the area and checked out the new cars. Nothing seemed to appeal to me. Then I went into the "pre-owned" showroom. A cute little 190E 2.6 caught my eye. It was a weird colour -- kind of a pinkie silver metallic, and it had only a few thousand clicks on the odometer. I could easily afford a new one, but if I could save a bundle on this little beauty and still have most of the warranty, why not? It appealed to my Scottish blood. I signed the papers, gave them a cheque and was the owner of an almost-new Mercedes. I picked it up the next day and spent Thursday and Friday driving around, playing with my new toy.

Things were looking up, ever so slightly.

On Saturday morning at about 10:30, Aaron arrived with Rachel. She was a very pretty girl with striking coloration. Her skin was very white. You could almost call it alabaster. Her hair was very black. I wondered if her father had given it a little help in the colour department. But her eyes were her most striking features. They were an extremely light brown -- almost an amber colour. She was petite. It would later become apparent that at thirteen she'd already reached her adult height, just a shade less than 5'2". The whole package added up to a very beautiful girl.

Her demeanour was less beautiful. Rachel didn't look particularly happy to see me. She had also taken no pains with her appearance. She was wearing track pants, a none-too-clean T-shirt and sneakers that had been around the block a few times. I sensed that she was very nearly as disenchanted with the situation as I was. I invited Aaron to have a cup of coffee in the morning room, and I took the sullen Rachel downstairs to my studio.

I asked Rachel if she'd brought her recent assignments with her. She took them out of her knapsack and put them on my desk. "OK, play them for me," I said.

"Play them? These aren't music!"

"Aren't they? Why not? They're supposed to be. Otherwise there's no point to all this."

Slowly, the realization dawned on her. She took her assignments to the piano, sat down and played. As she played, she frowned. "This sounds like hell," she said.

"Then it has to be wrong," I told her.

"What do you mean? It's what I was assigned to do."

"I suspect that's exactly what's wrong. Do you want to write music?"

"Yeah, but this isn't writing music."

"That's what's wrong. You were given the wrong assignment, and you can do a lot better. Look at these again. Make them better and play them for me."

"But there are all these rules. How can I make music with all these rules I'm supposed to follow? It's like trying to play the piano with boxing gloves."

"That's overstating it, but there is a challenge. Look at it as a game with rules. Do you play baseball?" She nodded. "Imagine trying to play baseball with no rules. Or here's a better analogy. Canadian children study French in school. When you were learning French, you were taught to speak first. You learned to speak a lot of it before you learned any rules of grammar, right?" She nodded again. "But if you hadn't learned those rules, you'd continue to speak French like a child, not like an adult. Learning grammar made you able to communicate more of your thoughts to other people. Consider these rules the grammar of music. The grammar and syntax of language are like a contract. They're an agreement between the speaker and the listener. If you say something a certain way, then the person who hears you can understand it, based on the rules you've agreed on. These are the rules for musical communication. They can be made to work. Many, many composers have done it before. Find a way."

She screwed up her face. "Does that mean that you have to use these rules all the time?"

I smiled. She was even brighter than I thought. "No. It just means that you have to learn to use them. Then you can go forward from there. If Einstein hadn't known the work of Newton and all the other physicists and mathematicians who came before him, he'd have had to start all over again. But he didn't. He could build on the past. Learn these rules. Let them become second nature to you. Then you can go beyond them.

"Now show me how you can make music out of this assignment."

She puckered her brow. After a few minutes, she took her pencil out of her bag and began to make changes. Several times, she erased the changes and started over. Finally, she looked up at me. I nodded, and she began to play. It was music. Very good music. The girl had talent.

When she finished, I touched her shoulder and motioned her to the chesterfield. We sat down, and I looked directly at her.

"Rachel, I'm going to offer you a bargain. I'll see you every week at this time but only if you'll do your best to make music out of whatever assignment I give you. Fair warning: the assignments will seem silly at times, but you need to trust me that there will always be a reason for them. And there will always be a way to make music from them. Your job will be to find it. Will you do it?"

She looked down for a moment. Then she looked at me with a radiant smile. "Sure. Why not? No one else has ever put it to me that way before. I thought that theory and music were two different things. It's a hell of a lot more fun this way."

"Rachel, here is your first lesson. Music theory is what we have learned from composers who have gone before us. We study it so that we won't have to make the mistakes that they did before they solved them. We made up these rules after studying their music. I hate to call these things 'rules.' They're more like principles. They're the basis of the music that we know -- music by the great creators who went before us.

"After you've mastered these things that have been left for us, you can make your own rules. That's what making music -- real music, not mass-produced junk -- is all about. We're not reinventing the wheel. We're studying nuclear physics. We stand on the shoulders of giants, and that lets us reach for the stars. Deal?" I held out my hand.

She took it. "Deal!"

"OK, let's go upstairs and talk to your dad."

We joined Aaron in the breakfast room. I explained to him the deal that Rachel and I had struck. I carefully explained that I was not doing this for money. As long as Rachel and I respected one another and both lived up to our agreement, the relationship would continue. When either of us didn't wish the arrangement to continue, it would be over. In the meantime, we'd make music.

Next Saturday, Rachel showed up promptly at 10:00. I couldn't help but notice that she looked better groomed, and was certainly better dressed. She was wearing a pair of jeans that had clearly just been ironed and a very smart-looking red top. She even smiled when she saw me. "Mr. Stewart, I hope you'll like what I've written."

"Rachel, I'm sure that I'll enjoy it. But first, we need to get one thing straight. There's no Mr. Stewart living here. My name is Morry. If I can call you by your first name, it works the other way as well. We'll have no artificial distinctions based on age. Deal?"

She beamed. "Deal!"

She quickly hung up her jacket and headed for the studio. I followed in her wake. Once there, she seated herself at the piano, turned to make sure that I was properly attentive and began to play. I was rapt. This child had not only done a brilliant job on her assignment, she'd extended it into a little piece lasting about three minutes. It was almost perfectly constructed. She instinctively seemed to understand things such as antecedent and consequent phrases. She had also used a rudimentary three-part song form, though I doubted that she could put a name to it.

When she finished, she turned to me. "Did you like it?"

I said, "No."

She looked dejected.

I said, "I loved it. You've taken what I gave you and not only made music of it. You've taken it to another level. Let's take some time to analyze what you've done. After that, we'll look ahead to next week. Then I'm going to buy you lunch to celebrate."

The next two hours flew by. She was amazed when I explained to her the niceties of what she'd accomplished. Then, we looked at ways to improve it. I explained some of the basic rules of the next level we were beginning to touch on: form. After we went through those, I asked her to try to improve her piece. She took about twenty minutes. I could find no fault in what she had done.

We went to lunch at Poor Joseph's Restaurant on Parliament Street. Joe Toscano was a great guy who also happened to run a very nice, reasonably priced restaurant. He had many loyal patrons in the neighborhood, me among them. He greeted us at the door, bowed to Rachel as though she were a great lady and showed us to our table. We had a very enjoyable lunch, and I walked Rachel back to her house.

Over the next few months, this came to be a regular pattern for us. Rachel would show up for her lesson more than adequately prepared. She was always surprising me. We'd have the lesson, and then go to lunch. We ended up becoming friends. We talked about all sorts of things: school, her friends, and, inevitably, sex and relationships.

Rachel was always a very direct person. She could come up with the damnedest things. One day over lunch, she looked up from her fettucine Alfredo and said, "Morry, what do you think about people my age having sex?"

I gulped, and then tried my best at an answer. "You've asked me a serious question, so I'll do my best to give you a serious answer. I'm not going to give you the so-called 'common' wisdom about teenage sex. You asked me what I think personally, and I'll tell you.

"I think that it's OK for some people and not for others, and that it's OK in certain situations and not in others. For instance, I've known people for whom having sex was no more important than a handshake. I've known others who fell in love with everyone they ever kissed. Obviously, that second kind of person has to be very careful about relationships. Fortunately, most of us are somewhere in between.

"As far as thirteen-year-olds having sex is concerned, I think that it's probably not a good idea for most people your age. There are too many problems you can encounter.

"In your case specifically, you have the additional problem of being very bright and talented. Your chronological age may be thirteen, but your mental age is much, much older. Your emotional age is older as well. Very few thirteen year olds have the ability to apply themselves the way that you can. All of this means that you have to be very careful in any close personal or romantic relationships. And I think that I know you well enough to know that you're not the sort to have sex with just anyone.

"Rachel, may I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure."

"Have you ever had sex?"

She blushed and looked down at her plate. "No, I haven't. I've thought about it, but only really thought about doing it with one person. And I'm sure that he's not interested. Not now anyway.

"Now can I ask you a personal question?"

"Yes, of course."

"Morry, are you a genius?"

Unfortunately, I had been having a sip of wine when she asked me that. When I finished choking, I said, "No, I'm definitely not a genius."

"How do you know?", she said.

I took a deep breath. "I know because I have known geniuses. I have eaten and drunk with them. I have been their friend. Jimmy Jimson was the greatest genius I have ever met. Jacques Poitier is a genius, not Jimmy's equal, but brilliant. I know that I'm not in their league -- not even close. Why did you ask?"

"Because my dad says that you're a genius. Of course, he also thinks that Bobby is a genius." She grinned mischievously into her plate.

"Rachel, can we be serious for a moment?" She nodded. "I'm not a genius, but you just might be. You have a great musical gift. You'll soon have to decide what to do about it. You'll have to decide whether to pursue it or not. I think that you owe it to yourself to stick with it. It would be a crime to throw away what you've been given. You have the instincts to be not just a good composer -- you could be a great composer. It's time that you started thinking about that. Believe me, thirteen may be young for sex, but it's not too young to think about your career."

"But," she said, "I'm not thirteen -- I'm fourteen."

"Fourteen? I thought you were thirteen."

"Today's my birthday."

I was a bit flustered. I hadn't known. I congratulated her, and then I excused myself and found Joe, the restaurateur. I took him aside. He listened and departed. Within minutes, he was back with a large cake. On top were fourteen candles. He placed it in front of Rachel. She looked up at me through teary eyes and blew out the candles. I rapped on my wine glass, and the restaurant grew quiet.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Today is a great day. I congratulate you on being part of this day. This is the fourteenth anniversary of the day that Ms. Rachel Kline came into our world. I promise you that in years to come this day will be celebrated by people all over the world. I invite all of you to join me in celebration. Please join us in a piece of cake and a glass of champagne."

Joe and his guys had already started pouring champagne. Pol Roger. If it was good enough for Sir Winston Churchill, it's good enough for me. I cannot abide the fake stuff -- the Spanish, American and Canadian rip-offs. As I had expected, none of the patrons turned down the bubbly or the cake. When all had been served, I rose again. "A toast. To Rachel!"

They echoed my words, "To Rachel!" and drank up.

The next day, Aaron came to see me. He said, "Rachel told me what you did for her yesterday. I wanted to thank you."

"Aaron, anything that I've done for her is nothing compared to what she has done for me. Seeing her develop week by week has given me back myself. Thank you. And thank Bobby for me."

He grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, well Bobby did mention that you might have the time to help Rachel."

Aaron stood to go. We looked at each other. Wordlessly we embraced. Then he turned and left.



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Chapter 2


If you were to look me up in a music dictionary, you'd find this entry: "Stewart, (Frederick) Morris. Canadian (British born) composer and pianist. b. Winchester, England, April 4, 1946. Studied at Royal Canadian College, Royal Conservatory of Music (Toronto), University of Toronto and Juilliard School of Music..." followed by a whole bunch of other facts. The article in Who's Who in Music adds the fact "married Kelly Friesen, 1973."

That sums it up in a nutshell. Except for the fact that I always hated the name "Frederick" and all its diminutives: Fred, Freddie, Ricky, etc. My mother always called me "Freddie," except when she was pissed off. Then it was "Fre-de-rick" with an equal accent on the syllables. My middle name, Morris, was my mother's maiden name. When I got to prep school, I dropped the "Frederick" entirely except for legal matters. I tried to get that pedantic son of a bitch of an editor to take it out of the music dictionary. He never replied to my letters. Now he's dead. Serves him right.

Of course, all of that says nothing about me, about my who I really am and who my friends are. And the fact, as I'd told Rachel, that I am definitely not a genius. There was a very good chance that Rachel was, in fact, a genius. I'd told her that I'd known a great genius once, and that was true. In fact, he was my best friend.

John Harold Jimson, known to his friends as Jimmy, was the finest composer that Canada ever produced. He was also a wonderful companion and a hell-raiser of the first water. From the time we met, we were fast friends, in spite of the fact that Jimmy was more than twenty years my senior and vastly better than I was at practically everything. I was a much better pianist, but he could out-compose, out-drink and out-wench me the best day I ever lived. The only thing he could never master was driving a car. Being a passenger in Jimmy's car was, as my granny would have put it, "enough to make a nun cuss."

Jimmy was certainly a world-class cuntsman. If only he hadn't rubbed Philippa's nose in it the way he did. Philippa was Jimmy's long-suffering wife. How she put up with his antics, I'll never know. Since Jimmy died, she's dedicated herself to his music, sponsoring special editions, performances, recordings and lectures. Needless to say, she's stinking rich. Always has been. I suspect the yearly income from her investments is more than my total worth.

I once made the mistake of calling Philippa's fortune "old money." Jimmy immediately corrected me, "No, no, dear boy. It's not old money, merely middle-aged money." Whatever its age, there was a lot of it.

As I mentioned, Jimmy never tried to hide his affairs. I recall the time that he and I were both invited to a chamber music festival. Two of his string quartets were being played, and I was invited to limber up my fingers to play my Piano Quintet. That's a piece for four string instruments and piano -- not five pianos.

Jimmy came up with the idea that he and I should book a suite at the hotel instead of two rooms. He figured we'd be more comfortable in a suite, and we were probably going to spend the evenings drinking together anyway. And drink we did. Especially after the last concert. There was an excellent performance of Jimmy's Third String Quartet, and I managed to get through my Quintet quite respectably, although cursing myself roundly for writing such a hard piece. Suffice it to say that we tied one on that night.

I woke up the next morning about 10:00 with a pounding head and a mouth like the bottom of a parrot cage. I staggered into the kitchen to get a drink of water. I heard a noise. There in the living room was Jimmy. He was leaning back on the chesterfield. His face was contorted and red. My immediate thought was that he was having a heart attack -- the big one -- reaping the reward of so many years of debauchery.

When I lurched into the room, I found that was not the case. A naked woman was kneeling between Jimmy's legs. His organ was in her mouth, and, if his reaction was an accurate indication, she was giving him an expert blow job. When she came up for air, I recognized her. She was the second violinist of the quartet -- a kid about twenty-four or twenty-five and quite pretty in a mousy sort of way. Of course, Jimmy was well into his sixtiess at that point. Probably about sixty-five.

The violinist stood up and proceeded to straddle Jimmy, directing his member to her box. Jimmy opened his eyes and saw me. He said, "Morry, dear chap, would you mind getting me a glass of wine? I can't quite reach it myself."

I got the old bastard his wine, went back to my room and collapsed. When I woke up again a couple of hours later, the fiddle player was gone, and Jimmy was snoring peacefully.

I loved that old son of a bitch. Couldn't have loved him more if he'd been my own father. When he died, I cried like a baby. Pituitary cancer. At least, that's where they thought it started. When it was diagnosed, the cancer was everywhere. He was eaten up with the stuff.

After talking to Rachel about sex, I thought about my own coming of age. I lost my virginity at the relatively advanced age of nineteen. That was late even for my generation. As the reason or perhaps excuse for this, I offer inexperience in the ways of the opposite sex. In hindsight, I can see that there were actually a number of opportunities before the inevitable event. Unfortunately, I was too inexperienced with girls to realize that these fair young things were as horny as I was and were coming on to me in their subtle, female fashion. It took Tweet and her blunt approach to bust my cherry.

The big event took place at university. I had finished at Royal Canadian College and had enrolled at the University of Toronto as a music performance major. Up to this time, my world had largely revolved around my piano and, to a lesser degree, my academic studies. I was raised in the Southwestern Ontario city of London. London, Ontario is a city of great pretensions and few achievements. Like the London in England, it has a market called Covent Garden and a river called the Thames, although these are but pale imitations of the originals. For the first 8 years of my life, I was an only child. Then my brother David entered the world. However, we've never been close, perhaps because of the age difference. Perhaps there were other reasons.

My parents were musicians, my father a violinist and my mother a pianist. Dad was the concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra, and Mum taught piano and theory at the Western Ontario Conservatory. They were determined that I would receive at least a basic musical education and wise enough not to try to teach me themselves. I studied violin, piano and music theory with the local teachers in London. When it became apparent that I needed more advanced instruction, I commuted several times a week to Toronto, either by bus or train. Both were equally abhorrent, as I recall.

When I reached high school, my parents made the decision to send me to a boarding school in Toronto: Royal Canadian College, known to its students and alumni as "RCC". They couldn't really afford it, but they were willing to make the sacrifice. The theory was that I'd receive better quality academic instruction, and that I'd be able to study with my teachers at the Royal Conservatory of Music on a more regular basis. RCC was only a short subway ride from the "Con," as it's known.

To some extent the plan worked. At least the musical part of it did. RCC, on the other hand, had good although not great academic instruction. What it taught best was snobbery. I was made to feel an outcast from the beginning, and my musical accomplishments made the situation even worse. All in all, the school experience gave me a lifelong disdain for the pretensions of the so-called "upper class."

I should mention that in those days the school was for boys only, and there was a great deal of homosexual behaviour. I suspect that few of the participants chose a gay lifestyle in later life. Their homosexual adventures were no doubt the result of being segregated from female companionship at the very time that their hormones were raging. They sought relief in whatever ways were available. The mildest form of sexual behaviour was the circle jerk. A group of boys would get together and masturbate or perhaps masturbate each other. I knew that these events took place fairly often because I was invited to participate a number of times. I never did, preferring to masturbate in private.

The first time I actually witnessed a homosexual act, I didn't really understand what was going on. It was on a Thursday evening. I was to compete in a music festival the next morning and would therefore miss Latin class. I had made a bargain with the Latin master that I would hand in my translation the night before. I went to the master's rooms and knocked on the door. There was no answer, but, since the door was slightly ajar, I thought I'd peek in and call out to the master. I looked in, and what I saw left me speechless. One of the older boys was sitting in a chair in front of the master's desk. His pants were around his ankles, and the master was on his knees in front of him. The boy was making noises as though he were in pain, and the master's head was bobbing rhythmically. I put my translation on a small table by the door and got the hell out of there. I was shaking when I got back to my room.

Now, of course, I know that the master was fellating the boy, but then I didn't understand. I knew I'd seen something that shouldn't be happening, but I also knew that I shouldn't tell anyone. That turned out to be a good survival instinct. If I'd gone to the headmaster, I'm sure that the Latin master would have been fired, perhaps jailed, and his sex partner expelled. Remember that this was nearly 40 years ago. Homosexuality was still a crime in many jurisdictions, and it certainly was not officially tolerated in a boy's school. However, then as now, whistle-blowers were seldom if ever rewarded. I was less than popular already. If I'd made too many waves, my life would have been made unbearable. Telling my parents was also not an option. They'd yank me out of the place, and I'd be taking that bus from London to Toronto and back once again. So, although I witnessed many more episodes of homosexuality, from oral to anal and everything in between. I kept my mouth shut and my legs crossed.

I soon learned that if a door was closed you didn't open it. Knock, wait, and go away if there's no answer. When I witnessed one of the few "friends" I had at the school being sodomized by another boy, I said nothing. There was a rumour, probably true, that one of the younger boys had serviced the entire rugby team, both orally and anally. Again, I kept my silence. It was far better that way. While I couldn't really ignore the cocksuckers and cornholers, I could hope for peaceful coexistence with them.

Jason Fairbrother was one of the nastiest pieces of work in the school. Like me, he was born in England. Unlike me, he'd not only kept but cultivated his English accent. Jason considered himself to be better than us "colonials." His parents were rumoured to be involved in some sort of shady activities. Whatever they did, it certainly provided Jason with more than adequate funds. He was highly regarded by the masters and fellows and despised and feared by the boys.

While I never saw or heard of Jason taking part in the homosexual life of the school, he certainly orchestrated many of the encounters. It was his way of asserting his power over others. Power to Jason was everything. It would be for his entire life.

Jason despised me because he could not use me. I managed to stay beyond his reach. Because of that, our relationship as adults would always be strained. I knew Jason for what he was, and he hated me for it.

Finally, I finished my grade thirteen and graduated from RCC with few regrets. I headed downtown to the University of Toronto. Like RCC, the U of T had great pretensions and considered itself at least the equal of the best Ivy League schools in the States. Many RCC graduates were among the student body, and there were regular social evenings of the "old boys". I ignored invitations to these and studiously avoided the other RCC grads.

I soon gravitated to a group of students who considered themselves the intelligentsia. They talked philosophy and politics, drank hard liquor and cheap red wine and smoked marijuana. I had previously had only a few drinks and had never even smelled pot. I soon found that I enjoyed both booze and dope, together if possible, and I relished the bohemian lifestyle of these proto-hippies.

Tweet Carter was one of this circle. She was tall and slim with a mop of naturally-curly bright red hair. She had freckles which, I was to discover, covered most of her body. She was the changeling member of a very old Toronto family. Her name was really Madeline. Apparently "Tweet" was the way her younger sister pronounced "sweet" when they were children. Tweet was an art major and was reputed to be a major slut. I met her my first year at U of T but did not know her well.

The summer after my first term, I went to the Tanglewood Music Center in Massachusetts. It was a revelation. There were fascinating music students from many countries. The teachers were some of the best performers and composers in the world. They seemed like gods to me. I returned to Toronto in a state of bliss, anxious to tell everyone of my great experiences.

However, there was no one around. The fall term was still a few weeks away, so there were very few students on campus. Tweet was in town because she lived with her parents. I ran into her in a student hangout on Bloor Street. We had lunch together. I told her about my summer experiences.

After a while, I realized I was monopolizing the conversation, so I politely inquired about what she had done during the summer. She replied, "Not much. Painted a few canvases and hung out. I'm horny as hell. Let's go to your place and fuck."

When I recovered sufficiently, I asked if she were serious. She said, "The three things I take most seriously in life are art, politics and sex, especially sex. How about it?"

We walked to my apartment. I was in a daze. When we reached my modest basement apartment, I gallantly invited her in. I showed her my battered upright piano, my beloved stereo system and a few of my other possessions. I put a record on the turntable and asked if she'd like something to drink. "No," she said, "Where's the bedroom? Through here?"

In the bedroom, she immediately undressed and began undressing me. She spurned all my fumbling attempts at foreplay, saying, "We have these things between our legs that are just awful, but when we put them together, it will be wonderful. Lie down." I complied.

Tweet straddled me. When she put me in her, it was not at all the feeling I'd expected. I was surrounded by a moist warmth, almost as though someone were squeezing my dick in a hot, wet face flannel. Tweet refused to let me do anything but lie prone and still. "Let me do the work," she said. And work she did. She was very active and most vocal.

I came very soon, of course. I was nineteen, and this was my first fuck. After I came, Tweet lay beside me. For the first time, she kissed me -- a wet, juicy kiss. It seemed as though there was more of her tongue in my mouth than there was of my own. She kissed her way down my body. When she reached my cock, she popped it in her mouth. I was so naive that I didn't even know that girls did that. I guess I thought it was only those cocksuckers at RCC. Tweet was very good at it, and she continued to work on me orally until I was hard again. Once again she straddled me.

This time, she was even more active and vocal: "Oh you son of a bitch! Oh you have a nice dick. God it feels good in my cunt. Oh Christ, I'm gonna come! I'm gonna come all over your nice dick!"

Hardly poetry, but heartfelt nonetheless. It was almost frightening. The way she was humping and shaking, I thought that she'd surely do me an injury when she came. She did not, although I feared that her screaming would get me evicted.

After her climax, Tweet once again cuddled with me and kissed me. "Did you come again?" she asked. I replied that I had not. In truth, I had been too frightened, although I didn't tell her this. She was pleased that I hadn't orgasmed. "Good, that means that you'll last longer next time."

She repeated the same cycle several times that afternoon. It was well after 7:00 when she called a halt. She quickly got to her feet, dressed, gave me a brief kiss and said, "That was fun. Can we do it again sometime?" I replied in the affirmative, and she left.

I was dazed but happy. I was no longer a virgin. I was a man. Unfortunately, there was no one I could tell about my coming of age. To do so would be to admit my previous state of inexperience. I was sure that all my friends and acquaintances were very experienced. I was probably wrong.

Tweet and I were to repeat the events of the afternoon several times during that school year, but before the end of the spring term, she left town with an older man that she'd just met. I never saw or heard of her again. I often wonder what happened to her.



-------

Chapter 3


Rachel had been coming to me for just over a year. We both looked forward to our weekly meetings and luncheons, and our conversation over lunch was always stimulating and often challenging.

One Saturday afternoon in the studio, Rachel looked up at me and asked, "Morry, do you mind if I call you on the phone sometimes during the week?"

"Of course not. Why do you ask?"

"I just thought that you might not always want to talk to a kid. And I wouldn't always call you about music. Sometimes I might just want to talk. You're my best friend, and I need to talk to you more than once a week."

She blushed and averted her eyes.

"Rachel, you're my best friend, too. Best friends don't need reasons to talk. And if you ever need me, you know I'm here for you."

"Morry, I do need something. Will you please give me a hug?"

"Of course. Come here."

We hugged each other tightly for several minutes. She seemed reluctant to break the embrace. I kissed her on the cheek. She pulled me back and kissed me hesitantly and gently on the lips. We grinned at each other.

"Let's go to lunch," I said, "it's time to feed my best friend."

Rachel was bubbly as we walked to Joe's restaurant. She talked about a thousand things and seemed for once to behave more like a typical kid. Her mood continued through lunch. But when we'd almost finished our meal, she turned serious.

"Morry, in our lessons We talk a lot about music. You're always talking about Mozart. I know that you think he was the greatest. But I really love Schubert's music, especially the songs. He seems more personal to me than Mozart. Do you think that Mozart was a better composer than Schubert"

"Yes, I do."

Why?"

"Both were geniuses. It's difficult to say whose gift was greater. I understand what you mean about Schubert being very personal in his music. It's wonderfully immediate. That was his great gift. But Mozart accomplished more. He was more applied. They both died young. Schubert was a few years younger when he died than Mozart was. But look at the accomplishments of the two. Mozart mastered every form that he touched. He wasn't just good at it, he was the best -- the best at writing symphonies, operas -- God, especially operas -- sonatas, quartets -- you name it. Schubert had a great gift, but he was lazy. He could write music as easily as falling off a log, but he never took it to the next level. He'd rather raise hell than work. Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that he could have achieved what Mozart did. We'll never know for sure. The point is that he didn't live up to his genius. If I had that sort of gift, I'd like to think that I'd take the best advantage of it. But both of them had what I think is the greatest gift any composer can have. Do you know what that is?"

She thought for a moment. "Melody?" It was almost a question.

I was astounded. Once again this child was demonstrating a mature insight, one that would have eluded many of the best adult musical minds.

"Yes, melody. Great melodies are the easiest things to appreciate and the hardest to accomplish. I'm not talking about simple pop tunes; I'm talking about the sort of melodies that these guys could write. This was a gift that no amount of study or work could provide. I'll tell you something else. You have it."

She looked at me quizzically.

"Yes, you have it. You've shown me this in every type of music we've worked at. You can write tonal melodies the equal of Chopin or Rachmaninoff. You can write 12-tone melodies that would make Berg green with envy. It's your gift. I envy you, and I'm in awe of you."

"You're in awe of me?" she said, looking at me with a wide-eyed stare.

"Yes. You have what I always wanted. I've always had the facility to do things relatively easily. Playing the piano is easier for me than it is for most people, and I can write music fairly quickly and get it mostly right. But you have a gift on an entirely different level. In time, you'll appreciate this, and you'll come to terms with it. It's a great responsibility."

She was quiet for a while. Then she said, "Morry, I know that you're paying me a great compliment. But I need something special from you. I want to ask you a great favour. Can I watch you work?"

I didn't know what to say for a moment. She was asking to come into my most private time. I had never allowed anyone to intrude on my work, and I tried to put that in words as gently as I could. "I don't know if you understand what you're asking. No one has ever watched me work. Just by being there, another person in my private space and time... In order to get any work done, I'd have to try to ignore you, and you're not easy to ignore. Also, what the hell would you learn?"

"A lot. Please, please tell me you'll let me do it. Just once. OK?"

Once again, when Rachel wanted something, I found it hard to deny her. I agreed. That was on a Saturday afternoon. On Sunday, she showed up about 11:00 in the morning. "Just pretend I'm not here, OK"

Yeah. Sure.

I went into my studio shadowed by this little nymph. I sat down at the computer. I doubted that I could get anything accomplished with Rachel looking over my shoulder. I deliberately tried to ignore her, and I turned the monitor speakers up quite loudly. I plunged into my latest project, and I eventually lost myself in my work.

About 6:00, I felt a gentle pair of hands on my shoulders. "Morry, I have to go now. Thanks. I learned a lot." She left.

Next Saturday, Rachel showed up as usual for her "lesson," and she brought the usual knapsack full of musical wonders with her. As she was getting her music out of her bag, I asked the question that had been bothering me all week. "On Sunday, you said that you learned a lot by watching me work. What did you learn?"

She furrowed her brow. "Well, I learned a number of things. I learned how much faster it is to use a computer to write music, but I pretty well knew that already. It's like using a word processor, only for music. But I also learned that if you have a really good synthesizer connected to the computer, you can hear things more like the way they'll sound on the instruments they're written for. Again, I sort of knew that, but you've got some great orchestral sounds on your synthesizer. They almost sound like the real thing.

"I also learned the way that you write for orchestra. I watched you sketch out passages and then orchestrate them. It's very interesting, but I don't think I could work that way. It's too much work. In fact, I think that sometimes it might be easier to write the parts for the instruments first and then write the score later."

I felt a tingling in my scalp. "Do you mean that when you're working on a piece you have the whole score in your head? From the beginning?"

She grinned. "Sure. Almost always. If I don't, then how can I write the right notes for the right instruments? You need to have the right sound from the beginning. I suspect that most people must do it that way."

"No, my young friend, they don't. People write music all kinds of different ways. Beethoven struggled over just about every note. Most people are more like Beethoven, but Mozart just wrote. In fact, he supposedly had trouble writing the notes down as fast as he could compose them."

"I can understand that. It's hard to keep up with yourself. And sometimes the piece is finished before I can write it all down. That's where a computer would really come in handy."

For once in my misspent life, I was truly speechless and truly in awe. How had this magical creature, this musical genius, come to my door? Why was I the one to witness this phenomenon?

I tried to tell her what I'd just learned.

"Rachel, I told you some time ago that you had a great gift. I think that I'm only just beginning to understand the nature of your gift. You are blessed with a talent that is far beyond that of anyone I've known. I believe that there is no limit to how much you can achieve if you apply yourself."

Rachel looked at me with a rather blank look. Then she smiled. She spoke one word. "Bullshit."

Then she looked at me with a most mischievous grin. She said, "But it's very sweet and charming bullshit."

Rachel put her arms around me and kissed me. Then she packed up her knapsack and we went to lunch.



-------

Chapter 4


My First Dive

My thoughts returned to my adolescence. At that point, I had seldom dated. Not just in university but in my entire life. During high school, there was little opportunity. In university, I had opportunity but limited means. I was a scholarship student, and I existed largely on grants and scholarships from the university, the provincial government and the Canada Council, plus whatever help my parents could offer. I managed to pay the rent on my basement flat and even to buy an elderly Heintzman upright piano, but there was little money left over for entertainment. That began to change in my third year. I received a fellowship from the Esther Burnbaum Foundation. That and the fact that I was beginning get actual paying gigs meant that my financial situation was considerably improved.

I should add that I never actually dated Tweet. One did not "date" Tweet. One encountered Tweet, and, if she were so inclined, one was fucked by Tweet. There was never any doubt as to who was the hunter and the hunted. She was the fucker, and I was the fuckee.

Tweet was sexually expert, or at least it seemed to me. She claimed to have given her first blow job at the age of 11 and to have lost her cherry to a family friend, an "uncle," at 12. I would not dispute that. But Tweet was certainly not romantically inclined. She only wanted marathon fuck sessions. In fact, she demanded them. Although I was only 20, I became rather tired of this approach.

For some time, I had been flirting halfheartedly with a check-out girl at my local supermarket. She was known to me as "Sandy," the name on her name tag. I assume that her given name was Sandra. Although it may well have been something else, such as Alexandra. I never knew. And for the life of me, I cannot remember her surname. Be that as it may, Sandy was not unattractive and was somewhat shy. She had told me her age was 23. She was three years older than I was, although I didn't tell her this. She was slim with a firm athletic figure and had been a physical education major at the University of Western Ontario in my home town of London. She intended to return to university when she saved enough money. I summoned up my courage and invited Sandy out. I had no car, but Sandy had the use of her mother's old Dodge Dart. We decided that we'd go to a triple feature at the drive-in. Drive-in movies were quite popular in the sixties. They were known as "passion pits", and I had great hopes this one would live up to the name.

We arrived at the drive-in, parked, arranged the speaker on the window, etc. Sandy stayed behind the wheel, so the first move was up to me. I slid across the seat and put my arm around her. She did not demur, so I became braver. She turned to me, and I kissed her in the way that Tweet had taught me. I stroked her breasts while we kissed and gradually worked my way down. I unbuttoned her jeans, lowered her zipper and reached inside. I found the hair and the wetness between her legs. I inserted my finger in her vagina, since I knew very little more about female anatomy, and I began to masturbate her clumsily.

All this time Sandy was perhaps not overwhelmingly cooperative, but she had also not tried to hinder my actions. For the first time since our first kiss, she spoke: "Slide all the way over to the other side." I did so, and she lay down on the seat, putting her head in my lap. She hooked her thumbs under the waistbands of both her jeans and panties and pulled them down to her knees. She took my left hand, kissed it, and placed it on her mound. Over the next hour, I learned more about the anatomy of the female reproductive organs than I had in the previous 20 years of my life.

I continued stroking Sandy's slit for a long time, taking time out only to unbutton her shirt and release her modestly proportioned breasts. To my eyes they were perfect. In retrospect I am sure that she must have climaxed several times under my ministrations, inexpert though they were. However, she was clearly ready for more. I decided to try something else.

Although Tweet had fellated me many times, she had never wished, or perhaps I should say "allowed", me to return the favour. I had always been curious, and I resolved to assuage my curiosity. So, I gently lifted Sandy's head from my lap and knelt on the floor. Sandy reached for my belt, quickly opening my jeans and releasing my penis, which she proceeded to stroke. I leaned forward and lowered her pants to her ankles. A gentle pressure on her knees caused them to separate as far as possible. I suspect that she assumed I was going to fuck her. I certainly could have. There is no doubt that she was greatly surprised when I lowered my head and began to lick her box. More by accident than design my tongue connected with her clitoris. She thrashed about violently, arched her back and practically tore my dick out by the roots. Then, she became limp, releasing my member. She lay quietly, catching her breath.

After a few minutes, Sandy somewhat awkwardly restored her clothing to a semblance of modesty. She sat up. I sat on the seat. My jeans were still open. Sandy reached over and proceeded to stroke me to climax. Her technique was not expert. I, of course, did not care. It was exciting enough that Sandy was jerking me. I came quickly and copiously. My ejaculate made somewhat of a mess on the dash and floor of her mother's car. I cleaned it up as best I could, using tissues from a box I found in the back seat. Sandy kissed me, somewhat warily and close-mouthed. She started the car and drove me home. When we reached my place, she finally spoke. "See you tomorrow?", she said. It was definitely a question.

"Of course," I replied, "Would you like to go out again next weekend?"

She seemed to study the steering wheel for a moment. "OK, but let's do something different. All right?" She looked at me with a hesitant little grin. I nodded. She gave me a peck. I got out of the car, and Sandy drove away.

We would go out several times after that, but the experience was never repeated. Sandy finally told me that she was ashamed that she "let herself go" on that first date. She gave me to understand that before we could again be intimate, I would have to make some sort of commitment to her. Not marriage, she was quick to add, but we'd have to have some kind of "arrangement".

We had only one more date after that conversation. It was on a Saturday. On the following Monday, I came into the store where Sandy worked, expecting to see her behind the counter. She wasn't there. The store manager told me that she'd been transferred to a store in the suburbs, closer to her home. He expressed surprise that she wouldn't have told her "boyfriend", as he called me.

I never saw Sandy again. Like Tweet, she vanished from my life. I've thought of her many times in the ensuing years, often with wistful regret. She wanted more from me than I was prepared to give. Sandy was certainly not an intellectual, and, snob that I was, I hadn't considered her my equal. My interest in her was strictly physical, and she, a conservative child of the working class, felt cheapened by our relationship.

Sandy, if by any chance you read this, please send me an email. I'd love to know how things turned out for you. I often think what might have been, if only... 



-------

Chapter 5


Christmas and Chanukah were rapidly approaching. As a result of my conversation with Rachel, I had an answer when Aaron wondered what to give his daughter for Chanukah. I took him to my studio and showed him my computer, software, music keyboard and printer. I insisted that we'd share the present, and Bobby also insisted on being part of it. Bobby gave Rachel a beautiful computer desk and a stand for her music keyboard. I gave her the synthesizer, an 88-note keyboard, the amplifier, speakers and headphones. Aaron and Naomi gave her the computer and the software.

Came the big day. We all waited breathlessly while Rachel opened her presents. Each one drew an "ooh" or an "ah" from her. When she'd opened them all, she looked at us. "I don't know what to say. You've done all this. You've given me exactly what I want and need. These are the tools to make my music -- to be me. Thank you so very much. I'll try to live up to your expectations."

And she did. Rachel wrote even faster now. In one week she wrote a group of songs, a few short piano pieces and a piece for solo violin. They all sounded like Rachel Kline, not like anyone else. If they were writing music at all, most kids her age would have been copying all sorts of styles. Rachel was not. She already had her own voice. It was eerie.

One evening, she called me on the phone and asked if she could come over. She needed advice about something.

When she arrived, we went into the kitchen. I got a coke for her and another Scotch for myself, and then I said, "What's up?"

"Do you remember that I told you that the band teacher at my school asked to see some of my music? Dad told him that I was a composer. Anyway, he asked me to come to his office after school today, and I did. He wants me to write a piece for the school band. What should I do?"

"First of all, it's great that he recognized your talent. But I gather from your question that you don't feel comfortable about doing it. Is it the fact that it's for band, or is it this particular band?"

"I don't know. I think the band thing doesn't bother me all that much. I've already got some ideas about how to use those instruments. I don't quite know what it is. Maybe..."

"Maybe it's because you don't know what those players can do."

She nodded.

"That's fair enough. Your music so far has been written with professional players in mind, whether you realize it or not. All the orchestration textbooks tell you what professional players should be able to do. Your school band is made up of students at all different levels. In your situation, I'd be just as scared. If you ask me the range of a flute, I could tell you. If you asked me the range that a grade nine or ten flute player can handle, I'd have no idea. It's the same for any instrument. And a band is a collection of people. How well can junior high or high school musicians play together? I was never in one of those groups, so I never had the experience. I simply don't know, and I don't know where to find out. That's one of the reasons I've never written school music. It's a lot harder than writing for pros."

"I suppose I could go to their rehearsals and see what they can do."

"My advice is not to do that until you've made up your mind to write the piece. Going to rehearsals is sort of like committing yourself. If you want to do it, go ahead. I'll help in any way I can. If not, decline in as nice a way as you can. You could tell the band director that you're just not ready yet. That's not a lie -- not quite, anyway. Whatever you want to do, I'll stand behind your decision."

Rachel decided not to write the band piece. She did as I suggested and told the director that she wasn't ready to write a piece for him. I called the band teacher as well. I told him that Rachel was extremely flattered by his offer and that I was sure she'd write him a great piece when she was ready. I think he bought it.

The next week she decide to tackle a piano sonata. It was her idea, not mine. She felt that she was ready, and I agreed. The only guidance I gave her was to let her imagination range free and not to limit herself to music that she could play. Rachel was a good pianist but not a virtuoso soloist. She immediately understood the wisdom of that.

The next Saturday, she came in with a finished sonata -- all three movements. I played through it. Not without difficulty, I should add. The piece was damned hard, but everything was playable and made perfect musical sense. The structure of the first movement was unusual to say the least. It was the work of a composer who understood sonata form well enough to be able to have some fun with it -- to bend all the rules. Once again, I was reminded of Mozart. The destination was predictable, but the route she took to get there was not. The three movements were related thematically. The entire work was perfectly balanced. After I finished playing, I sat looking at the score for several minutes. I was numb.

Rachel came up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders. "What's wrong, Morry?"

I stood, turned and hugged her to me. "Nothing is wrong, you genius. You gorgeous, dear little genius!"



-------

Chapter 6


I had started to play in public again. Just a few little concerts -- usually just musical soirées at private homes or at places like the Arts Club. I'd say a few words about a piece, mine or some other Canadian composer's, play it, and, if possible, introduce the composer to the audience. I took Rachel to some of these concerts and introduced her to the composers. So, she didn't think anything of it when I took her along with me on a Sunday afternoon.

The concert I had been waiting for arrived. I played through the first three pieces. One was mine. Another was by Jimmy Jimson, and the third was by Jacques Poitier, who happened to be in town. I introduced Jacques, and he spoke briefly about his piece. After I played it, he received his justly-deserved ovation.

After the hall quieted, I returned to the stage and spoke to the audience. "The last work I'll play has never before been heard in public. This is the premiere. Remember that, because I believe that because of that fact today will be important in music history."

I sat down and began to play Rachel's Sonata. I'd memorized the piece and had no need of the score. I soon became lost the music. About half way through the first movement, I came to myself. I looked up. Rachel was sitting there with a look of surprise on her face. Perhaps it was mixed with just a little fear. Soon, she seemed to relax. The audience was rapt -- absolutely silent. I continued through the work, finding inspiration in every note.

I finished playing. The audience remained silent for what seemed a very long time. In fact, it was probably less than 30 seconds. Then, they applauded. I heard yells of "Bravo".

I stood and motioned for silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce the composer of this work, Rachel Kline. In the words Robert Schumann used to describe Chopin, 'hats off -- a genius'."

Rachel came and stood beside me, taking my hand. The audience stood and applauded for a very long time. Rachel looked up at me with moist eyes. I pointed to the back of the hall. Her eyes followed my pointing finger. There stood her dad, Aaron, her mother, Naomi, and her adopted uncle, Bobby. Aaron was crying, his face all but obscured by a handkerchief. Naomi was smiling. Her face uplifted, as though to bask in whatever reflected light came from her daughter. Bobby was holding his hands palm up, as though to catch a golden rain.

There were shouts of "encore" from the audience. I sat down at the piano once again and motioned for Rachel to take her seat. I played the finale from her Sonata. When I finished, the reaction was much the same as before. Rachel primly bowed to the audience. Then, they really went crazy.

After the concert, Jacques Poitier came up to Rachel. Jacques is a very sweet man, if a bit stiff at times. But that day he was anything but stiff. He asked to see the score. I took it out of my case and handed it to him. "Yes, yes," he said, "I thought so. Of course. So logical and yet so fresh. Amazing." He gave her his card and asked her to visit him in Montréal.

After Jacques left, Rachel asked me what that meant. I told her it meant that Jacques, the most famous living Canadian composer, would entertain the idea of her becoming his student. She gasped. Then she laughed. I did too. I whispered in her ear, "Maybe he should study with you."

Aaron, Naomi, Bobby and I went to supper at Poor Joe's. I'd reserved the solarium for us. We were joined by a few people that I had carefully chosen, including my pal and manager Ken Davenport and Dmitri Kowalchuk, the executive director of the Canadian Youth Orchestra. I had taken care to invite Dmitri to the concert. He was an old friend and classmate from the U of T.

Rachel, Aaron, Naomi, Bobby, Ken and I were sitting at one table. After a short time, Dmitiri came over.

"May I sit down?"

"Please do," I said.

He turned to Rachel. "Ms. Kline, I was very impressed by what I heard today. Have you written for orchestra?"

Rachel was a bit flustered. She hadn't actually written for full orchestra. Not an extended piece anyway. So I told a little white lie. "Of course she has. Why?"

"Well, you know that the Canadian Youth Orchestra prefers to have younger composers as our commissionees." He turned to Rachel. "Would you consider writing the commissioned work for our next season?"

She looked at me helplessly. I nodded.

"Of course, Mr. Kowalchuk. I'd be honoured," she said.

"Would you like to talk about the arrangements now or later?"

I held one hand in front of the other and I pointed to Ken. Only Rachel could see this. Anyone else would think that I was folding my hands.

She continued, "I'm afraid that I'm not very good at negotiations. Terrible in fact. Could you please make the arrangements with my manager, Mr. Davenport?"

Ken choked a bit on his wine. I introduced him to Kowalchuk. In a little while the two of them excused themselves and went over to one of the side tables.

For the next while, I'm not sure how long it was, perhaps thirty minutes, perhaps an hour, Rachel, her family, a few others and I, exchanged small talk. I knew that Rachel and I were more concerned about what was happening at the little table by the window. A commission from the Canadian Youth Orchestra is a very big deal. The CYO is made up of the finest young players in the country. Most of them are university students. The orchestra can and does outplay most of the professional groups. Every summer, they tour across Canada, and they play their commissioned piece everywhere. Many of their commissions wind up on the concerts of major orchestras.

In due course, Ken returned to our table. He handed me an envelope. In it was the commissioning agreement. It was for $15,000.00. That was more money than I'd made for my first ten commissions. I quietly folded the agreement and handed it to Rachel. She looked at it, turned her face to me with a blank stare and collapsed in tears. Her dad grabbed it. He stared at the paper for a few minute and then looked at me.

"Morry, is this your doing?"

"Nope. I can't even negotiate for myself. It's the work of Mr. Davenport here. And I believe that he's entitled to 20 percent."

Ken demurred. "Rachel, the best payment I could have would be tickets for Brian and me for the premiere of this new piece."

I looked to Joe and gave him the high sign for the bubbly. He understood. As Joe opened the champagne, I stood and asked for silence. It was getting to be a habit.

"Everyone, I have an announcement. Rachel Kline has just received a commission to write a work for the Canadian Youth Orchestra. Please join us in a toast. To this day. To wonderful music. To the Canadian Youth Orchestra. And most of all, to Rachel."

Everyone but Rachel raised a glass.

Soon after, the party thinned out. At a certain point, Rachel and I were left together. She looked at me and shook her head. She had suddenly become an adult again.

"Morry, what am I to do with you?"

I looked back. "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean."

She nailed me with those amber eyes. "I think you know exactly what I mean. Some day soon we'll have to talk and make decisions. In the meantime, all I can say is thanks, Morry. Thank you for everything." She hugged me and gave me a kiss. On the lips. For a long time.



-------

Chapter 7


I married the second girl I ever fucked. This was a very stupid thing to do, and I very nearly ruined her life in the process.

Her name was Peggy Post, and she played the clarinet. That was my grandfather's instrument, and I had no love for it. It would be years before I would write a piece for clarinet, which was OK with Peggy. She was not a great virtuoso. Not of the clarinet, at any rate. Her "skin flute" technique was beyond reproach. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

When I met Peggy, she was dating one of my best friends, David Siegel. Dave was a flautist. He was also a mass of insecurities. His mother was the quintessential Yiddish Mama. She often made Dave nearly suicidal with guilt. She was constantly on the phone complaining, often about some slight, fancied or otherwise, by her neighbors in Montréal, but more often about something Dave had or had not done.

But Dave doted on Peggy. He seemed to spend every waking moment with her. Dave and I were best friends for a term, so I saw all of this at work. I went with him to Montréal, and I met his dad, Hy, and his mum, Miriam. Hy was a mensch, and I'd have been taken in by Miriam's charm had I not already observed her at work.

Margaret "Peggy" Post was the daughter of Dr. Harley Post. Dr. Post was one of Canada's leading proctologists. A specialist in diseases of the rectum. In this case, it took one to know one. Harley was a complete asshole. He hated Dave. It wasn't just because Dave was Jewish. He hated him because of his parents. If they'd been rich and Jewish, Harley could have made allowances. But Dave's parents were humble people. Dave's dad, Hyman Siegel, ran a small deli in Montréal. It was all he could do to pay Dave's tuition and expenses at the University of Toronto, and Dave was always taking odd jobs to help out. Harley Post was a self-made millionaire, and he wanted better for his daughter. Peggy's mother, Maureen, was even worse than her husband. She was convinced that her daughter should marry into "society". After several years of trying, Peggy's parents succeeded in breaking up Dave and Peggy. That's where this story really begins.

My father had promised to give me his old Pontiac Laurentian (I believe that the model was known as "Bonneville" in the States). I would receive the old car when he bought a new one. The day came. Dad took delivery of a brand new Olds 88, and the Laurentian was mine. I took the bus to London and drove back to Toronto in my own car. At the age of 21, there is no better feeling than being behind the wheel of your very own car, and, of course, parking it in front of your very own apartment.

Peggy and Dave had, as I said, recently broken up. Dave was often at my place, drinking far too much and crying in his beer. I finally told him that even if he didn't care about himself, I had my own marks to worry about and couldn't be his keeper. He rarely spoke to me after that. I was sorry, but I was not his father or even his brother, and I did have myself to look after.

I hadn't really intended to pursue Peggy. She and I were both in the U of T orchestra (Yes, there are pianists in orchestras). I invited Peggy out after a concert, driving my shiny old Pontiac. We really seemed to hit it off. We sat and talked for hours. We seemed to know and care about many similar things. Then, at a certain point that seem quite natural, we kissed and began to become affectionate. I remember that she scared the hell out of me by rubbing her tits all over me. I had no idea what she was about. Suddenly, without knowing how it happened, I was in her pants and therefore in heaven. She even helped me find the places that made her feel better. It was a real tutorial in female anatomy.

By the third date, she was in my pants. She even asked if there was anything she could do to make me feel better. Then, she hauled out Herman and played him much better than she ever played her clarinet. On the fourth date, she said, "It's all right if you want to do more. My dad has put me on the pill to regulate my periods." We screwed on the front seat of my old Pontiac. From then on, we were like crazed mink. Peggy insisted on having sex at least once a day, and who was I to argue?

Peggy was open to sexual experimentation, and we learned together. In retrospect, I believe that she was only a little more experienced than I was. I deduced from comments that she made that she'd had two lovers before me, although she always insisted I was her first. Oddly enough, she told me that Dave Siegel had never had sex with her. I believed it. From what Peggy said, she'd wanted to make it with Dave. She'd even gone so far as to beg him, but he wouldn't do it. Dave was a nice guy, but in some ways he was incredibly stupid. I believe that the only way he could have kept Peggy was to bed her. She was a very sexual being.

In fact, keeping up with Peggy was almost a full-time job. Our usual routine became to meet each other in the morning. We'd meet at my place, since she lived at home. We screwed, had breakfast, screwed again and headed for classes. Sometimes we'd have a quickie at noon. We always managed to get together in the evening for an extended roll in the hay. She'd usually head home about 1:00 AM.

It became apparent that we were spending more time in bed than we were spending working on our assignments or practicing our instruments. At that point, I stupidly proposed marriage, and she stupidly accepted. We assumed that because we were friends and enjoyed each other sexually that we were in love. Now, I realize that we were wrong.

It would be an understatement to say that Peggy's parents objected to our getting married. The last thing her dad told me was, "I'm going on vacation. If, when I return, her name is Stewart, she's not just out of my will -- I don't ever want to see either of you in this house again."

As I said, that was the last thing Harley Post ever said to me. We never spoke again. His only contact with Peggy and me was by mail. Every couple of months, he'd send a large package of birth control pills. There was no note or any other personal touch: just the pills. Neither Peggy nor I wanted children, but the idea that Harley wanted to prevent any offspring from our union pissed me off. Royally. I considered knocking Peggy up just to get back at the bastard. Of course, I didn't. Thank God.

The first year of our marriage was spent getting through university. We were both finishing our bachelor's degrees. Now that we had all the time in the world for sex, the academic side of things was going much better.

We were both pursuing honours bachelor of music degrees. In those days, there were two bachelor's degrees offered by the U of T: a three-year degree and the four-year "honours" degree. The three-year degree was intended to be terminal, while the four-year degree was supposed to prepare you for graduate study. Professors would tell me privately that the three-year programme was a hangover from the past and a result of Ontario having thirteen grades in high school. They'd also indicate, though it was not policy, that they considered a four-year bachelor's from the U of T to be the equivalent of a master's from the States. They were wrong, of course, as I would discover.

Peggy and I graduated with baccalaureate degrees. Her major was musicology, and I qualified in both performance and composition. We had both applied to several schools for graduate work. As it happened, I was accepted at the Juilliard School, and Peggy was accepted at Columbia University. She would pursue a master's in musicology, while I would study piano and composition at Juilliard. This would work out well as far as living accommodations were concerned. The year after we finished our masters' degrees, Juilliard moved about sixty blocks south to Lincoln Center, but in those days, Juilliard was still in the old building at Claremont and 122nd, now occupied by the Manhattan School of Music. It was not that far from the Columbia campus, which was on 125th.

We were able to get a not-too-bad apartment in Morningside Heights. On good days, we could both walk to school. I got the piano teacher I wanted: Rosina Levinsky. She was one of the last of the legendary figures from the romantic era of pianism. Her husband Alexander Levinsky had been one of the very greatest pianists of his time, and I wanted that link with the past.

Madame Levinsky was known as a harsh taskmaster. It was true that she was uncompromising in her demand for excellence, but she unaccountably developed an affection for me. I was never able to get away with anything less than I was capable of, but I certainly never found her the bullying harridan that I was led to expect. Peggy jokingly referred to Madame L. as my "girlfriend." At that time, Madame would have been in her mid to late seventies, perhaps older, but she could still play. No matter how well I played, she knew that there was a higher level possible, and she knew how I could get there.

I was not inspired by any of the composition teachers at Juillliard. The man with whom I most wanted to study was Solomon Safire. He taught at the Manhattan School of Music, which at that time was on the Upper East Side. I took the bull by the horns and went to see Dr. Safire. He invited me into his office with what I was to discover was his characteristic brusqueness.

"Kid," he said, "I'm a busy guy, and I'm sure you have better things to do. So let me see what you've got. Where are your scores?"

Fortunately, I'd brought a few scores with me. To my surprise, Dr. Safire went through them in detail, seeming to read every bar. I stood there waiting nervously. Finally, he looked up.

"Kid, I think you've got something. In fact, you're pretty damned good already. What do you want from me?"

I answered slowly. "I thought I was a pretty good pianist until I started studying with Rosina Levinsky. She's slowly making me into an excellent pianist. I want to achieve that sort of excellence in composition, and I think that you can help me."

"What do you think? That I'm a magician? I'm not. I'm just a guy from the Bronx who pushes notes around. Some people think I do it well, but what I think that I do best is to help people see possibilities in their own music. Is that what you want?"

That was what I wanted, and I told him so. It was the beginning of a great chapter in my life and, as it turned out, the beginning of one of the great friendships of my life. Sol became not just my teacher, he was also my mentor and very nearly a second father. I love him to this day.



-------

Chapter 8


From the point when Rachel got the commission from the Canadian Youth Orchestra, she and I worked together even more than before. She was determined that her piece for the CYO should be a symphony. I convinced her that she'd be better off to write the 10 minute piece they'd asked for. It would be played on tour by the CYO and eventually by more orchestras. When her name was better known, the symphony would happen. She reluctantly agreed.

I remember the day that she came dancing into the studio, holding up her cheque from the CYO. She held it up for me to read. "Pay to the order of Rachel Kline fifteen thousand and no/100 dollars." I thought that the CYO had gotten a terrific bargain. What she'd produced was a little masterpiece. She called it Jeux de temps. As the title indicated, she played with musical time. I couldn't believe the ingenious way that she molded different time signatures and rhythms together. Once again, she'd written things that no one else would. Or could. The way she used bowed vibraphone and cymbals combined with double bass harmonics in the slow section of the piece left me breathless. I knew she'd never seen that in an orchestration book. It was the mark of genius. One afternoon at lunch, I told her so.

She looked at me for a long time. Then she looked at the table. When she spoke, she didn't look up. "I know that you mean that, and I'm flattered. You've even said that you think of me as an equal, artistically, at least. As I say, that's all flattering. But who am I to you as a person? Who do you see when you look at me?"

I was perplexed. "What do you mean? I see you -- Rachel."

"Do you see a child or a woman?"

I was perplexed. I was not sure what she meant or where this discussion might lead. I was very much afraid that she was heading for a topic that I didn't want to pursue.

"I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. In many ways, you're the same girl I met about four years ago. In other ways, you're much more mature. I guess I see a bit of both.

"Now," I said, "I think that it's only fair that I put the same question to you. When you look at me, what do you see?"

Rachel furrowed her brow. "I think I know what you mean. You're Morry, the same person that you've always been. You're the person who made me believe in myself. You're the man I love."

I took a deep breath and a big swig of chardonnay.

"Rachel, I'm going to be brutally honest. I think I know where this discussion is going. I'm more than thirty years older than you. I'm overweight. I have a dicky heart. I drink too much. And I have the reputation of liking women in quantity rather than quality. I am, or should be, your worst nightmare."

She looked at me and smiled. Women have been smiling like that since Lilith, Eve's older sister.

"Morry, let's go back to your place. Do you remember what I said the night of the party after the premiere of mySonata? I said that we needed to have a talk. Well, today's the day and now's the time."



-------

Chapter 9


During the time that I was at Juilliard, much of my life seemed idyllic. My piano and composition studies were going well, and I got all the sex I could handle from Peggy. But there was soon a problem. The basis of the problem stemmed from the fact that I was not then and never had been in love with Peggy.

In retrospect, I realize that I was looking for love, as trite as that sounds, and I found it. Or perhaps it found me. I spent a great deal of time in my practice studio at Juilliard. I didn't have a grand piano in my apartment, and I really needed one to achieve what Madame Levinsky expected of me. It seemed that every time I went there, I ran into this darkly pretty girl. She was tiny. Later I would find that she was just 5' 2" and really pissed off that she never made it to 5' 3". She had the most radiant smile I'd ever seen.

As time went on, I found that she was an oboe player, was on full scholarship and was also a Canadian. She was from a small town in Saskatchewan. She was also beautiful, talented, bright and my first real love. Her name was Kelly Friesen.

I now realize that I started falling in love with Kelly the first time I met her. We started meeting regularly for coffee. Then I would "accidentally" come by the little store where she worked part time. One evening, she invited me back to her apartment. Somehow, we wound up kissing. From there, it was a natural progression.

We were both like innocent teenagers on their first dates. I was quite a bit more experienced, but, looking back, I realize that I'd never had a "normal" sexual coming of age. I'd been a passenger on my sexual journey, never able to steer the boat.

With Kelly, I was in large measure the steersman. Gradually, our love making became more sexual. We graduated from kissing and cuddling to fondling. I'll never forget the first time I lowered her pants and stroked her. It was pure magic. When I finally introduced her to the joys of cunnilingus, it was pure heaven.

We didn't immediately progress to intercourse. There were intermediate steps. At first, we engaged in mutual masturbation. Then, we began rubbing our genitals together. Eventually, there was penetration. When she was ready. In my now much broader experience (pun intended), I have come to believe that sex is possible only when the woman is ready for it. I firmly believe that there is no such thing as seduction. When a woman is ready for sex, she sends out signals. If the man is receptive and perceptive, he reads the signals and acts accordingly.

When Kelly and I finally made love, it was different than anything in my experience. Kelly was a virgin. I'd suspected as much, although she had no hymen. Not surprising, since she'd ridden horses as a child. Tweet and Peggy were much more accomplished in the bedroom arts, but with Kelly it was more intense and much more sweet. It was like that until the day she died.

When Peggy and I finished our masters' degrees, it was time to head home to Canada. Kelly had finished her bachelor's at Juilliard. I felt like an asshole, but I wound up taking Kelly back to Toronto with me instead of Peggy. I never intended to be unfaithful to my marriage vows, and I never intended my marriage to end that way. God help me, I was in love for the first time in my life -- the only time until I met Rachel.



-------

Chapter 10


Back in the present, Rachel and I walked from the restaurant back to my house. Neither of us said much on the way. We entered the house and hung up our coats. I turned to go into the living room.

"No," she said, "I feel more comfortable in the studio. It's our place."

We went to the studio. She sat on the old leather chesterfield, and I sat beside her. She took both my hands in hers and looked me full in the face.

"Morry, I do love you. Don't say anything until you hear me out. I love you, and it's not a schoolgirl crush. If you respect me as much as you say you do, you'll believe me. Will you do something for me?"

I nodded, feeling like an idiot.

"Hold me in your arms. Please."

I took her in my arms. She cuddled close against me. I could feel her shoulders shaking. She was crying.

She looked up at me. "Morry, make love to me. Love me as a woman."

I looked down, then into her beautiful face.

"Oh my sweet darling Rachel. I do love you. But this isn't right. I'm so much older than you. I'm old enough to be your father. Hell, I may be older than your father, for all I know. Believe me, there's nothing on earth I'd rather do than to take you to bed. But it's not right."

She fastened me with those amber eyes. "It's not illegal. I'm above the age of consent in this province."

Once again, I looked at my feet and then at those magical eyes.

"OK, let's say we do it. Then what? Where do we go from there? Do you want to be the one to break the news to your parents? I sure as hell don't. Aaron and Naomi have trusted me. I'd like to think that they have the right to do that. I'm going to go and get us a glass of wine. I think we could both use it. In the meantime think about what I said."

I headed upstairs to the kitchen. I opened a bottle of white burgundy. The good stuff. I put it in a bucket of ice, grabbed two glasses, and headed back down to the studio.

When I returned with the wine, the studio was empty. I thought Rachel might have gone to the powder room. She wasn't there. Perhaps she'd gone to the washroom on the ground floor. I went up the stairs, still carrying the wine and glasses. No Rachel. Perhaps she'd left. No, her coat was hanging on the rack. I looked all over the first floor. No Rachel. I went to the second floor and looked carefully. No Rachel. I was getting worried. I went to the third floor. I went into my bedroom.

There she was. Lying on the bed. Naked.

She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen -- glorious in the way that only a girl in the first blush of womanhood can be. Her skin was the same perfect alabaster colour from head to toe. Her breasts were perfect little cones, tipped with brownish aureoles and small pink nipples. Between the swell of her hips was a nest of little black curls.

I went to the bed. She sat up and pulled me to her. She kissed me. It was not a little girl's kiss.

"Morry, stop being an idiot. Get into this bed and make love to me properly."

Well, when you put it that way... 

I don't remember taking off my clothes, but I was soon as naked as she was. We lay together on the bed. For the longest time, we simply kissed and cuddled. I stroked her as though she were a newborn kitten, getting to know the wonder of this perfect child-woman. I felt as though I were once again a teenage boy.

I took my time kissing every part of her body. I wanted to know her totally. When I kissed her sex, she gasped and then said, "Yes, this is it. This is how it should be." I kissed her centre for what seemed like hours. Rachel was carried away on the waves of orgasm after orgasm.

When at last I entered her, she looked full into my eyes. I felt the barrier. She was virgo intacta -- the first such in my experience of which I could be truly sure. She winced, and then continued looking into my eyes. pulling me down, her hands on my shoulders. Slowly, I advanced. Slowly, her hymen yielded. She gasped and dug her fingers into my shoulders. The deed was done. I was past the point of return.

Over that afternoon, we made love in many ways. It was always gentle and slow. It was her first time, and I didn't want her first time to be like mine. My first time, I had been used by Tweet for her own enjoyment. For Rachel's first time, her pleasure was my first priority. My only priority.

That was the first of many afternoons we shared in my bed. The afternoons gave rise to evenings, then mornings. She'd sometimes drop by on her way to school, use her key and wake me with a kiss.

It was during one of the morning trysts that she first fellated me. I was very sound asleep. I woke to a wonderful sensation. When I opened my eyes, there was Rachel between my legs, my penis in her mouth.

"Rachel darling, I should go and wash first."

She grinned up at me. "It's a little late for that now. It's also a little late for conversation."

And it was.

In the days following, I was confused. I wondered what the hell was happening with me. I was deeply involved with a teenage girl. I knew that I was in love, but at the same time I doubted my ability to be faithful to anyone. I'd never been successful in the past. I'd cheated on Kelly constantly.

Much of our married life she'd been the principal bread winner. She gave up the oboe for teaching and then for administration. She was a university professor, then a dean and then a vice president of the university. She made a lot more money than a sometime piano player and composer. And all along the way I'd cheated on her.

It had started before we were even married. I screwed Anita Jeffers on my studio couch. She was a very talented young black pianist who was preparing a piece of mine for performance. I was supposed to be helping her prepare, but I found that there was another piece in play. I still don't know how it happened. Suddenly, we were playing tongue hockey, and one thing led to another. Anita had the juiciest box I'd ever encountered, and it was, as they say, a "snapper." She could do more with her vagina than other women can with their hands and mouths.

I only screwed her that one time. Twenty-five years later, Kelly died, and Anita and I wound up in bed again. I couldn't do a thing. I might as well have had an overcooked spaghetti between my legs. Anita had been the first but only the first of many. In my memory, I kept seeing the hurt in Kelly's eyes. She always knew when I fucked around, but she never talked about it.

I'm a pretty miserable bastard when you come right down to it.



-------

Chapter 11


Predictably, the premiere of Rachel's Jeux de temps was a great success. The orchestra played it beautifully. They obviously loved it. And why not? It was challenging but rewarding at the same time. Rachel got a standing ovation, and she was lionized at the reception afterwards. It was quite a while before she could make her way across the room to me. She was flushed and starry-eyed. She hugged me and said, "Morry my love, this is the second greatest night of my life."

"The second greatest? What was the greatest night?"

She looked me square in the eyes. "You should know because you were there. In fact, you were the only other person who was there."

"Oh. Come to think of it, that was the greatest night of my life as well. But let's hope we'll do even better someday."

She gave me a mock punch. "Seriously, though, you'll never guess what happened backstage. I was asked for my autograph. Do you believe it? Not just once but by a whole bunch of people. And not just kids. Adults as well. Isn't that the wackiest thing you ever heard?"

"Not at all. You'd better get used to it, because I think it's going to happen a lot. And speaking of fans, I think you'd better circulate." She kissed me and headed back into the crowd. My glass was a little dry, so I went to the bar.

Standing by the bar was trouble. Trouble was in the form of Jason Fairbrother, my old school "chum." Jason was now a very successful and wealthy Bay Street lawyer. He was on the boards of nearly all the major arts groups in Toronto. He was also an asshole. A lecherous asshole. He'd gone from preying on school boys to preying on young women. And perhaps young men as well. Rumour had it that he'd used not-so-subtle threats to bed many young artists. He'd threaten to get them blacklisted if they didn't put out. I doubted that he could actually carry out his threat. But all that mattered to Jason was that the sweet young things believed him just long enough to put out.

Jason was English by birth, but he wasn't upper-crust public school and Oxford-Cambridge (known in England as "Oxbridge") English, although he'd always attempted to make his classmates at RCC believe that he was of the upper classes, his subterfuge never quite worked. He usually affected the clipped accent of the upper classes in his daily conversation, but his background was much more humble. I truly believed that he thought his audience was sold on his upper-class ruse. Most of the time, he didn't deviate from this Oxbridge ephemera. However, for effect, he would sometimes use a bad working class accent. I suspected he did it to annoy me as much as anything else. He usually succeeded.

"Cor, bi' of all righ' that lil' composer of yours, Morry. She's a right corker. I could do wif a tumble wif her, I could."

I resisted the impulse to kick him where it would do the most good. "Jason, she's seventeen years old. And you have a wife and kids."

His clipped upper-class accent returned. "I also have a Bentley and a sport utility in the garage. But I never turn down the chance to drive a nice little sports model. Perhaps I'll take her for a spin. Ta, old boy."

Fortunately, he wandered off before I could take a swing at him. I thought that I'd like to see him try to make a move on Rachel. He sure as hell wouldn't get very far. After all, she was mine.

Mine? What the hell was I thinking of? She was young enough to be my daughter. It was bad enough that I was bedding her without also thinking of her as my property. Hell, I didn't even know if I could be faithful to her. I'd never been faithful to a woman before.

I had another drink. Rachel and I needed to have a serious talk about the future soon. Very soon.



-------

Chapter 12


The premiere of Rachel's new work was on a Thursday night. The Canadian Youth Orchestra was playing her piece again the following Saturday in Kitchener-Waterloo, the first stop on their cross-country tour. Her dad wouldn't be able to go because of business, so I offered to drive her to the concert. She accepted. She asked if we could spend the night in K-W. This seemed to make sense. If we drove back after the concert, we'd get back very late. I said she should ask her parents. If they didn't mind, I'd book rooms for us at the Holiday Inn, which was not too far from the concert hall. We could return on Sunday morning. Aaron and Naomi agreed to let Rachel go with me and to spend the night rather than drive back after the concert. Safer, they thought.

After my call to Rachel, I phoned New York. I wanted to talk to Sol Safire, my old teacher at Juilliard.

I remembered back to the first time that Sol and I had met. I remembered his saying to me, "What do you think? That I'm a magician?"

Sol may not have thought that he was a magician, but I knew better. He could take whatever gift you were given and take it to a higher level than you ever believed possible. I wanted him to do that for Rachel.

When I'd studied with Sol, he'd been at the Manhattan School of Music. A few years later, Sol was invited to Juilliard. He was, in fact, "invited" to become head of composition. He took the job, not without a few conditions. It was all very like Sol.

I remembered all that as the phone rang. I hoped that Sol would be home.

Fortunately, he was home. Sol got right to the point. "Morry, it's nice to hear from you, but it's not like you to call without a reason. Are you broke or in jail?"

I smiled. Sol would never change. "No, Sol, neither of those things. But I do want to ask a favour."

"Ask away. If I can, you know I'll do it, whatever it is."

"I know, Sol. You see, there's this young woman that I've been helping with her composition. Not exactly teaching her. I'm not a teacher like you. In fact, nobody is a teacher like you. And that brings me to the point. I'd like to ask you to take a look at some of her scores. A recommendation from you could go a long way towards getting her into Juilliard."

"OK, Morry. Send them to me. By the way, who is this paragon?"

"Her name is Rachel Kline. She's just seventeen going on eighteen, but she's already had some success. I premiered her first Piano Sonata at the Arts Club, and last night the Canadian Youth Orchestra premiered her Jeux de temps, which, by the way, they commissioned. Both those works received standing ovations."

"She sounds promising. And a recommendation from you means something to me. You know, for a goy, you're a pretty good mensch. Send me the stuff. And don't be a stranger. It's been years since we got drunk together."

After I rang off from Sol, I packaged up the scores. I included Rachel's Piano Sonata and Jeux de temps, of course. My friend Robert Helwig had given me a copy of the CBC recording of the premiere of Jeux de temps. A copy of that went into the package, and I also put in a couple of her songs and her just-completed Piano Trio. I called the courier, and in an hour the package was on its way to New York.

On Saturday morning, Rachel and I headed out in my little old Mercedes 190E. The trip to Kitchener-Waterloo was uneventful, as I expected. In the winter, this stretch of highway 401 could be treacherous. It's in the snow belt. In the summer, the worst that could happen would be a little rain. We saw nothing but blue sky.

The audience at the K-W concert was just as enthusiastic as the one in Toronto. Again, there was a reception after the concert. Once again, Rachel was the centre of attention. She was not taken by surprise this time, and she handled herself with aplomb.

On the way to the hotel, she asked me, "Morry, do we really need two rooms?"

"Yes, we do. I care about your reputation even if you don't. But we don't have to actually use both rooms."

I had asked for adjoining rooms. We left the communicating door open, since her parents might call. They did call, just before midnight. On the phone, Rachel sounded properly sleepy, not easy to do since she was sitting on my lap at the time. And we were both naked. When she hung up, she said, "Play with me when I'm on the phone, will you? I'll teach you a lesson you won't soon forget." She straddled me and directed me into her.

After that first frantic coupling, our love making that night was gentle and dreamlike. We felt as though we had all the time in the world. Rachel had been on the pill for some time, so we didn't bother with condoms. We were able to enjoy each other without fear.

The next morning, we made love again, first in bed and then in the shower. While she was getting dressed, I went into "her" room and rolled around on the bed to make it look as though it had been slept in. She giggled.

Over breakfast, I turned a bit more serious. "Rachel, we have to start thinking about your future. You're already a fine composer, but there are things that I can't do for you. You need a real teacher."

"Who did you have in mind."

"How about Solomon Safire?"

"Jesus! Why would he take me? Anyway, he must be retired by now."

"Sol is officially retired, but he has emeritus status at Juilliard. He still takes a few students. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of sending him some of your scores."

"Morry, why didn't you ask me first?"

"Because, my love, you'd have said no. Anyway, Sol should have them by now. We'll soon know what he thinks."

Rachel was very quiet on the drive back to Toronto. When I dropped her off, she kissed me and said, "Do you think you'll really hear from Dr. Safire?"

"Yes. Sol is more than my old teacher. He's my friend. He's also a no-bullshit kind of guy. But don't worry, he has to be impressed with your music."

She said, "I don't know what I want him to say."

She kissed me again and went into the house.



-------

Chapter 13


When I reached home, the light on the answering machine was flashing. The message was from Sol Safire. I listened to it and immediately phoned him back. We talked for quite a while -- about thirty minutes. The main topic of conversation was Rachel.

After I rang off from Sol, I called Aaron Kline. "Aaron, can you, Naomi and Rachel come over for supper tonight? I'm going to invite Bobby, too."

"Well, sure. I guess so. But what's up?"

"You'll see."

I walked over to Bobby's house. I was greeted by his Yorkshire terrier, Pooh. After I had been thoroughly licked and shedded upon by Pooh, I asked Bobby to come to supper, mentioning that the Klines would also be there. He agreed.

Everyone arrived about 6:00. It was a gorgeous summer evening. I invited them onto the deck where I had drinks and hors d'oeuvres waiting. The reflecting pool and the fountain had never looked better. My handyman Mike Wells had done a wonderful job on the garden, and it set everything off perfectly. The natural gas grill was stoked up, and the steaks were waiting beside it.

We made small talk until supper was ready. I knew from experience that Aaron's steak should be rare, Naomi's medium, and Bobby's well done. Rachel liked her steak almost as raw as I did. While I took care of the meat, Rachel and Naomi looked after the veggies.

We put the food on the table and dined al fresco. It was a wonderful time, surrounded by people I cared about and who, I very much hoped, cared about me. We finished our main courses. I brought out the tray of deserts from François et François and the liqueurs, brandies and single malts. I coughed to get attention and began to speak.

"You're wondering why I've invited you here tonight. It will come as no surprise that it involves Rachel. This week, she has been celebrated as no other Canadian composer her age has ever been. But I believe that she can and should aim higher. Much higher.

"I've told you many times that I'm not a composition teacher. Never have been. Never will be. Over the past couple of years, I've given Rachel a few pointers and mainly tried to stay out of her way. However, there are artists who can teach. Years ago, I was fortunate enough to meet such a man."

I put seven CDs of Solomon Safire's music on the table. The one on the top had a picture of Sol on the front. He looked like someone's Jewish grandfather. If only any kid were lucky enough to have such a grandfather.

"You may have heard of Solomon Safire. He's one of the finest composers the United States has produced. And even more amazing is his ability to pass on his knowledge to his students. Friday, I sent some of Rachel's scores to Sol Safire. This is the message I received today."

I punched the answering machine. Sol's gruff Bronx accent rang out.

"Morry, you son of a bitch. You're playing a joke on me, right? OK, whose music is this that you sent me? But seriously, if you tell me this is music written by a sixteen or seventeen year old girl, I'll believe you. But only because I trust you. This stuff is goddam amazing. If this kid is what I think she is, I think that I can speak for Juilliard. We'd love to have her here. Immediately. Of course, I'll need her transcripts from high school. And she needs to come down for an interview. I'll need to meet her myself. I like to get to know my students personally before we meet professionally. And if you could come, we could get drunk and talk about how great we used to be. Hell, sometimes I dream that you were once my student. Sometimes I dream that I was your student.

"But the main thing is, give me this kid. I need someone like this in my old age. Someone who'll put my name in her resumé. And in years to come, scholars will ask, 'Who was Sol Safire?' The answer will be, 'He must have been OK because Rachel Kline studied with him.'

"By the way, her name sounds Jewish. I hope it is, because we've had a long dry spell of great Jewish composers since Mendelssohn and Mahler and Schönberg and even Copland. Just Reich these days, and the less said about him the better.

"OK, I talked too long. Call me back soon, you son of a bitch, or I'll put the ancient curse of the Safires on you."

Click.

Silence around the table. I looked at Rachel. She refused to meet my eyes. Finally Bobby spoke.

"Juilliard is a university, isn't it?"

"A conservatory," I said, "but yes, it has the same academic standing as a university."

Bobby looked confused. "But Rachel hasn't graduated from high school yet."

I smiled. "Nor does she have to. If Sol Safire says so, she could enter Juilliard in diapers. If she could do the work, that is. She'll probably have to take some exams to test her knowledge of basic subjects. She might have to study those a little bit. Her knowledge of musical subjects and her skill and craft are not in question. You may have noticed that Rachel is more than just bright."

Aaron spoke up. "Juilliard must cost a fortune. Of course, I'll pay as much as I can. But how will we make up the difference?"

I smiled again. "I called Sol back after I got his message. He has the line on a bunch of scholarships. If he vouches for someone, it's almost a done deal. Take my word for it, if you want her to go, and, most important, if Rachel wants to go to Juilliard, she can. This fall, if she wants to."

Rachel looked at me. "Can I talk to you, Morry? Alone?"

I nodded. We went down to the studio. She looked at me very seriously. "Morry, if you want to get rid of me, you don't have to send me to New York."

I stroked her hair. "Darling, I never want to get rid of you. If you chose to go to New York, I'll visit you. Probably too often for your liking. I'll just try not to get in the way of your studies."

She hugged me tightly. "I'm so scared. What if I can't do it? What if I don't make the grade?"

"You'll do just fine. There's no reason to be afraid. I'll go with you to New York for your interviews and things. Sol Safire will like you. He'll love you. And you'll love him. And you'll learn from him. And years in the future, you'll still be calling Sol for advice just like I do."

She looked up at me. "And will I still be calling you?"

"You won't have to call. A whisper would be sufficient. I don't plan to be that far from you." I held up my thumb and forefinger. "Maybe that far."

We cuddled for a while and then went back upstairs.



-------

Chapter 14


In September, Rachel went to Juilliard. Aaron rented a van. He and Bobby and I loaded Rachel's stuff into it. Aaron and Bobby went in the van, and Rachel rode with me in the old Benz. We managed to navigate through Manhattan and find the apartment we'd rented for Rachel. We moved her in and went back to Toronto. I felt very lonely, but it was for the best.

The next nine months were hell, except for Rachel's holidays at Christmas, Easter and so forth. And the times that I convinced myself that I had to be in New York. Once, I landed up after clearing things with Sol. I took Sol and Rachel out for supper in what was reputed to be a very fine restaurant. Sol looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.

"Morry, if you wanted to spend a lot of money tonight, I could suggest a better way. We'll all go and play the ponies. Or find a bingo parlour. What's all this about?"

"Sol, I've simply taken two of the people I care most about in the world out for what I hope is a great meal. And I want to hear how you're getting on. Tell me, what's happening with you two?"

Sol looked at Rachel with affection. Then he gave an exaggerated sigh and shrugged. "And what should be happening? The teacher is constantly outclassed by the student, that's what's happening. You see who's sitting here? I'll tell you who's sitting here. It's the goddam reincarnation of Mozart, that's who. It seems like anything I tell her she already knows. Instinctively. I tell you it's meschuge -- crazy nuts. How can you teach someone who already knows everything?"

Rachel smiled at Sol. "You're wrong, Professor Safire. I don't always know. It's just that when you show me things, they make so much sense that everything falls into place. It's not that I don't need you. I just don't always tell you how much I need you."

Suddenly, everything was clear to me. "Sol, Rachel, I just got it. I understand Rachel's gift, even though I can't experience it. I know many people with perfect pitch. I have pretty good relative pitch myself. I know a South Indian drummer -- a mrdingam player -- who has what I can only describe as perfect rhythm. He can divide the beat into as many parts as you want, syncopate by incredibly small values, and always return exactly to the beat. Always.

"Rachel's unique talent is, for want of a better term, perfect musical logic. She understands musical form instinctively. Rachel, do you remember the first time I showed you a score of spectral music -- music based on a harmonic series?"

She nodded.

"Do you remember my explaining to you the theory of how it was supposed to be organized?"

Once again the nod.

"And do you remember how you were soon pointing out details of the organization to me? Details, I might add, that I'd probably never have noticed."

"Yes, but..."

Sol broke in. "Excuse, me, Rachel. Morry, I understand perfectly. The same thing has happened with me. I showed her a thirteenth-century isorhythmic motet. The little minx got it right away. She instinctively understands the logic of musical structures. What I wouldn't give for that talent! I knew that she was a goddam genius, but now I understand what kind of a genius she is!"

I knew Rachel better than Sol did. The little puckers around the eyes meant that she was getting angry. She glared. I winced.

"Professor Safire, please stop talking about me in the third person. I'm here sitting at the table. And I'm not some sort of goddamed genius. Not any sort of genius, much less one cursed by the all-mighty. I'm sick and tired of being told that I'm a genius. I believe that I'm meant to be a composer, and I'm trying to be a good one. But let's knock off the genius stuff and eat our supper."

There were a few minutes of silence. Then Sol looked up with his customary twinkle.

Sol said, "OK, I'll shut up. But first I want to show you something." He took two tickets out of his pocket and put them on the table. "This child, this Meidl, who, as she so fervently insists, is not a genius, wrote a Piano Quintet. I gave the score to Joe Madeira. As you know, he's the guy who runs the Chamber Music at Lincoln Center series. Well, this non-genius' Quintet is going to be premiered at Lincoln Center next week by Joe's quintet. Here are the tickets. I'll see you there."

Rachel was speechless. I was similarly mute. After a few moments Rachel pounced on Sol. She hugged him fiercely and buried her head in his shoulder. Then she looked him straight in the eyes. I knew that look.

"Thank you. Thank you so much -- more than I can say. Lincoln Center! I can't believe it. Do you suppose I can get tickets for Mum and Dad? And Bobby?"

Sol looked at me and grunted. "See? She's merciless. She's taking me for everything she can get. OK, here they are." He put three more tickets on the table. "But that's all, understand? You can't bring all of Toronto."

The restaurant lived up to its reputation. We had a great meal and several fine bottles of wine. By the end of the evening, Rachel was calling Sol by his first name, at his request -- actually more like a demand. We left the restaurant, all of us glowing happily as the result of excellent food and drink and even better companionship. The maitre d' had called two cabs for us. Rachel and I stuffed Sol in the first one, and we took the second one back to her apartment.

When we got there, I said, "Have I told you how gorgeous you look tonight?"

She twirled and struck a pose. "No, you haven't. So go ahead. I'm all ears."

"That is demonstrably not true," I said, "nice as your ears are, they simply compliment the rest of you. And have I told you how much I love that dress?"

"No. Do you really like it? It's new. I bought it especially for tonight. Do you like the colour? You've always said that I look good in red."

"You look great in anything, but especially in red. But do you know what I especially like about this dress?" She shook her head. "It has buttons all down the front: from here," I touched her neck, then slowly ran my finger down her front to the hem of the dress, "to here. And I'm going to unbutton them all. Slowly. One at a time. Like this."

"And then what will you do?"

"Wait and see."

As I progressed slowly, button by button, Rachel's breathing became heavier. So did mine, for that matter. When I unfastened the final button, my hands went to her thighs. I stood, stroking my hands along her body up to her breasts. As I slowly moved my hands over her breasts, Rachel's breathing became ragged. I reached her shoulders and slowly pushed the dress down over her arms. It fell to the floor.

I kissed her deeply. Then, I began a trail of kisses down her neck to her breasts. At the same time, I released the catch of her bra. I swept it down her arms. The bra joined the dress on the floor. I kissed each breast, taking my time caressing them with my tongue.

My hands had not been idle while my lips were at her breasts. I gently stroked her back, running my hands from her neck to her buttocks -- under her tights and panties, stroking the incredibly soft skin of her cheeks.

Slowly, I began kissing my way down her chest, her tummy, settling my tongue in her navel. I progressed downward from there, my hands simultaneously sweeping her tights and panties down her legs. I held them down as she stepped out of them.

I kissed my way back up her legs to the junction of her thighs. I parted the lips with my tongue and tasted her tartness. Rachel began to moan, and, as my tongue caressed her clitoris, she cried out -- a cry that was deep in her chest.

I felt Rachel's muscles go slack under my fingers. I rose to a standing position and held her close. She was nearly limp, breathing deeply and slowly, as though asleep. Finally, she looked up at me.

"Morry Stewart, you are a demon. I swear that I've never come that hard in my life. I've certainly never come like that standing up. It could be dangerous. If you'd have let me go, I'd have collapsed on the floor."

"But you know that I'll never let you go, even if you are a tantalizing little tart who deliberately wears dresses calculated to drive me to insanity."

"That's a short drive." She stuck her tongue out at me.

"OK, you asked for it!"

I picked her up, threw her on the bed and proceeded to tickle her.

"All right," she gasped between screams, "I admit (gasp) that you are (gasp) the most sane of men. (gasp) Who else but a sane man (gasp) would torture the woman (gasp) he says that he loves?"

I stopped tickling her and cuddled her to me.

"I'm sorry. I do love you, Rachel. More than I can say."

"OK, I believe you. Now get rid of that silly suit, and let's see you prove it!"

We made love until we both fell asleep, exhausted and in each other's arms.



-------

Chapter 15


Rachel's first term at Juilliard had been more successful than any of us had dreamed. She came home for the summer, and, after a few weeks to catch up with some friends, plunged herself back into composition. So did I. I was incredibly behind, as Ken Davenport was constantly pointing out to me. I did manage to make the deadlines for my commissions, although I'm not sure how. And the pieces seemed not too bad.

Rachel was working just as hard. Sol Safire kept up the pressure. She might not be in New York, but she was still his student. He was merciless, just as he'd promised. He gave her many assignments, mostly analysis but some writing. Of course, Rachel also had her commissions to complete. As a result of her Piano Quintet premiere at Lincoln Centre, she had four new pieces to write. Although Rachel and I both worked quite hard, we still managed to get together fairly frequently. Our lovemaking was better than ever. We now knew exactly how to please each other.

All too soon, the summer was over, and Rachel was headed back to New York. Just before she left, we celebrated her nineteenth birthday with a party at my house. It was a lovely evening, but very sad for me. Rachel would be going back to New York, and my world would seem very empty.

On the day that Rachel was to fly to New York, Aaron and Bobby had to work at their salon, so Naomi and I saw Rachel off at the airport. It was a tearful farewell. As I drove back downtown, Naomi said, "Morry, she's not my little girl any more. Hackneyed as that is, it's probably the most difficult thing for any mother to admit. Soon, she won't need me at all."

I said, "Naomi, you're wrong. Rachel will always need you. She needs your support more than ever now. The life she's chosen isn't an easy one. When you write music and put it in front of the public, it's like giving them a piece of your soul. It can hurt like hell if they reject it. Believe me, Rachel needs you."

When I dropped her off, Naomi gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek. "Thanks, Morry. I'm sorry for being so morose. You're a good man."

Gradually life took on a rhythm. Rachel and I talked on the phone daily, and we sent each other many, many emails. Some of the emails were silly. I took to sending her a joke each morning. But most of our emails were love letters. I saved each and every one of her letters and made two backup copies.

The weeks passed. Rachel would soon be home for the holidays. I had ordered something special from Birks jewelers for her present. I looked forward to seeing her face when she opened it.

At about noon on December 12th, I got a phone call from Sol Safire.

"Morry, you gotta get down here fast. And bring her parents. Rachel is sick. Very sick. She's in the hospital. They've got her in isolation and intensive care."

Sol gave me the name and address of the hospital and the phone number of the doctor to call. But before I called the hospital, I called Aaron and Naomi. I told them as much as I knew about the situation. Aaron said that he'd make arrangements for the salon to run without him and Bobby. There was never any doubt that Bobby would come with us. I gave the doctor's phone number to Aaron. They'd be more likely to give information to Rachel's father than to someone like me with no legal standing. I told him that while he checked on the situation, I'd make our travel arrangements.

As I always do when I need organizational help, I called Ken Davenport. He was very shocked but also very collected. He asked for the particulars of the hospital's address. He wanted to make sure that our hotel would be as close as possible. I asked him to book three rooms, two singles and a double, and four tickets on the first available flight, everything charged to my account. Ken agreed.

Within an hour, Ken called back. We'd be leaving at 7:00 that evening. Ken had arranged to have a limo pick us up at 5:30. It was now about 2:00. I rang off and called Aaron.

Aaron had just gotten off the phone with the doctor. The news wasn't good. Rachel had some kind of infectious hepatitis. It was causing swelling of the brain and the spinal cord. At present, she was comatose. She was receiving massive doses of antibiotic and antiviral drugs. The doctor freely admitted that they were covering all bases. By the time they got any culture reports and knew for sure what they were dealing with, Rachel could be dead.

I explained the travel and hotel arrangements to Aaron, that he and Naomi would have a double room while Bobby and I would have singles. Suddenly, he said, "Oh my God! I forgot to call Bobby. He's still at the salon."

I told Aaron and Naomi to get ready. I'd call Bobby. I called the salon and got the receptionist. She said that Bobby was with a client. I explained to her that this was an emergency, that his niece was severely ill. In two minutes, I had Bobby on the phone.

After I explained the situation to Bobby, he was quiet for a few moments. Then he seemed perfectly composed. He constantly amazed me. That quiet strength of his again. Bobby said he'd have to ring off. He had a lot of arrangements to make before we left.

At exactly 5:15, a stretch Lincoln limo showed up at my front door. I rang Bobby's doorbell. He and I loaded our luggage into the car, and we headed off to pick up Aaron and Naomi.

Finally, we were on our way to the airport. The driver spoke for the first time. "What airline are you flying, please?" I looked up. It was Hassan. He'd driven me many times. I considered him a friend, and I was very embarrassed that in my rush I hadn't seen the man -- only the uniform.

I apologized for not recognizing him and told him that we were flying Air Canada to the U. S. Then I introduced Hassan to the others, and I explained the situation to him.

Hassan seemed genuinely shocked. "Mr. and Mrs. Kline, I can appreciate what you're going through. I have a daughter about the age of yours, and she's also studying in the States. She's so far from home, and I worry about her all the time."

When we arrived at the airport and were about to head for the check-in counter, Hassan handed me his card. "Morry, please call me and tell me what happens."

I shook his hand, then hugged him. Hassan was a good man.

Our plane was an Airbus 320. Not my favourite, but OK. We arrived at La Guardia airport on time, at about 8:30. We were at our hotel by 9:30 and at the hospital by 10:00.

Rachel was still unconscious. We were not allowed in her room. She was still in isolation. The doctor said perhaps we'd be allowed in tomorrow. We could only see her through the window. We could hardly see the poor little thing for all the equipment and tubes. I found it hard to breathe. Probably a panic attack. I went outside for a breath of fresh air.

I had only truly loved two women in my life: Kelly and Rachel. One was dead, and one might be dying. My love seemed to be literally the kiss of death.

When I came back in, I was told that the others had held a war council. They'd agreed that one of us would keep on watch while the others went back to the hotel, presumably to rest. Naomi had claimed the first watch. She'd be relieved by Bobby about 7:00 in the morning. Aaron would take over at noon. Then it would be my turn.

I pointed out that it was silly to make me wait until 6:00 tomorrow evening. I also asked Aaron what he'd do until noon. We decided to snooze as best we could in the hospital. Whoever was most conscious would be the point guard. It seemed to work out. Over the next few days, we managed to get back to the hotel for a few showers and even a few hours of sleep.

On the morning of the third day, the doctor called all of us together. He told us that Rachel had regained consciousness about 3:00 AM. Although she seemed perfectly cogent, she was very sleepy. He assured us that this was a symptom of the disease and would likely go away as the swelling of the brain decreased.

Aaron asked, "Does this mean that she's on the mend?"

The doctor took his time before replying. "We hope so. However, we don't want to raise your hopes too much. It's possible that she could slip back into coma at any time. She could also go into convulsions. It's still touch and go at this point. Would you like to see her?"

What a stupid question. Soon, we were all gowned, masked and gloved. We even had booties on our feet over our shoes. Rachel was still in isolation.

We trooped into the room, looking like weird visitors from another planet. Rachel had been raised to an almost sitting position. She smiled wanly when we came in.

"What's this? The delegation from the other world?"

We assured her that it was just us. Aaron and Naomi held her hands and talked to her for a few minutes. Then Bobby held her hand and cried, and it was my turn.

"Morry," Rachel said, "they tell me that I'm still very sick. In fact, I could die. No, don't interrupt me, I know what's happening. I had a long talk with the doctor this morning, and I'm perfectly rational. I've decided what I want to do. What I have to do. What we have to do. Morry, we're going to get married, you and I. As soon as possible. This may be my last wish. I insist that you honour it."

I was stunned. So was everyone else in the room. Rachel continued.

"I'm of age in New York state and in Ontario as well. Morry, you and I will be married. If I die, I'll die as your wife. If I live, I'll be with the man I love. The man I'll always love. All of you, please let me have my way in this. It's all I ask. I need to be with Morry."

There was a long silence. To my surprise, Aaron was the first to speak. "I assume that the hospital has a Jewish chaplain," he said.

We made the arrangements. The Jewish chaplain, Rabbi Wineman, was, as Sol would say, a mensch. He helped us with all the details. He arranged for the licence. There was a one day waiting period in New York State. In practice, that meant if we applied this morning, we'd actually have to wait two days to marry. He told us to get some sleep. I went back into Rachel's room. She was sleeping. I raised my mask and kissed her on the forehead. I said, "Soon, you'll be mine." She opened her eyes and smiled.

"I already am," she said. She went back to sleep.

I joined the others in the waiting room. Somewhat sheepishly, I looked at them. "How long..."

Aaron smiled. "How long have we known about you and Rachel? I think it was from the first day you met. We just didn't know how serious it was. Now, we do."

"But..."

"But you're too fucking old for her? Yeah. When I first suspected you were sleeping with her, I wanted to kill you. But this one," he nodded towards Naomi, "told me to mind my own business. Bobby, too. Between the two of them, they convinced me that things had to work themselves out, one way or another. Now, apparently, they have. Welcome to the family."



-------

Chapter 16


Later that morning, Rabbi Wineman arranged for a clerk to witness our signatures on the wedding licence. Then he took me aside and instructed me on the ceremony. I'd been to several Jewish weddings, but I never appreciated all the stuff that the groom had to know and do. The Rabbi was very patient. He told me that he'd be there to guide me through. It would actually be a shortened version of the ceremony. There were certain things that we couldn't do. But what we could do, we would.

Bobby looked after the rings. Naomi got the ketuvah -- the marriage contract. It was a beautiful thing. It glittered in gold and beautiful bright inks. The frame was a beautiful antique-looking gilt affair, hand carved, from the look. For that matter, the ketuvah looked as though it were hand written and illuminated. Perhaps it was. It would be an object of pride in our house.

The next morning, we all gathered outside Rachel's room. I was wearing my yarmulkah and shawl. We went into Rachel's room. Rachel and I signed the ketuvah. It was witnessed by Sol Safire and a resident, Dr. Steinberg. We left Rachel alone with her mother.

About 2:00, I came into the room with the veil. It was time for the bedekin. I placed the veil over Rachel and left. We were ready for the main event.

We had to dispense with the canopy and the seven-fold circling of the groom by the bride, but we kept as much of the ritual as possible. This was the only wedding day that Rachel would have, and it should be done properly.

Rabbi Wineman read the blessings, and he blessed the wine. Rachel and I drank from the wine. I took the plain golden ring and placed it on Rachel's finger.

"Behold you are sanctified to me with this ring, according to the Law of Moses and Israel," I recited.

Since this was a double-ring ceremony, hardly traditional but not forbidden by Reform Judaism, Rachel placed a golden ring on my finger. She looked into my eyes and said, "Behold you are sanctified to me with this ring, according to the Law of Moses and Israel."

Naomi raised the ketuvah and read it aloud. Then she presented it to her daughter.

The Rabbi gave the blessings. Rachel and I drank again from the wine. I broke the glass under my foot. Everyone cried out "Mazeltov!" It was done.

Then the Rabbi escorted everyone but me out of the room. He told them it was necessary for the bride and groom to have their cheder yichud, their room of privacy.

When everyone was gone from the room, Rachel said, "Morry, lift that silly mask and give me a proper kiss. Don't argue. If you're going to be a good Jewish husband, you have to learn to take orders."

I did as I was told.

Soon, Rachel went to sleep. I left quietly.



-------

Chapter 17


Over the next three days, Rachel continued to improve rapidly. She was taken out of isolation and placed in a private room. They brought in a small mattress so that I could sleep in the same room. Within a week, the doctor told us that Rachel could be discharged. We all thought it was a miracle.

The morning she was to be released, I was helping Rachel get ready to leave the hospital. She turned to me and said, "Morry, let's go home. Today. I want to be in my own house with my husband. I'll get better much faster there."

In my usual helpless fashion, I immediately called Ken Davenport. By the time the paperwork for Rachel's release was completed, he had arranged our flight. Aaron, Naomi and Bobby would have to wait for a later flight.

The hospital insisted on taking Rachel to the taxi in a wheelchair. She was mortified, but I agreed with the hospital folk. After all, a week ago she was all but given up for dead. I had also arranged to have her taken to the departure gate at La Guardia and met in Toronto with a chair.

Ken had arranged for Hassan to pick us up at Pearson Airport in Toronto. In fact, Hassan was waiting just outside the baggage claim area. He took charge of us. Within minutes, we were on our way home.

I leaned forward and spoke to Hassan through the separating window in the limo. "Hassan, you remember Aaron telling you about his daughter who was very ill?"

"Yes, of course. How is she?"

"This is she. Allow me to introduce you to Rachel Kline Stewart, my wife."



-------

Chapter 18


Rachel was still quite weak. And yet she wanted to be with me all the time. In a house with four stories, that meant a lot of stair climbing. So I couldn't go up and down as much as I might wish. If I wanted to work in the studio, I had to arrange for Rachel to be in the basement with me. We'd go up to the first floor only for meals. I moved a settee into the room that had been Kelly's office. That allowed Rachel to have her naps in there while I worked next door. And it gave me an idea.

I knew that Rachel's belongings from her New York apartment were in storage at Aaron's place. I called him. He answered with an arch remark. "Is this my son in law? How come you never call except when you want something?"

I outlined my idea, and he immediately agreed. I would take Rachel on a holiday to Niagra-on-the-Lake the next week. When we returned, the deed would be done.

Our holiday in Niagra-on-the-Lake was idyllic. It's a very small city, and the centre of town is much the same as it was in the mid-nineteenth century. It's the home of the Shaw Festival. During the season, its theatres are dedicated to the plays of George Bernard Shaw and his contemporaries. It's been called a "theme park for senior citizens," and it's true that they make up most of the audience: senior citizens driving Cadillacs and Lincolns, many with Michigan licence plates, the men wearing golf shirts, plaid slacks, white shoes and matching white belts, their wives dressed in pastel stretch suits. But in the winter, the town changes. The tourists are gone, and the hotels and resorts are filled with conventions and study groups. They stay to themselves. The town is given over to the locals. And to people like us.

In only a few days of strolling the streets, Rachel seemed stronger. We looked through all he antique shops, marveling over the amounts being asked for things we would never want at any price. We strolled by the lake. We drove over to Lewiston, New York, the twin colonial village just across the river. We strolled in the twilight and held hands. If possible, we fell more deeply in love.

I recall that one afternoon Rachel asked me, "Morry, this is kind of embarrassing, but I'd really like to know. It seems to me that you love staring at my snatch. Why?"

I smiled. "Because it's beautiful, that's why."

"Ugh. That's not how I'd describe it. You know, the doctors always say that you should look at yourself in a mirror to get to know how you're put together. When I've looked at myself, it looks really gross. The inner lips stick out past the outer ones, and they're kind of wrinkly. Gross."

"No, it's beautiful. The pussies that look just like the drawings in the books have just as much personality as a cartoon drawing of a girl. Yours has personality. It's gorgeous. But the most important thing is that it's a part of you, the woman I love. I'll never tire of looking at any part of you. And answer me this, what part of you do I spend most time looking at?"

She took her time and then said, "My face, of course. But I suspect that's just because I have my clothes on when we're around other people."

I laughed and said, "I take my opportunities when they're presented."

"But you actually seem to like the taste of me, when you make special love to me. When you kiss me there."

"I do. I love your taste."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Why does a baby love candy? I guess it's instinctive. Maybe there's something here that defies rationality. I suspect so."

"That first time that we were together. You made love to me that way. It was the first way that you made love to me. Why?"

"Because it's so personal. I needed to kiss you there. And you needed that kiss."

She smiled her special "you're so silly" smile. "I guess maybe I did."

I said, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"You seem uncommonly fond of my penis, Mr. Johnson," In fact, she was stroking Mr. J. at that moment.

"Touché. But seriously, I guess it's partly a texture thing. It's so velvety when it's little. Then it gets hard. It's still velvety on the outside but very hard underneath. Most of all, just like you told me about my puss, it's part of you. And it's a private part that's all mine."

I kissed her. "That's it. These are the corporeal proofs of our love."

She came up for air. "Morry?"

"Yes, darling."

"Why do you use such obscure words as 'corporeal'? Oh, I know what you mean. Any educated person would. But it's not the way that most people talk, is it?"

"No sweet things, it isn't. It's the result of a misspent youth and an even greater misspending of money by my parents. One of the few things that I got from Royal Canadian College was a love of my native language and an understanding of it. I'm afraid that I'm a bit of a linguistic snob. Does that bother you terribly?"

"No. It's just one of the many strange things that make up my wonderful husband. Morry, what are you doing? Are you going to... Oh!"

And we made love. Gently, with as little stress as possible on my little baby wife, I loved her in every way I could. She responded with a passion that surprised and delighted me. There in Niagra, we truly became husband and wife. We were married in every sense of the word.

Our time in Niagra came to an end. We loaded our stuff in the old Benz and headed back to Toronto.

When we got home, I dropped Rachel at the front door and then drove the car around to the garage. I brought the suitcases through the back garden and into the house. Rachel was nowhere to be seen. The basement light was on. I went down the stairs, and there was Rachel staring into the room -- her room. Her computer and synthesizer were set up on her desk. The monitor speakers were just where I knew she'd want them. There was a five-foot Steinway baby grand piano, which I'd bought before we left (unbeknownst to Rachel, of course), a drafting table, easily adjustable halogen spotlights and plenty of comfortable chairs for guests. In the corner were a desk and filing cabinet. On the desk was a golden name plate that read "Rachel Kline Stewart" and a phone, fax machine and copier. On the wall beside it was an in-built shelf with her scores neatly positioned. Underfoot was a comfy oriental rug.

"Oh Morry, it's wonderful. It's the studio I've always wanted."

"And it's about time that you got back to work, wife. I can't be earning all the money in this household, you know."

"Morry, what did I ever do to deserve you? You're the perfect husband. You take such good care of me."

Chills went down my spine. Those were the exact words Kelly had used less than a week before she died. I fought down the ghost. I still loved Kelly, but she was dead. Rachel was alive, and she needed me. Better the living than the dead.



-------

Chapter 19


We celebrated the holidays, Christmas and Chanukah, in our own home. Rachel insisted that I open my gift first. I did and was greeted by the sight of a gorgeous pair of fourteen carat gold cufflinks. On the front, they were engraved "FMS." On the back was the engraving, "Love, R." I told her it was the finest gift I'd ever had, and I meant it.

Then Rachel opened her gifts. There were two boxes. In the first was a special golden locket I'd had made for her. The jeweler had been working on it before Rachel became ill. After we returned home, I had a copy of our only wedding picture put inside the locket. It was a snapshot of the two of us taken by one of the hospital staff. On the front was a letter "R" set in small diamonds. On the back was engraved, "To my wonderful wife, Rachel. Love, Morry." Rachel clasped it to her face and cried.

Then, she opened the second box. Inside was a two-carat diamond solitaire ring -- the engagement ring we'd never had time for. Again, she cried. She immediately put on both pieces of jewelry. Soon, they were all she was wearing. We made love into the afternoon.

Aaron, Naomi and Bobby were coming for supper. Rachel and I reluctantly got dressed. We made the final preparations for supper. Our three guests -- actually family members -- arrived together. We took them into the living room for hors d'oeuvres, drinks and the opening of gifts. Rachel and I had gifts for everyone, including Bobby's dog Pooh. He got a squeaky toy and immediately began to squeak it incessantly.

Of course, they'd brought gifts for us. There was even a gift from Pooh. It was an ornate pooper-scooper. The card read, "In case I'm naughty."

In the midst of the laughter about Pooh's present, I heard an alarm dinging in the kitchen and excused myself. It would be a pity to ruin the supper. Rachel followed me.

"Morry, I noticed that there are too many places set at the table. There are only five of us, but there are six places set. Should I take away the extra setting?"

Just then, the doorbell rang. I said, "Rachel darling, could you please get that? My hands are full."

She went to the front door. There on the porch stood Hassan, the limo driver, with a suitcase in each hand. "Where should I put these, Mrs. Stewart?"

I answered for her, "Put them in the rear bedroom on the second floor, Hassan."

Rachel looked at me with a puzzled look. She turned toward the door, and there stood Solomon Safire.

"So, is this the welcome I get? I'm invited to my family's house for the holidays, and I'm left standing out here in the cold?"

Rachel rushed forward. She hugged Sol so fiercely that I was afraid she'd do either him or herself an injury. She kissed him and said, "Oh, Sol. This is wonderful. I honestly had no idea you were coming, but this is wonderful."

We hung up Sol's coat and introduced him to Pooh, who was already sniffing this new acquaintance. Rachel took Sol into the living room, where he was embraced by everyone and immediately handed a large glass of Glenlivet single malt, his favourite tipple. I had my usual Laphroaig and, as always, chided Sol for drinking wussy Scotch.

Hassan came downstairs. I knew that alcohol was forbidden by his religion, so I asked if he'd join us for a soft drink or some juice. He accepted, hung up his coat and joined us in the living room. We all talked like old friends or family, which in truth we were. Hassan declined an invitation to supper, saying that he had to get home to the family. His daughter was home from Vassar, and it wouldn't do to keep supper waiting.

Our celebration that night was truly memorable. After the turkey and fixings had been devoured and/or cleared away, Rachel stood at the head of the table and gestured for silence.

"I just wanted to thank everyone for a perfect holiday. In all my years, I can't remember one as fine." Everyone chuckled at that oblique reference to her youth. "And I want to welcome our wonderful Sol. Sol, you must regard this as your own home. Anytime you're in Toronto, Morry and I will be insulted if you don't stay with us. And whenever you want to come here, you don't need an invitation or even any notice. Here's a key. Show up whenever you'd like."



-------

Chapter 20


Rachel grew stronger day by day. We settled into a happy routine. We'd awaken. Make love. Arise. Perhaps make love again before breakfast. Perhaps we'd wait until after. Then, we'd go to our respective studios. We'd work until lunch time. We'd have lunch and then make love. Or maybe the other way round. Some days one, some the other. Then we'd work until supper time. Again, we'd be faced with the decision whether to make love before or after supper.

Later, we'd go to bed. Then, the decision was obvious.

Gradually, we adjusted to our privacy. We were in our own home. No one could come in without our permission. In this relaxed atmosphere, we talked more than ever before. We talked about the important things and the little things. We were best friends, and we never tired of getting to know one another.

One day Rachel asked me, "Morry, when did you fall in love with me?"

I said, "That's an easy one. It was the day that your father brought you here for your first lesson."

She looked at me with wide eyes. "Why?"

"Well, it was a combination of things. You were and are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And it didn't take me very long to discover that you were also the most talented, intelligent and willful girl-child I'd ever met. It was an unbeatable combination of strengths. But the main thing was that I just loved you. It took me a few months to admit it to myself. Maybe even a year, but in the end I did. I had no choice."

"Then why did I have to seduce you?"

"Because you are young enough to be my daughter. There are still some scruples in this old carcass."

She giggled and poked me. "I haven't found them, and I think I'm very familiar with your carcass."

I said, "OK, my turn. Fair?" She nodded. "When did you fall in love with me?"

She smiled and buried her head in my chest. "That's also an easy one. It was the same day -- that first day that I came here."

I lifted her up and looked in her eyes. "Why?"

"It was a combination of many, many things. Of course there was the fact that you treated me as an equal and actually expected me to succeed. But that's not the main thing. I just fell for you. Some things don't lend themselves to inspection."

It seemed that we fell more in love every day. And we both wrote better pieces than ever before.

In January, Sol called. Rachel took the call. She talked to Sol a long time. Then she called me to the phone.

"Morry, you gonif, why the hell haven't you called me all this time? Never mind. I have good news. You know that piece Jeux de temps of Rachel's? The New York Philharmonic is playing it in March. One of the commissioned pieces didn't happen."

"Sol, I detect your fine hand in here somewhere."

"So what if I just happened to drop the score near the nazi who conducts them? He read it and liked it. And he's programmed it. Just thought you'd like to know."

In February, the Toronto Symphony Orchestra was to premiere a new piece of mine. I hadn't been to a TSO concert for months, although I was a season subscriber and a donor. I could afford it, and felt that the orchestra needed my support. When I could not attend, which was often, I'd make my tickets available free to students. Now, I made plans for Rachel and me to attend. Better yet, Sol Safire would be able to come. And of course, Aaron, Naomi and Bobby would be there.

I was looking forward to this concert. The orchestra played my piece magnificently in rehearsal. And when the night came, they didn't disappoint. It was only at the reception after the concert that things seemed odd. People that I'd known for years seemed a bit distant. I thought that it might just be my imagination.

Then, I ran into Jason Fairbrother, my old nemesis from Royal Canadian College. As usual, he was standing by the bar. He greeted me with exaggerated bonhomie. "Morry, come and get a drink. Very nice piece. Congratulations. And congratulations on that child bride of yours. Another nice little piece, that."

Sometimes I can be dense. Suddenly everything fell into place. This asshole was responsible for the cold atmosphere in the room. Something had to be done about this. I motioned for Rachel to join me, She came over with a puzzled look. I picked up a knife from the bar and rapped on my glass to get attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Morry Stewart. I wish to thank you for your very kind reception of my piece tonight. This has been a most rewarding occasion. I would also like to introduce you to my wife, Rachel Kline Stewart." Polite applause. "Rachel is also a composer -- a very fine composer. She and I both studied with the same teacher. Please welcome our friend and teacher, the great American composer Solomon Safire."

Sol joined me to some considerable applause. He said, "Thank you Morry, but I have to quibble with that introduction. Great, am I? I don't know about great. When I compare myself to Morry and Rachel, I feel like small beer. Morry? Well you've heard tonight what he can do. Is there a better composer on the continent? Well, maybe just one. Maybe it's his wife, Rachel. Last year, Chamber Music at Lincoln Centre premiered her Piano Quintet. The St. Paul Chamber Orchestra has commissioned her to write a new piece for this season. And in three weeks, the New York Philharmonic will give the American premiere of her Jeux de temps."

The room burst into noise. Some people were whispering, others talking openly to their neighbours. After a minute or so, Sol rapped on his glass. When there was relative silence, he continued.

"So like I was saying, Rachel and Morry are a very successful pair of artists. Why am I so lucky with my students? Or why are you Canadians so lucky with your composers? Anyway, congratulations to Morry. Congratulations to Rachel. And congratulations to all of you for being smart enough to know great talent when it's in front of you."

Sol drank. They applauded. Jason looked daggers at me. Maybe that would be a problem later, but I didn't care.

-------

In March, the New York Philharmonic gave a magnificent reading of Rachel's Jeux de temps. The reviews were uniformly positive, and the Times critic positively raved about the piece. He said, "Why have we not before encountered the music of this young genius? Bring us more."

Later the same month, Rachel's new chamber orchestra work, Pages, was premiered in St. Paul, Minnesota. She intended the piece to represent pages of her diary. It brought tears to my eyes. I knew what was on those pages. The audience didn't. Rachel's brief programme note did not share that personal information, but they accepted it for what it was: a magnificent piece of music. When the music ended, there was pandemonium in the hall. Again, the reviews were mainly positive. Oddly enough, the only carping came from the critic of the Toronto World. His paper had sent him to St. Paul for the premiere, so obviously the arts editor considered it an important event. The asshole critic allowed that Pages was a good piece but could have been made better by either a different title or a more informative programme note. On balance, it wasn't a negative review. Perhaps you could call it lukewarm. On reflection I decided that we should be grateful. It was the only review in Rachel's young career that hadn't been a rave.



-------

Chapter 21


The winter turned to spring, spring to summer, and eventually winter came again. We celebrated our first anniversary with friends and family. The past year seemed to have flown by. It was hard to understand why, since there had never been a dull moment. Perhaps we were too happy.

Another spring approached. The grass turned green. The tulips came out. It was the time for renewal. So it was no wonder that I became dissatisfied with my old car. Rachel and I talked about it, and she seemed equally keen on a new machine.

One Saturday morning, I took the Mercedes to the dealer for its yearly springtime ritual. Rachel came with me. She was wearing jeans and a green turtle neck sweater. She had her hair in a pony tail and wore no makeup. She looked absolutely adorable and about sixteen years old.

We checked in the car at about 9:00 in the morning. Then we went to the customers' lounge to have a cup of coffee while we waited for the servicing to be completed. As was her wont, Rachel cuddled against me on a chesterfield, reading the newspaper. An elderly matron across the room glared her disapproval. I glared back.

After half an hour or so, I turned to Rachel and said, "The salesmen should be at work by now. Let's go take a look at the new cars."

"That sounds like fun," she said.

So we did.

By chance, the same salesman who had sold me my 190E was the first to accost us in the showroom. "In the market for a new car?," he asked.

"Yes, I believe so. But this time I'd like something more interesting. My wife and I are getting a bit bored with the 190E, isn't that right, dear?" Rachel nodded, a bit too theatrically, perhaps.

"In fact, our next stop will probably be the BMW dealer on Adelaide Street."

He bridled visibly. "Just what did you have in mind?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm considering an M3. The BMW dealer has one in stock. Of course, what I'd really like is a C43, but that's not a possibility."

He smiled. "I have one. A customer ordered it months ago. He put down a substantial deposit but was unable to take delivery for business and personal reasons. Would you like to see it?"

Is the Pope Polish? Of course I'd like to see it. I tried not to act too anxious. The salesman took us next door to the warehouse. They had a fancier name for it, but that's what it was. Standing on the floor was a silver C43 AMG. It had obviously not been prepared for showing. The heavy shipping wax still dulled its finish, and the two-tone gray and black leather interior was swathed in heavy plastic covers.

The salesman spoke first, "4.3 litre AMG V8, 302 horsepower. AMG suspension and handling modifications. AMG custom leather interior. Five speed auto transmission -- the same one as in the SL600, the 12 cylinder sports car. It's the only tranny that will handle the torque of this engine. Again, the transmission is specially modified by AMG. The car is handmade in Affalterbach, Germany. The engine is assembled and signed by one engineer. It's titled as a 1999. There are no 2000 models. This is one of the last C43s made. As you probably know, there are only fifteen hundred of these. This is one of the final hundred. It was ordered with all the options, so I'm afraid that its price is more than a well-equipped E-Class."

I said, "Would you prefer cash or a certified cheque?"

To give him credit, he didn't flinch. "For the full amount or a deposit?"

"Why don't we say two cheques: one for the purchase deposit; the other post-dated for the day of delivery."

"Shall we go to my office?"

Rachel took my arm, "Oh Morry, can we? Can we have it?"

I kissed her. "Yes, my love. It's ours."

The paper work was not without interest. The salesman was a bit astonished when we told him that the car would be in both our names. All our property was now in both names. It would simplify things for Rachel, I thought, in the event of my inevitable demise.

We signed the papers. We were told that the car would be available for delivery on the following Thursday. Unfortunately, I would be in Winnipeg on that day, so we made the arrangements for Rachel to pick up the car. The sales guy kept his cool. After everything was signed and sealed, he shook our hands, "congratulated" us (I love that when salesmen congratulate you on buying something from them), and said that he'd look forward to seeing Mrs. Stewart on Thursday next.

In the meantime, we'd forgotten that my niece Jennifer would be arriving the next morning from Edmonton. Or rather I had forgotten. Rachel was very aware of this impending event. Jennifer was my brother Dave's daughter. She was only two years younger than Rachel. They'd never met, and Rachel was a bit afraid of the meeting. Nor did I know what I was in store for me, but I had high hopes. Jenn and I had always gotten on well. In fact, we'd had a special relationship. She was not only my niece, she was my God-daughter.

Her father and I had never been all that close. Dave and his wife Sally had lived in Edmonton for about twenty years. Jennifer was born there. Dave was now a manager in some sort of bank. I never inquired too closely about his affairs. He was too much of a straight-arrow for me, and he thought that I was beneath reproach. Sally's opinion of me was much the same. It was hard to believe that Dave and I had the same parents. In spite of my relationship or lack of same with my brother and sister-in-law, I'd always been close relationship to their daughter, Jennifer. She'd often told me that I was her favourite uncle. I was to find out just how favoured.

The next morning, Hassan picked us up and took us to the airport. Rachel and I waited outside the baggage claim area for Jennifer. Finally, she came out. She looked much the same as I remembered, only more so. Jenn is tall, blonde and elegant. She'd studied classical ballet from the time that she was ten. She was damned good at it and continued until it became obvious that she was going to be too tall for a ballerina. She's thin with small breasts and hips -- more a fashion model type than a centerfold. In fact, she had done some modeling but was more interested in designing clothes than in modeling them. She planned to go to the Parsons School of Design in New York the next year.

She came up to us. She kissed me on the lips, as was her custom. She greeted me as "Uncle Morry," emphasizing the "uncle." Then, she turned to Rachel. She looked at Rachel very carefully. Then Jennifer smiled, hugged Rachel and said, "And you must be Auntie Rachel."

Point one for Jennifer. She was a tough kid.

We installed Jennifer in the suite on the second floor. Then we had supper and many, many drinks. At a certain point in the evening, Jennifer disappeared for a while. She reappeared holding several CDs in her hands.

"Jesus, Rachel! I found these on the shelf in there. Rachel Kline Stewart, is that you?"

"Guilty," said Rachel.

"You've got all these CDs of your stuff. You're famous!"

I interrupted. "Jennifer, Rachel is a better composer than I am."

Rachel smiled at me. "Morry is being modest again. However, I have had quite a bit of success in the last few years, largely due to Morry and Sol Safire. And, of course, luck."

Jennifer looked at Rachel with new respect. "I had no idea," she said.

I smiled at Rachel, hugged her and kissed her. "And who would have thought that such a lovely, small person could be such a genius?"

Jennifer looked straight at me. "So that's why you married a kid after Aunt Kelly died?"

It was in the open now.

"No, that's not why. The 'why' is that Rachel and I fell in love. We are very much in love and will always be. And this is something that we need to get straight. I love you, Jenn. You are my flesh and blood, and I will always love you. But my love for Rachel is different and very intense. She is my wife. No one gets between us. Ever."

The atmosphere in the room was very tense. Jennifer looked at me for a few minutes with no expression on her face. Finally, she smiled. "OK, I'll try not to step on any toes. Rachel, you are my aunt, like it or not. And I think we're going to get along wonderfully, in spite of Morry."

From that moment, Rachel and Jennifer were friends, or at least seemed to be so. They chattered away non-stop for the next two days. One of the main topics being the new car. Then, on Wednesday, I had to leave. Hassan picked me up, and I said good-bye to the "girls."

Jenn smiled at me and said, "Uncle Morry, don't worry. Auntie Rachel and I will take very good care of the new car when we pick it up tomorrow."

I left, not without some trepidation.

I spoke to Rachel several times a day on the phone while I was away, but there seemed to be something held back. I wondered and dreaded what might be waiting for me in Toronto. Finally, I flew back to Toronto, and Hassan drove me home.

I asked him if he'd heard if anything was amiss in my household. "No, Morry," he said, "my daughter Satifa visited yesterday. She said she had a wonderful time with Rachel and Jennifer. Everything seems fine."

We arrived at the Stewart manse. I rang the bell. I knocked on the door. No answer. I used my key. All was dark and quiet. I turned on the lights. No one about. I took my case upstairs. Still no one. I went back downstairs. All was silent. I went through the back garden to the garage. No new car. I went back into the house and poured myself a drink. A stiff drink.

In about five minutes, the French doors from the patio swung open. There were Rachel and Jennifer in shorts and tank tops with big grins on their faces.

"Did we do it?" asked Jennifer. "Did we scare the shit out of you?"

Rachel came to me and put her arms around me. "I'm sorry if we upset you, my love. We intended it as a harmless prank. We waited around the corner until we saw Hassan drop you off. Then we waited until we saw the lights in the garage go on and off. Don't be upset."

I wasn't actually too upset, surprisingly enough. I felt more relief than anger. The girls were safe, and so was the car. I sat down, poured myself another drink and took Rachel on my knee. Jennifer plopped herself on the other one.

"OK, what's all this about?"

"Well," said Jennifer, "aside from trying to give you another coronary, Rachel and I have been having a great time in the new car. It's great fun to drive around and wait for some idiot to try to ace you out at a stoplight or go rocketing around you on the highway. And it's a great hunk magnet. We've had these great looking guys drooling over it -- and us! Rachel even let me drive it once, but it has too much power for me."

Rachel smiled at me and said, "It's about too much for me, too. Especially in town, unless I have the transmission in "winter" mode so that it starts in second gear. Ever then -- well, it's amazing."

"So, have you wrecked it yet?"

"Not a scratch," Jennifer said. "We waited for you to do that."

I was so happy to see my girls well and having a good time that I completely forgave them for almost frightening me to death. Their account of picking up the car was well worth everything.

Thursday in Toronto had been one of those spring days that's more like midsummer. Rachel and Jennifer had decided to wear shorts and tank tops. That's how they'd shown up at the Mercedes dealer: two teenagers dressed in skimpy costumes demanding to pick up the highest performance car in the shop. Some of the staff almost shat themselves, according to Jennifer. But they had no choice. Mrs. Stewart was there to pick up her car, and pick it up she did.

Both Rachel and Jenn admitted to being somewhat intimidated by the long lecture on the features and operation of the car, but they eventually took off for an extended cruise. They wound up not going too far. The stories of stoplight drag races and cruising for boys were total fabrications. To date, the car's longest trip had been the few blocks home from the dealer. Both admitted being terrified that something would happen to it.

We had a few more drinks and then went out to the garage and sat in the car. I carefully checked out all the controls and features, while the girls made merciless fun of me.

I spent the next few days getting to know my car. It was everything I had hoped and more. Rachel was still incredibly nervous driving it, so she tended to take the streetcar and subway when she had to go somewhere alone. That was exactly what she had done to get to the rehearsal of her Symphony. She'd finally written the piece she'd been dreaming about for years, and the Toronto Symphony Orchestra was premiering it the following week. I would gladly have gone with her. In fact. I badly wanted to be at the rehearsal, but I realized that Rachel had to be her own person.

Unfortunately, Jennifer wouldn't be able to be at the premiere. She had to leave for Edmonton that weekend. Her parents had already allowed her to extend her stay with us, but it was time for her to go home.

I was working in my studio that afternoon. I took a break to go upstairs for a Diet Coke (as a comedian once quipped, "Why is it that only overweight people drink diet pop?"). I was in the kitchen when I heard Jennifer calling me. There was some urgency in her voice, so I quickly went to see what was wrong. Jenn was lying on the chesterfield in the living room holding her right ankle.

"Morry, I think I've sprained my ankle. It really hurts. Would you please have a look?"

I knelt beside her feet and gently took her ankle in my hand. I probed it delicately to a chorus of "Ow" and "Ooh." The ankle seemed all right, so I raised my eyes to look at Jenn and tell her so. Instead, what I saw was her naked crotch. She was wearing nothing beneath her miniskirt. Her pudendum was about two feet from my face, and she was clearly aroused. Her labia were quite wet and engorged. She leaned forward and took my head in her hands drawing me toward her sex.

"Please, Morry. Please. No one will ever know. I need it so much. Just this once. Oh please!"

Needless to say, I was shocked. I opened my mouth to speak just at the moment that she pulled me forward. Suddenly, my mouth was full of her damp slickness. I pulled back, but she forced me forward. The girl was strong! Probably the result of all those dance classes. She held my face against her sex. I tried to gain leverage by pushing against her thighs. The result of this was to spread her legs and hence her pussy even wider. My face was buried in her. Now I was struggling twice as hard to get free. I couldn't breathe. Finally, the friction produced by my struggles to free myself produced her desired result. She climaxed strongly and vocally.

Jenn released me. I collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath. Her juice dripped from my chin. My mouth was full of her taste and my nose of her scent. I'm sure that the entire room reeked of her sex.

I got my breath and once again opened my mouth to speak, but for once in my life, I was speechless. I got to my feet. Jennifer lay there in her post-orgasmic trance, her privates still prominently displayed. I left the room. I went into the washroom, scrubbed my face and gargled with mouthwash. Not because I found her excretions distasteful -- far from it. I was trying to erase this incident. When I went back into the living room, Jennifer was nowhere to be found.

I returned to my studio and tried to work. In about half an hour, there was a timid knock at the door. I opened it. There was Jennifer. She was wearing shorts now. She looked at the floor, seemingly unable to meet my gaze.

She looked up. "Can I come in?"

I nodded. She came into the studio and sat on the old leather chesterfield. I returned to my chair in front of the computer. Jennifer looked at me. There were tears in her eyes.

"Morry, I'm so sorry. I've wanted you for so long -- ever since I was a little girl, I think. I guess that somehow I thought that you'd figure that out and that you'd want me too. When you married Rachel, I knew that it wasn't my age that was the problem. I guess the problem is me. I'm just not attractive to you. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to force myself on you the way I did. It's just that I thought when you saw that I wanted you that much that you'd..."

"No, Jenn. I couldn't do that. You're my brother's daughter. I've known you since you were born. I know that you're not a little girl anymore. In fact, you're a very beautiful woman. Just now, I would probably have made mad and passionate love to you except for two important facts: you are my niece, and I am married to Rachel. These are equally important. You're Dave's daughter. You're my flesh and blood, and I intend to be faithful to Rachel."

Jennifer smiled tearfully, "Well, a lot of people believe that eatin' ain't cheatin'."

"I guess that I'm not one of them. I don't understand that Bill Clinton attitude. We won't say anything about this to Rachel, right?"

She nodded, looking down again. "Do you hate me?"

I went over and sat beside her, taking her in my arms. "No, Jenn, I don't hate you. I love you. I've always loved you. But it's in a different way than I love Rachel. You are my niece, and she is my wife. The difference is important -- very important."

She looked at me again. "Do you think I'm ugly?"

"No, sweet Jenn, you're not ugly. You're beautiful." I grinned. "And, I might add, you're delicious."

She laughed, hugged me, and went upstairs.

I couldn't help but wonder what had led to this incident. Jennifer was one screwed-up and unhappy kid. Knowing my brother Dave and his wife Sally, I wasn't terribly surprised that they couldn't see how desperately unhappy this kid was. I was just pissed off. Of course, it wasn't my fault. Certainly not. I'd never done anything to provoke something like this. Had I?

One thing was for sure, Jennifer needed help. I resolved to try to get the name of a good shrink in Edmonton and suggest as gently but firmly as I could that Jenn see him or her.



-------

Chapter 22


Even had I been more tempted by the lovely Jennifer, there is one thing I've never done. In all my many affairs and dalliances, I've never shat on my own doorstep, so to speak. I've never screwed around with friend's wives or girlfriends and definitely not with family. I saw the result of that rather early in life.

My two best friends when I returned from Juilliard were John Graves and Robert Helwig. Robert played violin; John was a cellist; and I, of course, played piano. We'd met at Juilliard. We called ourselves the Upper Canadian Trio. We chose that name because we were based in Toronto. In colonial times, Ontario was known as Upper Canada, while Quebec was Lower Canada. Don't ask. It makes no sense. Neither did the name of our group, since Robert and I were Canadian and John was American.

The chemistry seemed to work incredibly well between us, both personally and musically. Since John, Robert and I were married, it was only natural that our wives became friends as well. Kelly and I were often guests at my colleagues' homes. John's wife Margaret, known as "Mags", was a very fine cook. Robert's wife Bobbie was less talented but still not bad in the kitchen.

Where Bobbie excelled was in the looks department. She was, not to put too fine a point on it, a blonde bombshell. I'd heard that she'd also been a bit of a slut (we still used that word in those days) in school. As I was to discover, she still had leanings in that direction.

I remember the night that our trio came to an end. Robert and I wanted to practice a new violin sonata that I'd just finished writing. All of us were at Robert's place barbecuing burgers. We'd had trio rehearsal all afternoon. I intended to go to the annual car show that evening, but the sonata was more important. Kelly couldn't go to the show. She was working on her doctorate at U of T and had to prepare a seminar for the next day. I offered the car show tickets to John. His wife Mags was going to her craft class, and he was at loose ends. He accepted with alacrity. I was a bit surprised. I was the car nut in the group. John seemed to see cars only as a means to get from one place to another. He suggested to Bobbie that she might want to join him, since Robert would be busy. She accepted quickly. Again I was surprised. Bobbie couldn't even drive.

Robert got his fiddle, and we went to my place. Our practice went well, but some things were taking more time than we had anticipated. At about 10:30, we decided to go to our studio at the Conservatory. I lived in an apartment, and 11:00 was the absolute end of the noise-making period.

When we got to the studio, we unlocked and opened the door and had the shock of our lives. There on the floor were John and Bobbie. They were both bare-assed naked, and he was pounding the hell out of her. John jumped to his feet sputtering "Oh shit! Oh fuck! Oh shit!" After all, what do you say at a time like that?

The scene was actually quite comical, now that I look back on it. There was John hopping around, his dick waving in the air, shiny and still at full mast. Bobbie just lay there on the floor, her pussy wide open. She didn't even bother to put her legs together. She just put her arm over her eyes to keep the light out. I recall noticing two things about her: she was not a natural blonde, and her tits were a lot smaller than they seemed when she was dressed. It was obvious that she wore a padded bra. There was also a considerable wet spot on the carpet between her legs. It was obvious that they'd been at it quite a while.

I was worried about what Robert might do. He was a bit of a hothead anyway, and I'd certainly never seen him with this much provocation. He'd just seen one of his best friends fucking his wife in front of his eyes. Robert's face was beet-red, and the veins at his temples were throbbing. He raised his fists. Then he simply turned on his heel and left.

I caught up with Robert and drove him home. All the way he kept saying, "That son of a bitch. That fucking cunt" over and over. When we got to his house, he didn't say anything. He just went inside, slamming the door. I found out later that when Bobbie finally came home she found her clothes all over the front yard. Robert refused to talk to her. At the divorce hearing, he wouldn't even look at her.

John left town. Mags stuck with him. The last I heard, he was playing in the Hartford Symphony and he and Mags had two teenage daughters. Robert has remarried and has a son. He's a music producer at CBC Radio. He still lives in Toronto, and we're still friends. Bobbie went into real estate, and she did quite well. She lives in my neighborhood, and I see her from time to time.

As long as I live, I'll never forget that night, and I've made a vow never to be a party to such an affair.

-------

The premiere of Rachel's Symphony was a triumph. Rachel and the conductor of the Toronto Symphony, Jean-Paul Songe-Creux, had four curtain calls. At the reception, Rachel was applauded when she entered.

To sum up the event, I'll quote from the review by James Small, the music critic of the Toronto Constellation.

He wrote:

"Rachel Kline Stewart has become our latest enfant terrible of music. She first achieved notoriety as the young wife of F. Morris Stewart, her former teacher and some thirty years her senior. When they were married, many an eyebrow was raised in the musical community. Morris Stewart is almost as well known for his colourful exploits as for his composition and pianism. He and the late Howard John 'Jimmy' Jimson were for years known as the 'terrible twins' of music, and one might be forgiven for seeing this marriage as merely the latest exploit of Mr. Stewart's chequered career. However, the young Mrs. Stewart is not without credentials. In addition to being the only composition student of her husband, arguably Canada's best living composer, she has also studied with Solomon Safire, one of the finest composers in the United States and the erstwhile teacher of her husband. By the time that she attracted notice in this country, her works were already widely played in the U. S. A. Now, her music shows every sign of becoming as ubiquitous in this country as that of her husband.

"The above is by way of explanation of the fact that although I came to this concert a skeptic, I left a believer. Rachel Kline Stewart is the genuine article. That she has talent there is no doubt. Her Symphony is, to put it simply, a masterpiece. It may be the finest orchestral work in the Canadian repertoire, and Rachel Kline Stewart could well become our finest composer..."

He went on with more about Rachel's Symphony, comments as much intended to impress us with his own brilliance as to describe or criticize the work. But this was the only unqualified rave I had seen from Jim Small in over thirty years of reading his reviews.

I was ecstatic for Rachel. Her Symphony was a masterpiece -- no qualifications, it was a masterpiece. I was convinced that my Rachel had already become the finest composer Canada had produced, Jimmy Jimson notwithstanding, and one of the best in the world of the past two centuries. She was that good. Every time I looked at one of her scores, I got chills. The Symphony simply astounded me.

But it was strange that Jim Small would mention the "Terrible Twins" thing. That was the name given to Jimmy and me by Judah Hoaglund, the critic of the now-defunct Toronto Herald.

The occasion was one of the first Ghibelline Spring Festivals. Jimmy and I had been invited as composer and artist in residence. He was the composer, and I was the "artist," invited to play the piano and even to play a few of my own pieces.

Jimmy and I thought that this was an excellent opportunity. We were asked to do very little work for what seemed to us a rather large remuneration. We pledged to each other that we'd have a good time. And we did.

The opening banquet was to be a "black tie" affair. Neither of us owned a tuxedo. I had my "white tie" outfit, a somewhat threadbare set of formal tails for playing concerts. Jimmy, as far as I knew, did not own a suit of any kind. We went to Sid's Rentals and picked up a couple of tuxedos.

Then Jimmy showed up with two more rentals. Females. "Escorts," I believe they're called. And Jimmy insisted on all four of us having a "few, small" drinks before the banquet. He also thought he and I should be treated to a blow job "on installment," as he put it.

To make a long story short, Jimmy and I missed the opening concert and showed up a bit late for the banquet. We'd also had a bit too much to drink. We were squiring two "fancy women." And we were running the gauntlet.

The banquet was held in the ballroom of the old Armouries Hotel in Ghibeline. It was a vast baronial sort of place. The tables were laid out around a centre space. To get to our table, Jimmy and I had to walk through this open space. We also were walking on a highly-waxed floor. We were wearing rented shoes with plastic soles. We were pissed out of our minds, and we were each hanging on to a floozy. Hanging on for dear life, I might add. In spite of our "dates" doing their best to support us, we both very nearly didn't make the trek.

The room was quiet as we made our way to our seats. Or should I say "almost" quiet. There was a bit of suppressed laughter.

This was when Judah Hoaglund coined the "terrible twins" epithet. The next day in his column in the Herald he wrote, "The opening concert of the Ghibeline festival and the ensuing banquet were predictably dull. Dull that is until the entrance of the Terrible Twins of Canadian music, H. J. 'Jimmy' Jimson and F. Morris Stewart. They put on a better show than the Festival Orchestra..."

Dear Judah. I wept when he died. He was the best of a bad lot: critics. He put to shame the wannabees who pretend to be critics. Judah actually cared. He never criticized a new piece unless he'd studied the score.

But the craziest part of that episode was the part that no one else ever knew. When the "ladies," Jimmy and I returned to our hotel, Jimmy became the choreographer for an unlikely series of events. The climax of these was when he instructed our "escorts" to arrange themselves in the classic sixty-nine position, while he and I took up our posts at either end.

"Morry, it should be possible -- theoretically possible, at least," he said, "for us to penetrate these ladies while they pleasure each other orally. Are you game?"

I was, and for once Mr. Johnson was also of a like mind.

We found that the only practical way to achieve our goal was to position the women diagonally across one corner of the bed. Otherwise, strange gymnastics would be called for, and neither I nor Jimmy were up to these in our current condition.

In the end, all was achieved to everyone's satisfaction. It remains one of the strange and troubling episodes in my life.

My girl was on the top, so penetration was somewhat easier. The poor girl underneath had to contend with my testicles flopping about her eyes.

Jimmy, on the other hand, had the girl on the bottom. He presented his abdomen to my girl's gaze. Actually, he pressed it against her face repeatedly. And, as he told me later over a drink or six, he had a bit of a problem addressing his lady's vagina at the appropriate angle.

However, all was eventually achieved. I assume that everyone reached the point of release. I certainly did, and soon achieved unconsciousness.



-------

Chapter 23


Most of my adult life has been ruled by laziness. Through experience, I know how much time is required to accomplish what I must. Procrastination has become an art for me.

Thus it was on a December weekend. I'd planned to spend the afternoons working on my Synergy for brass, percussion and electronics. However, I hadn't planned on my life getting in the way.

I got an emergency email that Saturday, I had to go to a Canadian Music Centre board meeting, the last of the year. It was very unusual for the CMC to have a meeting that close to Christmas, but there had been a major change in administration, and things had gotten out of synch.

Rachel decided to spend the afternoon Christmas shopping. She told me to go ahead and take the car. Rather than driving and trying to find a parking place in the zoo that was downtown Toronto in holiday season, she'd take the streetcar downtown. Then she would take a cab home with her purchases. She'd done this sort of thing many times. This time, I suspected that it was for the obvious reasons. It doesn't pay to be too curious near Christmas.

I attended the meeting dutifully. It was, as usual, incredibly boring, save for the occasional frightening tidbits portending the imminent doom of the CMC. The meeting ended about 4:00. After the usual schmooze-fest over cheap wine, I headed home. I pulled into the garage about 5:30. I half expected that Rachel would be waiting for me, but the house was dark and quiet. I poured myself a drink and sat down in front of the TV. There was a football game on. It failed to hold my interest. I dozed off. The doorbell woke me up. I thought that it was probably Rachel with an armload of packages. As I reached the door, I looked at my watch. It was 7:00. Rachel had never been this late before without calling me. I opened the door. There were two policemen on the porch.

"Are you Mr. Morris Stewart?" I nodded. "Mr. Stewart, I'm Sergeant Billings and this is Constable Freeman. May we come in?" I escorted them into the living room. We sat down. "Mr. Stewart, I'm afraid that I have very bad news for you. Your wife was the victim of a hit-and-run accident about 5:30. She was rushed to Mount Sinai Emergency. She's now in intensive care. Would you like to accompany us to the hospital?"

I sat stunned. This couldn't happen, not to my little princess, my glorious little genius, my Mozart. She was twenty-four fucking years old. She had so much to give to the world. I was the old fart. Why wasn't it me instead?

"Mr. Stewart, are you all right?" Fuck no, I wasn't all right. I felt like I'd just been kicked in the balls by an elephant. But I simply nodded.

"Give me a minute to get ready, and let me call her parents and her uncle." I knew that it would be the hardest thing I'd ever done, but I didn't want them to hear about it this impersonal way.

While I called Aaron, I asked the cops to go over to Bobby's place. Thank God he was home. He came right over.

I told the police that we'd get there on our own. I asked Bobby to drive the Benz. I was in no fit state. We stopped to pick up Aaron and Naomi.

The scene at the hospital was reminiscent of the time in New York when Rachel came close to death. We were strictly regulated in the amount of time we could spend in Rachel's room. I spent all my time holding my baby's hand. About her wrist was a plastic bracelet with "Stewart, Mrs. R." on it.

For an hour or so, Rachel seemed to rally a bit, and then slipped back into unconsciousness. The police took this opportunity to question me.

Sergeant Billings was obviously in charge of the case, at least for now. He asked me if I knew anyone who drove a silver Lexus SUV. In fact, I did. Jason Fairbrother.

The next question was more specific. Had I ever seen such a vehicle with a vanity licence plate reading "JF-AT-LAW." Again, the answer was yes: Jason Fairbrother.

The next question was whether the owner of said vehicle would have any reason to hurt my wife. I had to admit to myself that it was possible that there was resentment against Rachel in Jason's twisted mind.

The police thanked me and left.

The next morning saw Rachel able to talk a bit and take a little broth by mouth. The police returned. Now the leading officer was a detective named Lake. He asked me to accompany him to the medical residents' day room. We sat down with a cup of coffee.

"Mr. Stewart, I have to admit that this case is one of the strangest in my thirty years of police work. Apparently, this Fairbrother ran down your wife in the middle of the biggest city in the country on Yonge Street, the main drag, in a cross walk at rush hour just before Christmas. He was observed by God knows how many people. Ten of them are anxious to testify. Of those, six have given us both the make of his car and his licence plate. The other four agreed that it was a large silver SUV and that the licence plate ended with 'LAW.'

"We sent officers to Mr. Fairbrother's home. He was there, but, in a word, he was drunk. His car was also there. We impounded it, and our investigators have so far found damage on the left front fender. They also found fragments of hair that we believe came from the fur border on your wife's coat and blood that matches her type. We're waiting for the DNA test.

"Now, my question is simple. You obviously know the suspect. Tell me in as much detail as you like your relationship with him and his relationship with your wife."

Where should I begin? I decided that the beginning was the obvious place.

"Jason Fairbrother and I were classmates at Royal Canadian College. We were not close, but we knew each other. Later, we were drawn into contact by my career as composer and performer and his being on the boards of most of the major performance organizations, such as the Toronto Symphony Orchestra.

"To make a long story short, Jason and I have never liked each other but have chosen to coexist for the greater good."

Detective Lake wrote in his notebook and then looked at me. "And what was his relationship with your wife?"

"That's difficult to say. Before Rachel and I were married, he once expressed to me his desire to have sex with her."

"Were you and Mrs. Stewart involved at that time?"

"Yes, we were."

"Did Mr. Fairbrother know about this involvement?"

"I suspect that he did."

"Why would he make such a remark in your presence?"

"I suspect that his aim was to upset or hurt me. He had often attempted such things in the past."

"Were you upset by this remark?"

"Yes, but I was also amused. I knew that Rachel had no interest whatsoever in Jason or anyone like him. We were and are deeply in love."

"Were there other instances of such behaviour on the part of Mr. Fairbrother?"

"Yes. One of the worst was at the premiere of a work of mine by the Toronto Symphony. Then, there was an even worse episode at the reception following the premiere of my wife's Symphony by the TSO. It was a great triumph and solidified her position as the finest composer of her generation. Jason got drunk and made disparaging comments about my wife and about me. He was quite vocal and was eventually escorted out by members of the orchestra's staff."

"Did you consider Mr. Fairbrother a rival for your wife's affections?"

I had to smile. "Absolutely not. His actions were pitiful but not terribly upsetting to either of us."

"Then why would he try to kill your wife?"

"I don't know. I've been thinking about this ever since your officers described the car involved. Jason has never been terribly stable, and he's been vindictive. But he's never been prone to violence. Running someone down seems out of character for him. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Jason has always been a physical coward. When were in school, he would get other boys to do his dirty work. To my knowledge, he never participated in a physical fight. Maybe this is too weird and too much pop psychology, but could it be that the truck he was driving gave him just enough distance from the act?

"Like I say, I really have no idea. That's just my best guess."

"Thank you, Mr. Stewart. Now, I must caution you that no matter how much animosity you may have toward Mr. Fairbrother for his alleged attack on your wife or how much justification you think you have, there is no excuse for taking the law into your own hands. Any assault on Mr. Fairbrother will be prosecuted under law."

"Thanks, detective, but I'm now just concentrating on my wife's health. Later, I may feel the urge for revenge, and then I'll try to remember your warning."

Rachel was moved out of intensive care into a private room. I spent the next couple of days sitting at her bedside. She continued to improve, gradually staying conscious for longer periods of time. Finally, she was almost back to normal. The biggest problems she had now were the casts on her right arm and leg. It was difficult for her to find a comfortable position, either lying down or sitting. We were assured that the casts would come off in a matter of weeks. Rachel remembered nothing about the "accident" or about the hour or so leading up to it. The doctors had warned me that this was normal in cases of severe concussion.

"Morry, I can't believe that Jason would do something like this. He has so much to lose. What could he have been thinking?"

"Darling, I've known Jason for thirty years or so. Sometimes, he doesn't think. I think this was one of those times. According to the cops he was pissed out of his mind when they found him. You can't get that drunk in a few minutes. The Arts Club is right around the corner from where you were hit. I think Jason spent the afternoon getting sloshed at the A Club bar. It wouldn't be the first time he's done that. When he was well and truly pissed, he got into his car to drive home. And guess what he saw right in front of his hood: you, crossing the street. Probably all the fancied slights and small resentments against the two of us came into his drunken brain. When you're drunk, it's easy to whip yourself into a rage. So, he hit the accelerator instead of the brake pedal, and here we are."

"What do you think will happen to him?"

"I don't know. He may beat the rap. It's possible that he can hire a lawyer even smarter than Jason thinks he is. In any case, Izzy Mandelbaum is acting for us. He'll keep both Jason and the Crown attorney honest. Actually, Izzy called me today. The Crown in this case is an old Osgoode Hall classmate of Izzy's, and Izzy says he's a good guy and a real straight arrow. Jason may be in for a tough time."

"Will he be disbarred?"

"I don't know. He hasn't been caught doing anything like stealing or defrauding a client. But it sticks in my mind that if a lawyer is convicted of a serious crime he could lose his licence to practice. I'll have to ask Izzy about that. The important thing is that he may actually do some time for this."

But Rachel and I had other things to think about. Just before she left hospital, her doctor took me aside.

"Mr. Stewart, I didn't want to say anything before this because I didn't want to raise your hopes in case something went wrong. Mrs. Stewart has been through a very serious trauma, and it might well have caused a miscarriage. Your wife is pregnant."

I was a bit stunned by the news. Rachel and I had discussed the possibility of having a child. I thought that I was too old. She thought that was nonsense. In the end, we agreed to try for a while. Rachel had been off the pill for several months now. I was finally able to speak, although I didn't make a hell of a lot of sense.

"When? How?"

The doctor smiled. "How did she get pregnant? I'd assume that it was the regular way. How long has she been pregnant? Well, it's hard to tell exactly, but I'd guess it's been at least a month. Has she had nausea in the mornings?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Well, she's young and strong, and women react very differently to these things. Not everyone vomits. It's quite possible that she's just felt a bit queasy from time to time."

"But she's OK? I mean, the baby is all right?"

"Oh yes. We gave her an ultrasound, and everything looks perfect. By the way, she knows about this, of course. She no doubt wants to tell you herself. So act properly surprised and delighted."

"The delighted part won't be an act, I assure you. This is the most wonderful news I've ever had. Thank you, doctor."

Our first night home, I opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate. Rachel joined in the cheer, but she said, "I've got to be careful with this stuff."

"Why?" I said, knowing full well why.

"Because there are going to be three of us soon."

"Do you mean that..."

"Yes, we're going to have a baby."

I swept her into my arms, careful not to hurt her poor little arm and leg. "My lovely little darling. You really are a genius!"

"Bullshit. This is something that women all over the world do all the time."

"But those women aren't you. How long have you known?"

"Almost a month, but I wanted to make sure. Miscarriages run in our family. My mother lost two before she had me. Morry, are you really pleased?"

"Of course I am. More than pleased. Delirious. Oh my God. I'm going to be the kind of dad who has baby pictures by the ton. No one will escape me. I love you so much. I have to be part of it. Are we going to do the Lamaze thing or what?"

"I don't know. Let's talk to the obstetrician and let her help us make the right decision. Would you really like to be part of the birth?"

"Is the Pope Polish? Of course I would. I'd like to think I had some part in this whole thing."

"Are you really happy about this? I only ask because I know that you've avoided having children all your life."

"Yes, but now I think I'm finally old enough to face being a father."

We both laughed hysterically.

Later that night, we made love for the first time since the accident. Mindful of Rachel's injuries, I concentrated on pleasing her orally. It was a gentle and magical time.

Jason's trial was mercifully short. The facts were known. His character witnesses failed to sway the judge, and, when the Crown attorney succeeded in introducing the fact of Rachel's pregnancy, the trial was virtually over. Jason got seven years, three of which had to be served before parole. He didn't go to one of the "country club" jails, either -- the jails that convicts call "camp." Jason was put into a medium security institution along with the other swine.



-------

Chapter 24


During Rachel's pregnancy, our love making continued unabated. If anything, our sessions seemed more passionate than before, especially after Rachel's injuries healed. I'd seen somewhat the same phenomenon before. The truth was that Rachel was not the first or even the second pregnant woman with whom I'd had sex.

Charlene Petty was a flute player and sometime composer. Her husband Alex was also a flautist. In fact, he was quite a bit better player than "Charlie," as she was known. Alex was one of the best flautists in the country. He was also a bit of a weirdo, but that has nothing to do with this story. Charlie was known to he sexually available. Rumour had it that she and Alex had an open marriage and that they both screwed around considerably, in spite of the fact that they had two young children. I was to discover the truth of that rumour.

It happened on a trip to Ottawa. The National Arts Centre Orchestra was premiering a piece of mine. Kelly was anxious to accompany me on the trip, but her university duties required her to return to Toronto as soon as possible. The concert was part of a festival, and my piece was being performed in the afternoon. Kelly would accompany me to the concert, but she'd head for the airport immediately after.

Kelly and I arrived the preceding evening. We attended the opening concert that night, as well as the reception after. At the reception, Charlie Petty called it to my attention that my dues to the Canadian League of Composers were quite overdue. She was the treasurer of the League that year and so was charged with putting the arm on deadbeats like me. I paid the dues, and Charlie gave me a quick peck on the lips. I thought this was kind of cute, since Charlie was, if anything, a bit shorter than Kelly, and she had to stand on tiptoe to kiss me.

I said, "Charlie, if I pay next year's dues as well, can I have another kiss?"

She looked at me strangely and said, "Sure."

I gave Charlie the money for the following year's dues. She gave me a receipt. Then she grabbed me around the neck and stuck her tongue in my mouth. The kiss didn't last very long, but it surprised the living hell out of me. Charlie walked away and left me standing there with my mouth gaping open. I must have looked like a fool.

The concert the next afternoon was superb. Both the conductor, Marion Benjamin, and the orchestra did a wonderful job on my piece. Kelly and I were incredibly pleased and regretful that she had to leave. However, it was inevitable, so after the concert, Kelly gave me a quick kiss and caught a cab to the airport.

There was another concert in the evening and a reception afterward. At the reception, I received many compliments and congratulations on my new work. Among the people who went out of their way to congratulate me was Charlie. We spoke for quite a long time. In fact, she hardly left my side during the entire party. Both of us also had quite a bit to drink.

As the party was breaking up, Charlie asked me if I'd accompany her to the orchestra's office. The orchestra manager had given her a key so that she could leave her League things in the office, as well as her coat and some books she'd bought as presents for her kids. The office was in the basement, and little Charlie felt uneasy about going down there alone late at night. I agreed to go with her, so we left and headed downstairs.

Charlie unlocked the office door. I waited while she collected her things. She brought a bag over to me and took out a children's book.

"Let me show you what I got for Virginia." Virginia was Charlie's older daughter. I believe that she was about 7 or 8 at that time.

Charlie proceeded to show me the book. I had to admit that it was cute. So was Charlie and she was standing very close to me. Unnecessarily close. In fact, she was leaning against me. I put my arm around her. She put down the book. I kissed her, and my hands wandered over her body, under her skirt and on her pantied bottom. Suddenly, she drew back from me.

"Morry, we can't do this here. Somebody could come in. I'll tell you what. Come with me to the hotel. We'll go to my room. Let's see how you feel then."

We practically ran across the street to the hotel. In the elevator, I kissed her once again, but she was loath to proceed, again because we might be observed by someone we knew. We reached her room.

Charlie excused herself to go to the washroom. As I later realized, she was inserting her diaphragm. While she was in the washroom, I hastily removed my clothes. Then I felt this might be the wrong move, so I dressed again. I'd just finished dressing when Charlie came out of the john.

I'll never forget that night. Charlie was wearing a nice white suit with a black blouse. She was a very pretty girl with long blonde hair, and she looked great in that outfit. I soon found out that she looked even better without it.

We took up where we'd left off in the office. Soon, we were undressing each other. I removed her panties, threw her on the bed and began eating her. Soon, she was thrashing about and coming. I let her rest a few minutes and then began fucking the shit out of her. We screwed all night long. When I began to flag, Charlie went down on me to resurrect Herman. Sometime near morning, we finally passed out.

About 10:00 that morning, one of the more humorous episodes of that weekend occurred. The lights came on. The bedside lamp was shining directly in my eyes. I heard a gasp and looked up. Charlie and I were lying on top of the bed clothes. We were both stark naked, and our genitals bore the evidence of the previous night's revelry in the form of our dried and caked secretions. Standing in front of me was a young woman in uniform. She was obviously the hotel chambermaid. In the heat of the moment, we'd forgotten to engage the chain lock and put out the "Do Not Disturb" sign. As a result, we were being disturbed.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry. Please excuse me," the maid gasped out. Then she left hurriedly.

Charlie and I looked at each other. Then we began laughing uncontrollably. I got dressed and returned to my room.

When I got there, the message light on the phone was blinking. There were three messages, all from Kelly. She hadn't been able to reach me, and she was worried sick. I hung up the phone, and it immediately rang. I answered. It was Kelly. She was relieved but couldn't understand why I hadn't answered the phone last night. My excuse was that I'd had too much to drink and had fallen asleep without even undressing. She bought it. I thought so, anyway.

That was just the first of many times with Charlie. We had an affair for over a year. Sometimes the raw passion frightened both of us. That was especially true after she became pregnant. I never understood why, but Charlie was even hornier than before. She thought it was a boost in her hormones.

The pregnancy came as a surprise to me. Charlie and Alex had two girls. Charlie had often talked about getting her tubes tied. But Alex desperately wanted a son, so they began trying to conceive. I think that both were quite surprised when they succeeded.

In case you're wondering, no, it wasn't my doing. There was little chance of that. Charlie and I were always careful about birth control, and when Donovan was born, he obviously had his dad's features.

As I said, while Charlie was pregnant, she was absolutely insatiable. She would call me on the phone while she was masturbating. She would unpredictably appear at my studio for a quickie. That was before Kelly and I bought the "new" house. My studio was across town in an old warehouse loft. During Charlie's pregnancy, it seemed as though more of my time there was spent fucking than writing music.

After Donovan was born, Charlie and I decided to call a halt to the relationship. Many of our mutual friends were suspicious. How could they not be? Our affair had become too intense. We realized that we had two choices: run away together or call a halt. We chose the latter. We were both sad about it at the time, but we both knew it was for the best.

When Donovan was five, Alex knocked up one of his flute students and left his family. She was twenty, and he was forty-one. As far as I know, they're still together. When Alex left, I must admit that I was tempted to take his place, but a ready-made family wasn't my style.

Every once in a while, Charlie and I have lunch. We share a few laughs about old times. I'm still very fond of her.

That was the only long-term affair I had during my marriage to Kelly. In retrospect, I'm sure that Kelly knew or at least suspected what was happening. Jimmy Jimson, on the other hand, had a five-year relationship with Lee Bradley, now an arts reporter for the CBC.

Lee met Jimmy when she interviewed him for a local TV show. She started the interview by asking, "Joining me tonight is the famous Canadian composer John Howard Jimson. Mr. Jimson, may I call you John?".

Jimmy simply answered "No". Lee had put a major foot wrong. Jimmy hated interviewers who didn't do their homework. First of all, his name was "Howard John," not "John Howard." The John Howard Society is the organization charged with rehabilitating convicts. Jimmy never rehabilitated anyone -- not even himself. Perhaps nerves led to Lee simply misspeaking herself, but she was never the sharpest pencil in the box. Looks were more her department. Second, no one had ever called Jimmy by either of his given names, with the possible exception of his mother.

Lee was nervous, and, as the interview went on, she got more and more nervous. Jimmy was in prick mode, and he gave her no help whatsoever. As soon as they were off the air, Lee dissolved in tears.

Suddenly, Jimmy the prick gave way to Jimmy the gent. He apologized for being such a prat and comforted her. Boy did he comfort her. He practically screwed her in the TV studio.

The next week, he took her on a holiday to France.

Lee Bradley was noticeably absent from Jimmy's funeral. She'd been his mistress for some five years, but at least she had the decency not to rub Philippa's nose in it one more time.

By the way, I mentioned that Rachel was the third pregnant woman with whom I'd had sex. The second was a sweet, zaftig, young woman that I met in St. John's, Newfoundland. But that's a story for another time.



-------

Chapter 25


Esther was born at 3:00 on a Sunday morning in Mount Sinai Hospital in Toronto. She weighed just over three-thousand grams -- about seven pounds. She was perfect.

I'd been up for many hours with no shave and no bath. My only nourishment had been from vending machines. In the wee hours, there's not much service in a Toronto hospital. But I couldn't imagine what Rachel had been through. She was in labour for at least seven hours. I was only a bit frayed about the edges. God knows how she felt. My mother often said that if men had to give birth the race would die out. I didn't give birth to Esther, but when she arrived, I almost felt that I had. I forgot how tired and bleary I was. She was a miracle, this adorable little bundle. I was so proud I nearly burst.

I waited a few hours before I started phoning people. First, I called Aaron and Naomi and then, of course, Bobby. Next, I phoned my brother Dave. I'd forgotten that it was two hours earlier in Edmonton, so I woke him up at about 5:00 his time. He didn't mind at all. That surprised me, given his usual attitude toward me. Perhaps he thought I was becoming a "regular guy" after all these years. Dave's wife Sally even got on the phone. That surprised me even more. Sally had always given me the impression that she considered me a reprehensible character and beneath her notice. This was the first civilized conversation with her that I could recall. Dave and Sally promised to come for a visit as soon as they could, and they sounded sincere. I hung up with a very nice feeling.

Then, I called Dave and Sally's daughter, my niece Jennifer, in New York. I knew that Jenn was not an early riser. As I expected, she answered the phone sleepily. But she woke up when she heard the news. Jenn was ecstatic, yelling "Oh my God!" and literally squealing into the phone. I had to hold the thing away from my ear to avoid being deafened. When she calmed down, Jenn said that she had some vacation time coming up and was determined to come to Toronto and help out. I didn't say no. Jenn asked me to let her speak to Rachel as soon as possible. I agreed.

Next I called Sol Safire. The old fart was overjoyed. I could hear tears in his voice. He said, "You better invite me to her Bas Mitzvah, goddam it!"

"Sol, she was just born today. She won't be Bas Mitzvah until she's twelve."

"And it's worth living for. I plan to be there. Am I invited or not?"

Now it was my turn to be choked up. Sol would soon celebrate his eighty-second birthday. The likelihood of his attending Esther's Bas Mitzvah was probably not great. I got my voice back and told him that of course he was invited. Then I did my best to answer Sol's many questions about Esther. Yes, she looked like her mother, at least to me. Did she have her mother's eyes? Too soon to tell. Etc., etc. After our bout of twenty questions, Sol promised to spread the good news to all Rachel's friends in New York and to come to see us soon. We said good-bye.

After calling the family (I considered Sol family), I phoned my friends. I called Ken, Robert, Izzy, Hassan, Dmitri, Philippa and as many others as came to mind. None of them seemed to mind being disturbed so early on a Sunday morning. I suspect that they thought it was amusing that silly old Morry was such a proud papa.

These days, they don't keep postpartum mothers in hospital very long. I took Rachel and Esther home in two days, and those days seemed to have flown by. Of course, Rachel's mother Naomi had things very well in hand at home. Naomi had offered to look after us, but it would have been unfair to expect so much of her. She wanted to be with us, and we wanted her there. But not to do all the work. I'd hired a professional nanny to help out. Her name was Magda, and she was waiting for us when we arrived. Magda was from the Philippines. I'd guess her age at about forty. She was one of the smallest women I'd ever seen. Rachel told me later that she was quite proud of the fact that she, as she put it, "towered over" Magda. It was probably the first time Rachel had ever towered over anyone. Magda would live in, but her weekends were to be her own, unless we had an emergency. Magda's room was to be on the second floor, next to the nursery.

Decorating that nursery had been a major project for Rachel and Naomi for months. They finally pronounced it perfect. However when we were showing Magda around the house, I noted with some amusement that Naomi had added a bunch of stuffed animals and other baby toys since I'd last seen the room. It would be a while before Esther would be playing with any of them, and the nursery, however perfect, would have to wait. Esther would sleep in our room, at least for the first few months.

That evening, Aaron and Bobby hurried over immediately after they closed the salon. Aaron was bursting with pride and beaming every time he looked at Esther. Bobby's reaction was similar. They'd seen Esther in hospital, but seeing her at home seemed to create a different and more intense reaction. I had the feeling that it might be a struggle to avoid Esther's becoming absolutely spoiled by her grandparents and her adoptive uncle. However, the baby seemed unimpressed and slept peacefully, undisturbed by the attention.

The hospital folk had told me how to hold Esther, but I'm afraid that I still held her as though she were a carton of eggs. I was so afraid that she'd break. Rachel thought that I looked amusing, but she was worried that I'd drop the baby. I gradually learned the proper technique with her kind tutelage. I also became adept at changing diapers and all the associated rituals. After all these years I was finally becoming domesticated.

On our third day home, I got a call from Jennifer. She'd been able to get some time off. In fact, she'd arrive the next evening. I was pleasantly surprised. I hadn't expected to see her so soon. I arranged for Hassan to meet Jenn at the airport, since I felt that I was needed at home. Hassan arrived with Jenn about 8:30. It was good timing, since Magda was not occupied with Esther and was able to fix a bit of supper for Jenn.

After Jenn had spent some time with Rachel and Esther and had eaten her supper, she joined me in the study for a drink. She sat down with a sigh and took a hard pull on her Scotch.

"Morry, she's a gorgeous child, and Rachel is more beautiful than ever. You're a very lucky guy."

"You don't have to tell me that. I know that I'm the luckiest guy in the world. And I feel even luckier now that you're here. Thanks for coming. By the way, you told me a while back about your big promotion. What with all the excitement around here, we haven't had a chance to talk about it. How's it working out?"

"It's shitty!"

I was completely surprised by that outburst. Jenn started to cry. It was as though she'd been holding things in, but now the dam had burst. I felt uncomfortable and awkward, but I got up and went to sit next to her on the chesterfield. I put my arm around her. She looked at me, tears still running down her cheeks.

"Morry, I have to tell you something. It's going to be very hard, but I have to do it. You may not even want me in your house after you hear it."

"Jenn, don't talk nonsense. If you need to tell me, I need to hear it. Go ahead."

Jenn poured herself another stiff Scotch. She sat back down, took a drink, a deep breath and looked down at the floor.

"Do you know how I got this fucking job? Fucking job. That's good." She laughed bitterly and took a drink. "Well, I fucked my way into it, that's how. With a woman."

I had no idea what to say. After an awkward silence, Jenn continued.

"Right after I graduated from Parsons I got a job with Lisa Steele. She's a hot young designer. I thought I was really lucky to be working in her house, even if I was just a flunky. And everything seemed to be going really well. Lisa told me a couple of times how much she liked my work. Then a few months ago she called me into her office. She said she'd had her eye on me and that she thought I had great possibilities. Yeah, right." Jenn laughed.

"Anyway, she said that her assistant was leaving to go to another house. The job was open. Was I interested in it? I told her hell yes. I'd be like her second in command. Everybody in the business would know my name. And I could sure as hell use the money. Of course I was interested.

"Then Lisa said that she'd like to discuss it with me. Would I be interested in going to her country place in Connecticut for the weekend? I was a little weirded out by that. Shit, everybody knew that Lisa was a dyke. That's not such a big deal in our business. Hell, there are gays everywhere in the fashion business. But I'd never been hit on. This was starting to sound more like she wanted a personal assistant, not a business assistant."

Jenn paused for another drink. I was getting a bit worried about her sobriety. She was already starting to slur her words.

"So what happened?"

"Fuck. I went with her to Connecticut. It was on Friday after work. She drove her BMW convertible with the top down. It was a nice day. I'd have enjoyed the ride if I hadn't been so weirded out. All the way up there I kept telling myself that I was reading her wrong. After all, she'd never seemed like a creep at work. But when we got to her country house, there was nobody else there. Oh, there was a housekeeper, but Lisa told her that she wouldn't need her for the weekend.

"We had a few drinks. Lisa cooked, and she talked about the business and all kinds of shit. She asked my opinion about this and that. Trying to calm me down, I guess. But when we had supper, I was still so nervous I could barely eat. I thought I knew what was coming, and it scared the shit out of me. I drank a lot of wine with dinner. But I wasn't drunk. I guess I was too scared to get drunk.

"After we ate, Lisa said we should go sit in front of the fireplace. She sat down and patted the place next to her. I sat there. She looked and me and said, 'Jenn, you seem nervous. Relax, honey. Let me rub your shoulders.'"

Once again Jenn took a drink and laughed bitterly. "Well, she rubbed a hell of a lot more than my fucking shoulders."

Jenn began to cry again.

"Jenn, you don't have to go on. I think I get the picture."

"I do have to go on. I want somebody to know what happened. Do you know what happened? No, but I'm going to tell you. She used the pretext of a goddam massage to get my clothes off. Then the cunt went down on me, that's what," she sobbed, "And I let her! I let her suck me off!" Jenn took a deep breath and looked me in the eyes. "In case you're wondering, yeah I did come. The bitch is good at what she does. A nun would come if Lisa ate her. Yeah, I came. And I felt like shit afterwards.

"So I sat there kind of huddled up and not saying anything. Kind of shaking, I guess. But Lisa really knew what she was doing. She had to know it was my first time with a woman. She got me a drink and left me alone for a few minutes. Then she sat down beside me again. She hugged me and stuff. And she said we should go to the bedroom."

Jenn looked at me. "Yeah, I knew what was coming the whole fucking time. That's what's so shitty about it. I knew from the beginning, and I went along with it. That makes me worse than Lisa. She's a predatory dyke, but I sure as hell didn't have to go along with it. I'm a fucking whore."

Jenn took yet another drink and then went on. She sounded tired. "When we got to the bedroom, Lisa took off her own clothes and got me into her bed. I knew what she wanted, but I didn't know if I could do it. Well, I fucking could, and I did. I went down on her. I ate her, and I managed not to puke while I was doing it." She sobbed. "I ate her fucking pussy. Then..."

"Jenn, you really don't have to tell me any more..."

"Yes, I fucking well do!"

Jenn paused for a moment, looked away and continued. "Well, that was Friday. When she dropped me off at my apartment Sunday night, I felt like a sack of shit. And that was just the first time. That was months ago. Whenever Lisa feels like some pussy, she calls me. Oh yeah, I got a good job out of it, but I don't think I have much respect in the business. I'm sure everybody just thinks I'm Lisa's piece."

Jenn took yet another drink. She continued to look down, and she said quietly, "And now she wants to use 'toys' and shit like that in her 'love making.' She says she wants somebody to take pictures. 'Just for keepsakes, ' she says."

"Jesus Christ," I said.

"Yeah. Jesus Christ."

"Jennifer, you can't be involved in this any more."

"Yeah, I can't take it, even without the really kinky shit. So I'm leaving. I'm leaving Lisa. I'm leaving New York. I don't think I have much fucking cred there right now. There's a young designer here in Toronto named James Chang. He's offered me a job. James isn't an international player yet. He can't pay half as much as Lisa does, but I don't give a damn. He's a really good designer and a nice guy, too. I can help him out with what I've learned about the business." Jenn smiled wanly. "James is also gay, but that makes me safe in this case."

She finished her Scotch, put it down on the side table, and looked at me.

"So I'll leave if you want me to. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want me in the same house with your wife and baby daughter."

I smiled at her. I stood up and opened my arms. Jenn came to me. I held her and swayed back and forth, rocking her the way I had when she was a little girl.

"Jennifer, I love you, and Rachel loves you, too. Why the hell would you think we'd throw you out? You can stay here as long as you like. We're your family, and this is your home."

Jenn sobbed against my shoulder. Then she looked up at me and smiled at me through her tears. "I guess I've always been a problem child, eh?"

"Yeah. But you're more of a problem to yourself than to anyone else."

"Aren't you worried that I've gone queer? That I might hit on Rachel or something?"

"No. You're not a lesbian. You never enjoyed any of that stuff you told me about. I've never thought that you were attracted to women. Quite the opposite, in fact."

I smiled at her, and she chuckled.

"Stay with us -- at least until you get your feet on the ground in your new job."

"Morry, you're the best."

"No, I sure as hell am not the best. But I'd like to think that I'm not the worst, either. Why don't we agree not to talk about this any more? Deal?"

"Deal."

"But I think that you should talk to someone. That psychiatrist that you saw in Edmonton... what was her name? I can't remember. Anyway, I think you should get some counseling while you're here in Toronto. Your shrink can send your records to whomever you see here. I think it'll help to have someone who's a professional and who isn't involved emotionally. How about it?"

Jennifer didn't say anything for a few moments. Nor did she look at me.

"I never saw the shrink. I lied about that," she said quietly.

"Why didn't you see her?"

"I guess that I... Oh hell! I don't know. I just didn't."

"Don't you think it's about time that you did see somebody?"

"I don't know. I just don't know. But I don't want to tell anybody else about all this disgusting shit. I had a hard enough time telling you."

"It seems to me that it's more disgusting to you than to anyone else. What's more disgusting to you: what you did, or why you did it?"

"Why I did it."

"Exactly. That's what you have to come to terms with. And don't worry about telling a shrink. Legally, they can't tell anyone else. And they're professionals. They've heard it all before, believe me. Hell, I'm not a shrink or a priest, and I've heard stuff like this before -- too much of it. Some day I'll tell you the story of a very twisted son of a bitch named Jason Fairbrother. I've known Jason most of my life, and I have to say that he makes your Lisa seem like a teddy bear. He's made a career out of preying on weaker people. He's screwed God knows how many people -- both literally and figuratively. He's the bastard who tried to kill Rachel."

"Christ! That's the guy?"

"That's the guy. Now will you at least think about seeing a shrink?"

"Do you think I'm nuts?"

"Hell no. Certainly no more that I am."

We both grinned at that.

"That's right. You're my crazy uncle. That's what my mum has always called you."

"Yeah. I know. Crazy or not, I think talking to someone might help. You don't need to make any decision right away, but think about it. Tonight, we're both really tired. So let's go upstairs and go to bed. I suspect that Esther isn't going to let me get much sleep."

"I know I don't need to ask you, but please don't tell my mum and dad about this."

"You're right. You don't have to ask. Dave and Sally simply wouldn't understand. I don't think they'd disown you or anything like that, but your relationship with them would never be the same."

"Are you going to tell Rachel about it?"

"Hell no. The only thing I'm going to tell her is that you have a new job here in Toronto and that you'll be staying with us for a while. I know that she'll be happy to hear that. She's always liked you, and we never see enough of you. If you ever feel like telling Rachel, then go ahead and tell her. She'll be fine with it. In many ways, Rachel is more mature than I am. Now let's go to bed."

After the emotional roller coaster of the past few days, I felt as though I could sleep for a week.



-------

Chapter 26


Jennifer moved in with us for a while. She fit right into our household, and she and Magda were always cooking up new things, figuratively and literally. Both of them were fantastic cooks. I never understood how they could be so thin. I certainly had to exercise moderation for the sake of my waistline. During the months that Jenn was with us, I was engaged in a constant battle of the bulge.

Jennifer's mother and father actually did come for a visit. Sally's first remark on entering the house was, "Gee this is a really nice place!" She sounded very surprised. Perhaps she thought we lived in a cave.

However, the nice feeling I'd gotten from talking to Dave and Sally on the phone continued. Dave and I seemed to get along much better than ever before. We even got drunk together a few times and had some major male bullshit sessions.

As for Sally, perhaps the less said the better. Suffice it to say that we seemed to agree to coexist.

In the course of time, Jennifer found an apartment to her liking but was still often in our home. She came to supper several times a week on average. And she found a boyfriend. I say that through clenched teeth. His name was Ralph, which he pronounced "Rafe" in the British style, an affectation if every I heard one. Ralph was tall and blonde like Jenn and handsome in a cheap sort of way (unlike Jenn, I might add, who always looks classy). He had ambitions to be an actor, but most of his income came from modeling men's fashions. That's how he and Jenn met.

To say that I wasn't fond of Ralph would be an understatement. I put up with him for Jenn's sake. Sometimes, it's been a bit of a strain. They've stayed with us on several occasions and one evening I passed by their room to be greeted by the sounds of sex. I manfully ignored the "Oh God" and "Jeezuz, baby" exclamations. How mundane.

However, Jennifer never seemed happier. God bless "Rafe" for that.

Magda remained with us. She became an integral part of our household. In addition to looking after Esther, Magda took on the grocery shopping and most of the cooking. cleaning and ironing. She took an incredible amount of strain off our shoulders and enabled Rachel to get back to composing months before it would otherwise have been possible. I don't know what we'd have done without her. She's been a second mother to Esther.

As for Esther, what can I say? She was the sweetest, most intelligent and darling baby ever. Well, perhaps every father would make that statement, but I had the unqualified and objective proof at my disposal. Esther was clearly more beautiful, brighter and sweeter than any other child.

The days flew by, and soon we celebrated Esther's second birthday. The party was for both children and adults -- for Esther's friends and ours. Esther was enrolled in a preschool programme. Magda took her there nearly every day. The school's programme included story telling. The story teller's name was Erica Hunter. She specialized in stories and games for young children. Esther worshipped her and was delighted when we hired Erica to provide the entertainment for the children at the party. I must say that the adults also watched, amazed how Erica could keep a room full of 2 to 4 year old children hanging on her every word and gesture.

And then there was Rachel. My darling Rachel went from triumph to triumph. Nothing got in her way. She has always had the ability to focus her creative powers no matter what difficulties may lie in the way. I truly feel that she is destined for greatness. As I told her years ago, I am in awe of her.

As for me, my health has been better than it's been in years. A couple of months before Esther's second birthday, I had an angioplasty, a procedure that my cardiologist had recommended for some time. Basically, it consists of opening blocked coronary arteries by inflating a balloon to compress the plaque deposits and inserting a mesh sleeve to keep the deposits at bay. The description is much more dramatic than the reality. One stays in hospital over night, rests and takes pills for a few weeks, and it's all over. I felt so much better afterward. Physical activity was no longer a problem. There was no heart pain or shortness of breath, and I was much better able to keep up with my young wife and baby daughter.

One evening after Esther had gone to bed, I was in my studio listening for perhaps the hundredth time to Richard Strauss' Also sprach Zarathustra. I was in my favourite part, not the big organ and brass opening that Stanley Kubrick made popular with the great unwashed but the first real entrance of the string quartet, leading up to the wonderful fugue. I had the big McIntosh system in full cry when the phone rang. I couldn't, of course, hear the ringer, but I could see the flashing light I'd installed after seeing a similar installation in a recording studio. I reluctantly muted the sound and answered.

On the other end was my conductor friend Marion Benjamin. It transpired that he had a problem. Marion was the music director of the National Arts Centre Orchestra in Ottawa. He'd scheduled my Third Piano Concerto for that season and hired a big name pianist from the States as soloist. However, the pianist had canceled for reasons of health. Marion asked me if I'd be willing to play in his stead. In addition to the fact that he felt that I'd do a better job, I might perhaps be a bigger drawing card than the departed pianist. After all, I hadn't appeared playing any concerto for several years, much less my own. There would be three performances during the second week of April. I agreed, somewhat reluctantly. I had only played the concerto once and that some years previously. It's not an easy piece. In fact, it's damned difficult. In addition, it was to be recorded by the CBC for national broadcast. Should I perform in a porcine manner, the entire country would hear, not just the Ottawa audience. I hadn't played in public at all for over a year. I'd have to work very hard, but, egoist that I am, I thought that I might just be able to do it, so I agreed.

There was an even better reason to play my concerto. Rachel's tone poem The Many Colours of Snow would be performed in the same hall the following week.

I hung up the phone and went upstairs to tell Rachel. She was delighted. She had no doubt that I'd do well.

Isn't that what wives are for? They make us poor fragile mortal men feel invincible.

And I did feel invincible. But that feeling only lasted until I started working on my concerto.

What kind of fiend would write such a tricky piece? I cursed his memory. Of course, I only had to look in the mirror to find him.

The time approached for the performances. I had been working extremely hard, and, to my surprise, I felt almost ready. My fingers had remembered their cunning. I found myself anticipating the concerts.

One afternoon when I was in the studio practicing the concerto, Rachel came rushing in. "Morry, I just got a call from Josh Dover in New York." Joshua Dover had succeeded Sol Safire at Juilliard. Like me, he was a former student of Sol's, and, again like most of us who could make that claim, he was extremely devoted to Sol. "Sol has been taken to hospital. They think it's a heart attack."

Suddenly the concerto seemed unimportant. Sol had been my friend and mentor for nearly thirty years. He was eighty-four, so health problems were not unexpected, but this development took me totally by surprise.

"Do you know what hospital he's in?"

"Sol's in Mount Sinai. I have the number."

I called immediately and was connected with the cardiac intensive care ward. The nurse on duty assured me that Dr. Safire was in stable condition. I asked if we should come to New York. The nurse cautioned that we should wait until the blood tests were complete. The enzymes would tell the tale.

I called Josh Dover. Josh and I had never been close. He'd studied with Sol at the Manhattan School of Music about ten years before I came to New York. However, I had a great deal of respect for Josh, both personally and professionally, and considered him a friend.

"Morry, there's not much more that I can tell you. We're all playing a waiting game here. I can only say that, in spite of the fact that they won't commit themselves, the people at the hospital seem somewhat optimistic. Sol's resting comfortably. Of course, they're not letting people visit him just yet. So it would be fruitless for you and Rachel to come down here. As for me, I plan to spend as much time as I can at the hospital. If there's any change, you'll be one of the first to know."

"Thanks, Josh. As Sol would say, you're a mensch."

"Morry, that's about the highest compliment you can pay to an old Jew like me. I can only say that you are an even better mensch. How are Rachel and Esther? I didn't really get a chance to speak with Rachel. She wanted to tell you about Sol immediately."

"They're both great. Esther is growing like a weed. At this rate, she'll soon be taller than Rachel. How's April?"

April Lemoine Dover was Josh's wife. She was also his former student and some twenty-five years his junior. Their relationship had been a minor scandal at Harvard, where Josh was teaching at the time.

"She's fine. Busy as hell as usual. She's out of town right now. In fact, I think she's somewhere in Canada, but I'd have to look at the itinerary she gave me to tell you exactly where. If she comes to Toronto, I'm sure she'll give you a call."

"Good. Be well, Josh, and please do call us if you have anything to report."

That evening, we got another call from Josh. The enzymes had come back negative. Whatever was ailing Sol, it hadn't been a heart attack. There was even better news. Sol had been moved out of intensive care and could take phone calls. Of course, Rachel and I immediately phoned him.

"Morry, you son of a bitch. What's up?"

"What's up is that you're trying to scare the shit out us, that's what."

Rachel chimed in. "Sol, what have they told you? When can you go home?"

"Is that my sweet girl? God, it's good to hear your voice. The bastards tell me that I can go home in a couple of days. They want to keep me for a while to see if I have another attack of indigestion or whatever the hell it was. With this goddam hospital food, I think that dyspepsia is a sure thing."

After a bit more conversation, we hung up. Sol needed his rest. Whatever strain the rest of us had been experiencing, it must have been much worse on him. Fortunately, it seemed as though he was out of the woods, at least this time. Maybe he'd make it to Esther's Bas Mitzvah after all.

After two days, Sol was released from hospital. We made him promise to keep us informed, and he made us promise to tell him how things went in Ottawa. We resumed our life.

Rachel planned to accompany me to Ottawa. Her own performance would be the following week, so that meant we'd both be away for two weeks. We made arrangements for Esther's care with Magda and Rachel's mother Naomi. Naomi was such a devoted grandmother that she always welcomed the opportunity to be with Esther. I winced when I thought how spoiled my daughter would be after two weeks with Granny Naomi and Mummy Magda.

The day came for us to go to Ottawa. We were met at the airport by the orchestra's limo and taken to the Chateau Laurier. When we checked into the hotel, we were given a message from Marion Benjamin. He asked us to meet him in the hotel bar for a drink and a brief conference.

I'd been aware that there was to be a small piece by April Lemoine Dover, Josh's wife, on the same concert as my concerto. I'd estimate that her piece was less than 10 minutes in duration, so I had no idea she was going to be there. However, when Rachel and I entered the hotel bar, there she was.

April was one of the darlings of American music. She was in her mid-thirties, rather pretty and fairly talented. Josh was a friend, but I'd always felt uncomfortable around April without knowing why.

Marion shook my hand and hugged Rachel. April hugged me and greeted Rachel with, "Oh yes, Rachel. It's so nice to see you. I'd love to hear some of your music one of these days. I'm so sorry that I can't stay to hear your piece next week. I have to go to Los Angeles for rehearsals."

Rachel simply smiled at her and said, "As it happens, I've actually heard one of your pieces. It was on the same concert as my Second Symphony last year in New York. I think it was called A Simple Overture or something like that. Very nice little piece, as I recall."

Touché. I'd never seen Rachel in this mode, but I had to admit that she could hold her own in a cat fight.

We finished our business with Marion and, after normal pleasantries, departed. When we arrived in our room, Rachel was quiet until she'd undressed, washed and changed for bed. Then she suddenly exploded.

"That bitch! Who the hell does she think she is? I can write circles around her. I have done, for Christ's sake!"

I felt as though I'd been slapped or had a pitcher of ice water thrown in my face. I'd never heard Rachel speak this way. She'd never let anyone get under her skin to such a degree. I didn't quite know what to say.

After lying still for a few moments, Rachel turned to me and smiled. "Oh Morry, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't let her get in the way of our having a wonderful time together. She doesn't matter. Do you realize that this is our first getaway together for over a year?"

Yes, I did, and I proceeded to demonstrate that fact. We made love with an abandon that we couldn't quite muster in our own home. A child and a nanny could, after all, overhear. In a hotel, the anonymity makes you feel invulnerable. You needn't face anyone in the morning.

It seemed that we made love nearly all night. I certainly don't recall falling asleep, although I must have. I was certainly sleeping when the phone rang for our wake up call, but I awoke feeling wonderfully refreshed.

Rachel and I made love again and then had a late breakfast. I was to meet with Marion at 1:00, shortly before the rehearsal. I thought that I'd go to the National Arts Centre a bit early, about noon, just to warm up. When I arrived, I'd touch base with Marion.

It was a Monday afternoon. Monday is a "dark" day in the NAC. No shows. So I wasn't surprised that no one was about. I went into the orchestral office area and found Marion's suite. The reception door was open, but his office seemed empty. The door was cracked a bit. I thought of looking in, thought better of it and had just turned to go when I heard what sounded like a muffled scream. It seemed to be coming from Marion's office. I turned and opened the door. I was greeted by an amazing sight.

Marion's desk was in front of a large window. Between the desk and the door was a sort of small conference table. The light was shining through the window, so I had a very good view. I could clearly see April bent over the table. Her sweater and bra were around her neck. Her skirt was around her waist. Marion was behind her. His pants were around his ankles. His cock was in her twat, and he was pumping away. Her tits were flopping freely, and both Marion and April were making grunting noises. Under different circumstances, it would have been quite humorous. At that moment, I didn't find it so. I turned to go. Unfortunately, I tripped over a chair leg.

At the sudden noise, both Marion and April looked toward me. April yelled, "Oh my God! You stupid bastard! You were supposed to lock the door. Shit!"

I left as quickly as I could. I found a practice room and began to warm up. I played the most aggressive things I could think of. I was angry, and I was incredibly depressed. Josh had often told me that April was the great love of his life. He was completely devoted to her. He certainly didn't deserve to have this little cunt screwing around on him. As for Marion's wife Eleanor, she wasn't one of my favourite people, but she didn't deserve to have her husband porking every piece of tail that came into his office.

Most of all, how could he do this to Josh? In all my chequered past, I'd never screwed a friend's wife. Suddenly I realized that Josh was my friend, not Marion's. Perhaps in his shoes, the B. R. (Before Rachel) version of Morry Stewart would have done the same. Somehow, that thought didn't make me feel any better.

Marion burst into the practice room. "Morry, I'm so fucking sorry about that."

"Marion, that's probably not the best choice of words under the circumstances. How long has this been going on?"

"I swear to God this is the first time. It just happened. Believe me."

"OK. I'm sorry that I disturbed your little tryst. Let's not talk about it. Let's try to make some music. I'd like to take a few minutes to go through the score. I have a few suggestions, especially about the second movement."

The rehearsal went well. Both Marion and I threw ourselves into the music. At the end of rehearsal, the orchestra applauded. The adrenaline rush made me feel much better. I was soaked with sweat, so I went back to the hotel to shower and get dressed before taking Rachel out to supper. But after my shower, my depression returned. I've never been easily moved to tears, but at that moment I sat on the bed and cried. I had no idea why. I cried for some time. I was just getting myself together when Rachel entered the room. With her usual sensitivity, she reacted to my mood immediately.

"Morry, what's wrong? Did the rehearsal go badly?"

"No, darling. The rehearsal went very well. I'm not entirely sure what's wrong. I don't understand, so I can't tell you."

Rachel sat beside me and took my head in her arms. She stroked me and said, "There's nothing that can't be made better, my love. Let me help."

"I will, but not just yet," I murmured against her lovely breast. "Let's get dressed and go to dinner."

We went to the dining room at the Chateau. The month of April in Ottawa can be winter, spring or somewhere in between. Usually it's winter. This evening, it was spring. A gentle rain was falling, and we were sitting next to the French doors that would be open to the evening in May. It was lovely looking at the garden in the rain.

After our main course, we sat in silence for some time. Rachel looked at me questioningly. Suddenly, I let it all pour out. I told her what had happened -- what I had seen. She listened in silence. She stared at her plate and said, "That's terrible. They're both married, aren't they?"

I nodded. As had occurred to me earlier, had I been in Marion's shoes a few years ago I'd have been standing in line for a hot little piece like April, married or not. In fact, I'd had my share of married women while I'd been married to Kelly. I'd been a real asshole.

Rachel looked into my eyes. She smiled gently. "Morry, I don't think that what you saw today is the problem. It's more than that, isn't it?"

I looked at her with amazement.

"Yes, I know that you have your burden of guilt. You wish you could apologize to Kelly for everything you thought and did. The sad truth is that you can't. Will I do? Talk to me."

"How do you..."

Rachel smiled. "How do I know? I've known for years. Your exploits weren't exactly the best kept secrets, in the world."

"Then why..."

"Why did I marry you? Because I love you and believe in you. You've never let me down, and I'm sure that you never will. I'm even more sure now." Rachel looked at me and smiled gently. "Let's skip desert and go upstairs."

I signed the bill, and we went back to our room. Once in the room, I again collapsed in tears. I couldn't help it. Rachel took my head in her arms and rocked me like a child.

"There, there, my love. Let it all come out. It's been so hard keeping it in all these years. Just let all the bad things out, and everything will be better. My dear sweet Morry, just cry and let it all go. I'm here for you. I'll always be here."

If anything, I sobbed even harder. Rachel held me and made comforting sounds. She said, "I know, darling, I know. All the guilt and all the bad feelings have been held inside too long. All the things that you never had time to tell Kelly and can't tell her now. But you can let it all out now. Kelly isn't here, but I am. Will I do?"



-------

Chapter 27


The Ottawa performance of my Third Piano Concerto was, if I say so myself, something of a triumph. In spite of the distractions, or perhaps because of them, I played the work better than I'd ever done before. Not perfectly, mind you, but excellently nonetheless. Marion's conducting was similarly fine. I was reminded of just how good he could be when he cared. He conducted with so much sensitivity that it seemed we were playing a duet, he and I. Just the way it should be but so seldom is.

Perhaps as a result of that performance and the ensuing broadcast, the concerto, with me as soloist, was scheduled for the next season by the Edmonton and Winnipeg Symphony Orchestras. It seemed that I might have the beginnings of a resurgent performing career whether I would or no.

Coincidentally, or perhaps not so coincidentally, Rachel's Second Symphony was scheduled in Edmonton for the same concert that featured my concerto, and her Many Colours of Snow was to accompany the concerto in Winnipeg. Even better, the concerts were scheduled in consecutive weeks, Winnipeg first, then Edmonton. My cynical side realized that by doing so the two orchestras would save a bit of money on our travel, but the scheduling also made things much easier for Rachel and me. We were overjoyed. The concerts featuring our works were to play three days in each location. We'd need to spend a total of two weeks, one week in each city. Although we loved Esther very much, it would be a wonderful relief to have no family responsibilities for an extended period. Needless to say, had Magda not been so wonderful with Esther we'd not have been so sanguine about an extended absence from home. Rachel's mother Naomi would also welcome the opportunity to have her granddaughter visit for a few days, which would give Magda a welcome break. It seemed that we'd all benefit from this journey.

Esther had grown and matured rapidly over the past year. She was now three, and extremely mobile. Indeed, she seemed to run most of the time. Like most toddlers, she needed constant supervision. As the time approached for our trip, Rachel naturally became a bit more nervous about leaving her. One evening after a wonderful dinner at her parents' house, Aaron brought up the subject. "Rachel," he began, "you're a wonderful composer. If you're going to have the career you should have, you must be seen by the public. Outside of that trip to Ottawa, you've hardly left Toronto since Esther was born. Naomi and Magda are more than capable of taking perfect care of Esther. And hell, I plan to spend as much time with her as I can. The only thing you need to worry about is coming home to a spoiled brat."

Aaron's words seemed to do the deed. Rachel stopped fretting and worked on preparing for the trip. It's always struck me as odd that women plan their travel. Men simply throw whatever they need in a suitcase and try not to miss the plane. But I must admit that it was a relief to have Rachel looking after our travel arrangements. During my touring days, I'd been spoiled by Ken Davenport. Either Ken or someone from his office would accompany me on tour and see that I had nothing to worry about but my concerts. Add to that the fact that I hadn't toured actively for some time, and I was severely out of practice in traveling.

At the same time that all this was going on, both Rachel and I continued to compose. We had deadlines to meet. One evening shortly before we were to leave for the west, I took a break from composing and poured myself a coffee. Just as I sat down on the old leather chesterfield, I heard a noise from the stairway. It was the characteristic sound of my daughter navigating the stairs. Stairs are a challenge for any three-year-old, and Esther was small for her age. She was a bright little girl, and she'd developed her own technique of navigating the stairs. She put one foot on the stair and followed it with the other. The sound this produced was "clump CLUMP," followed by a brief pause and two more clumps. I could also hear the sound of something being dragged, doubtless her favourite bear, Edward. Like his namesake, better known as Winny the Pooh, poor Edward usually went downstairs on his head. The clumping stopped, and I heard the sound of scampering feet running toward my studio door. But Esther didn't call out to me as she usually did. I smiled as I sipped my coffee and waited to see what would develop.

I was facing away from the door. I knew that Esther was in the room, but I decided not to turn. If she wanted to sneak up on me, I was willing to play her game. I heard her drag a chair behind the chesterfield and then the little grunts she made as she climbed on the seat. Suddenly, a pair of sticky little hands were placed over my eyes followed by a squealed "Guess who!"

I said, "Let me see. Oh, I know. It's Mummy."

"No," Esther yelled triumphantly, "guess again."

"Well then it must be Mummy Magda."

"No. Guess again."

"It's Uncle Bobby."

"No."

"I know. It's Pooh."

"No, silly. Doggies can't talk."

"Let me see. If it's not Mummy or Mummy Magda or Uncle Bobby or Pooh, then it must be," I turned quickly, grabbed Esther under the arms and swept her into my lap, "my big girl!"

Esther squealed with delight and hugged me. Then her mood grew more sober. "Daddy," she said, "you and Mummy are going away."

"Yes we are, sweetheart. We have concerts to play."

"Can't you take me with you? Please? I'll be really good. Really, really good."

I kissed her cheek. "I know you'd be good, precious. But please try to understand. It's just not possible now. But someday it will be. I promise."

She looked at me very seriously. "Cross your heart?"

I drew an X over my left breast. "Cross my heart."

All too soon, Hassan was driving us to Pearson International Airport. The first concerts were to be in Winnipeg. Our plane was on time, and the flight was mercifully uneventful. We were met at the airport by Sun-Yi Schneider, the artistic administrator of the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra. Among other things, her job included the care and feeding of guest artists. I'd met her a number of times. She was incredibly competent. And she was a lovely young woman, so beautiful that the first time we met, I was speechless. Sun-Yi was quite petite, about the same size as Rachel. Her figure fitted her height exactly, and her face was beautiful in the way that only Asian women can be. She was of mixed Chinese and Korean descent. Her husband was Jewish, hence the "Schneider" surname. In short, she was a typical Canadian. She was also one of the most capable managers I've known. When Sun-Yi was in charge, everything just seemed to fall into place. I introduced her to Rachel. The two shook hands and made the usual small talk one would expect on a first meeting.

Sun-Yi had a limo to take us to our hotel. The driver took our bags and led us out of the air terminal, Rachel shivered and pressed against me. Sun-Yi laughed, then said, "I'm sorry, I'm not really laughing at you. I see that reaction from people all the time. I guess that us Winnipeggers just don't notice the cold as much. Our winters are always like this."

Rachel smiled in return, "I knew Winnipeg was cold in the winter. I just didn't expect it to be this cold in October."

We reached the car. The driver opened the rear door, and the three of us climbed in. Sun-Yi said, "Sometimes it can be very nice this time of year, but a lot of times it's like this. That's why we like nice, warm cars."

We arrived at our hotel. Everything was perfect, just as I'd have expected from Sun-Yi. In fact, the entire week fell similarly into place. The conductor of the Winnipeg Symphony, Noel Livingstone, was one of the leading advocates of Canadian music. He was wonderfully adept at rehearsing difficult music in a minimum of time, a very necessary skill in this time of high musicians' salaries and limited budgets. Rachel was amazed at how quickly her piece came together. I, knowing Noel and his orchestra, was much less surprised.

The first concert went extremely well. Not perhaps as well as the one in Ottawa, but a close second. The second concert was marginally better, and the third was the best of all. Afterward, I was feeling quite chuffed, and Rachel was beaming. I left her in the lobby and went to the WSO office. I'd loaned Noel a score. We were leaving for Edmonton in the morning, and I wanted to take the score with me.

Predictably, the office area was nearly deserted. Noel's office was dark. I assumed he was still in his dressing room meeting the public. There was a light in Sun-Yi's office, so I headed there. I knocked on her door. She didn't answer at once, and when she did it was obvious she'd been crying. "Oh. Morry. I'm sorry. I was supposed to bring your score to you in the lobby. I forgot. Here it is." She handed me the score. Sun-Yi looked a wreck. Her makeup was smeared, and the tracks of her tears were outlined by mascara.

"Sun-Yi," I said, "I realize that we're not close friends. But would you like to tell me what's wrong? I hope I had nothing to do with it."

She began crying once again. She looked at me through her tears and sobbed, "No Morry. It has nothing to do with you. In fact, my professional life is just fine. It's my personal life that's fucked."

Coming from Sun-Yi, the "f-word" was quite shocking. I'd never heard her use profanity.

I said as softly as I could, "Is there anything I can do?"

Sun-Yi wiped her face with a wad of tissues. She gained more control, although not her usual calm professional demeanour. She smiled sadly. "Thanks for offering, Morry. No, there's not much anyone can do. I found out that my husband is leaving me. Yes, leaving me is exactly what he's doing. He told me that he's accepted a new job in Red Deer. I asked him when we were leaving, and he told me that I wasn't leaving. Just him. The bastard."

"Is there another woman?"

She sighed. "Not as far as I know. He just said that he's fed up with playing second fiddle to the orchestra." She dabbed again at her eyes. "Christ! Somebody had to make enough money to support the son of a bitch in the style to which he'd like to become accustomed. It's sure as hell never been him."

"Is he jealous of your success?"

"I don't know. Anyway, it doesn't fucking matter any more. It's over. I'll never take the bastard back." She began to cry again.

I stood there feeling like an idiot. Then I moved closer to her and took her in my arms. She sobbed against my chest. We stayed like that for a few moments. Then from the doorway I heard an intake of breath. More of a gasp, actually. I turned. Rachel was standing there staring at me wide-eyed. She opened her mouth to speak. I raised my right hand and held my index finger to my lips to gesture for silence. Rachel furrowed her brow, then nodded.

Sun-Yi had ceased crying. I gently disengaged myself from her. I wiped her tears and said, "You have my number. Please do call if there's anything I can do."

Sun-Yi nodded, "Thanks, Morry. I will," she said.

I feigned surprise. "Oh, here's Rachel," I said. On cue, Rachel entered the office.

Sun-Yi went to her. She put her hands on Rachel's shoulders. "Rachel," she said, "you have the best guy in the world. Don't let anyone ever tell you differently." Rachel blushed, thanked her, and we left.

On the way to the lobby, Rachel said, "Would you mind telling me just what the hell that was all about."

I sighed. "Her husband is leaving her. It seems that Sun-Yi is probably headed for divorce court."

Rachel gave me a grin. "And you'd be joining her there if you didn't have such a trusting wife."

The next morning, the WSO's limo took us to the airport, and we were off for Edmonton. We arrived there to be met by another limo. This time, the driver was unaccompanied. It turned out that this driver, unlike the fellow in Winnipeg, was actually under contract to the Edmonton Symphony. His only job was to drive artists to and from the airport and any other appointments they had while in Edmonton. He was a pleasant enough chap and took us to our hotel with dispatch.

The ESO houses its guests in the Westin Hotel, which is not only one of the best in the city but also connected by an underground passage to both the ESO's concert hall, the Winspear Centre, and the subway. It's incredibly convenient to all the theatres and halls in Edmonton's burgeoning entertainment district. I hoped that we'd have a chance to take in a play at the Citadel Theatre, which is one of the country's finest. In particular, Beatrice Chancy,  the hit opera by the young Canadian composer James Rolfe, was playing. Our concerts were on Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday. I'd asked for tickets to the Citadel on Friday evening. To my delight, they were waiting for us when we checked in.

The next morning we were due at a rehearsal at 10:00. I was happy that the conductor of the ESO, Henryk Kowalski, would not be on the podium. Henryk was not my favourite conductor. I found him full of swagger with very little substance. In his stead, there was to be a guest conductor, the music director of the Toronto Symphony, Jean-Paul Songe-Creux. Jean-Paul had conducted the Canadian premiere of Rachel's Second Symphony, and, although he'd not performed my concerto, I had every confidence that he'd do a fine job. My confidence was not misplaced. All the rehearsals went swimmingly. The first concert was marvelous. Both Rachel and I received standing ovations. I felt that life could hardly be better. My feet hardly touched the ground on the way back to our hotel.

When we reached the hotel, we dropped our coats in the room, and I quickly changed from my penguin suit into something a bit less formal. Then we headed for the restaurant. We were both famished. As was my usual practice, I'd eaten sparingly before playing, and Rachel had, as usual, been too nervous to eat before the concert. When we arrived in the dining room, we found it packed. That day, a large convention had begun in the hotel. All the participants seemed bent on a late supper. Just as we were about to leave and try our luck with room service, I heard someone call me. I looked in the direction of the hail, and there was Pat Connolly.

Connolly was a political reporter on CBC TV. He had some notoriety as a television personality and an even greater notoriety as a hell raiser. Our paths had crossed a number of times over the years. We'd even partied together, although not to the extent that I had with Jimmy Jimson. No one could have survived two companions like Jimmy.

Seeing Connolly wasn't altogether a surprise. I'd seen him in the concert hall lobby following the concert, although we hadn't spoken. He was hardly a classical music fan, so I was more surprised to see him at my concert than in the hotel restaurant. Now, he gestured for us to join him at his table. He was accompanied by two young women, a short, rather plump blonde, and a slim redhead with glasses. They were seated at a circular table. The table was set for three, but, as Connolly said, it would easily accommodate five. While the waiter was setting our places, Connolly introduced us to his companions.

The blonde looked familiar. She was introduced as his "partner," which came as quite a surprise to me. If there were anyone less likely than I to enter into a committed relationship, it would be Pat Connolly. It seemed that her name was Tori, and she was the newly-appointed principal oboist of the Edmonton Symphony. Now I knew where I'd seen her. She'd played very well tonight, and I told her so. Her friend was named Shelagh. She was a violinist in the orchestra. I learned that the two had been school chums at the Curtis Institute of Music.

Tori immediately took charge of the seating arrangements. I was seated between Tori and Shelagh and Rachel between Shelagh and Pat. Of course, I'd much rather have been beside my wife, but, since Pat and Tori were doing us a favour, I didn't demur.

We ordered drinks, and the conversation flowed quite well. It turned out that Shelagh was a great fan of Rachel's music. She wondered if Rachel had written pieces for either violin solo or chamber groups including violin. Of course, Rachel had, and they were soon discussing them. In the meantime, Tori engaged me in conversation about my concerto It seemed that she'd played it in Ottawa as well. She'd been the English horn player. Connolly, playing his usual part as interviewer, checked in and out of both conversations.

The conversation flagged a bit when our food was delivered. It began again over desert, coffee and brandy. It seemed a lovely end to the evening. I was feeling rather glad to have run across Connolly and his friends. I'd recovered the happiness that I'd felt at the end of the concert.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my left leg. I froze with my glass halfway to my lips. I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Tori was seated on my left. I looked at her. She was seemingly giving her undivided attention to whatever Rachel was saying. I had no idea how to react, other than taking a swig of my cognac. Then, the hand started to move.

At first, Tori simply moved her hand lightly up and down my thigh. Then, it became obvious that each pass was bringing her closer to my crotch. I stared at her and opened my mouth to speak. I was stopped by another hand on my right leg. Unquestionably, the hand belonged to Shelagh.

From their demeanour, one would not guess that either Tori not Shelagh were taking the slightest interest in me. A glance under the table would have proven differently. Both women's hands were now alternating in brushing over my crotch. My body reacted predictably. I became erect. One of the hands began stroking the length of my shaft. Before I could decide what to do, the situation changed for the worse. The hands started alternating stroking my dick. They were becoming more and more bold. In other circumstances, the situation would have been incredibly erotic. My dick obviously thought that it was. I was fully erect and painfully aware that if things continued in this way I'd surely come. Just as one of the hands started to unzip my fly, I heard Rachel gasp.

Had she somehow seen what was going on? No, it appeared not. She was staring at the table, her eyes wide and her mouth open. She was clearly reacting to something I couldn't see. I was instantly furious. My first thought was that Connolly was feeling up my wife, and I was going to beat the hell out of him. Fortunately, my common sense prevailed. Nothing would be gained by becoming involved in a public scene. Instead, I made an excuse to leave. I said that Rachel and I had to get to bed. After all, I had to play another concert the next day, and we'd like to have time to phone home before it was too late. I left more than enough money on the table, and we made our getaway. As we left the dining room, I heard feminine laughter behind us. I resisted the impulse to turn around.

Both of us were a bit out of breath in the elevator. When we reached the room, Rachel came into my arms. "Oh Morry," she said, "thank you for getting us out of there. I've never been so scared and mortified."

I held her and stroked her back. "Darling," I said, "it was all that I could do to keep from taking a swing at that bastard Connolly."

Rachel looked up at me with astonishment. "Pat Connolly? What for?"

"Wasn't he groping you under the table?"

"No." She pressed herself against me. "It took me a few minutes to figure out what was going on. Suddenly, there was a hand in my lap. Gradually, it started to work its way under my skirt toward my crotch." She sighed. "At first, I thought, as you must have done, that Pat was groping me. Then I saw that both his hands were on the table. No," she buried her head in my chest, "It was Shelagh."

I was too surprised to speak. Rachel looked up at me and managed a small grin. "Just before you got us out of there, she was becoming quite personal. And Shelagh has a very good knowledge of the female anatomy. Of course it's partly your fault."

"My fault?"

"Yes." Rachel was smiling now. "If you hadn't begged me to wear the garter belt and stockings instead of tights she wouldn't have had such ready access to my womanly parts. By the time we got out of there, she was, as I said. Getting quite personal."

"That must have been about the same time that she was unzipping my fly. At least I think it was Shelagh. It may have been Tori. They were both fiddling with me."

Now it was Rachel's turn to stare at me in amazement. "Yes, my love," I said, "we were set up. Either those two are great improvisers or they'd planned it ahead of time. Either way, they knew exactly where to seat us and how to wait for their moment. My only question is what they hoped to get out of that little episode. Were they simply having their fun with us? Or were we supposed to either invite them upstairs or react favourably to their inviting us to Pat's room? And what would have been their desired outcome? An orgy, perhaps, and I doubt seriously that it would have been the first such affair for any of the three."

"You're not serious."

"Yes, darling, I'm afraid I am. Very serious. Pat Connolly's reputation is no secret. There was an article not long ago in Frank magazine alluding to an episode involving Connolly and two young women. If I remember correctly, there was some supposition that at least one of them might have been underage. Oh yes, Connolly isn't above such things. And it would therefore not be illogical to assume that he'd have female companions who were similarly inclined."

"Would you have liked to have an orgy with them?"

I held her face in my hands. "No, my darling wife, mother of my child, I would not. I would never allow you to be subjected to such things."

Rachel grinned mischievously. "Oh I don't know. Shelagh's fingers were starting to fell awfully good."

I picked up the phone. "In that case... Oh yes, operator, can you please connect me with the room of Mr. Pat..."

Rachel took the phone from me and hung it up. She glared at me. "Morry Stewart, if I didn't know that you were teasing me, I'd kick your mangy old ass so hard that your eyes would turn brown."

"My, my. Wife, where did you learn such talk?"

Rachel grinned and kissed me. "From you, despoiler of trusting young virgins."

I looked around playfully. "I don't see anyone in this room who fits the description of a 'trusting young virgin.'" I patted her butt. "But there is a cunning little minx, who, if memory serves, took it upon herself to seduce me. Repeatedly. And," I kissed her, "most enjoyably." I kissed her again.

Rachel kissed me back. Then she clasped me tightly and buried her head in my chest. "Hold me, Morry. Hold me tightly." She began to shake. "It's starting to get to me. I feel so violated. How can people be such animals?"

"I honestly don't know. Oh I've had my share of partying, as you know. But at my worst, I'd have been considered a boy scout compared to Connolly. I can honestly say that I never tried to force my attentions on anyone who was not receptive."

Rachel looked up at me and sighed. "You know," she said, "I feel sorry for them. There's a kind of desperation in the way they act." She once again snuggled against my chest. "But you and I have each other. And Esther. And my folks. And Saul, and Bobby and Ken and Magda and all our other friends and family. We're the lucky ones."

I stroked her hair. "Yes, my little love. No matter what happens in our lives, we have a firm foundation. We are lucky. We're incredibly lucky. And I'm the luckiest of all. When I remember what a poor, pathetic bastard I was just a few years ago, I really have to count my blessings." I took her face in my hands and kissed her cute little nose. "And you and Esther are the biggest blessings of all."



-------

Chapter 28

We returned to Toronto two days before Halloween. Esther ran to greet us at the door. As usual, she was pulling poor Edward by one foot, his head dragging on the floor. Edward's problem was that he was a rather large Teddy bear, too big to be carried by such a small child. Hence, his somewhat unusual mode of travel. Rachel presented Esther with the present she'd bought on the plane. It was a little polar bear wearing a red Air Canada scarf, goggles and an aviator's helmet. His name, according to the tag, was Cooper. Cooper seemed an immediate hit. I suspected that he'd now join Edward in accompanying Esther on her rounds of the house. With any luck, Cooper would not travel on his head.

Before we could unpack, Esther demanded that we come with her to Magda's room. We had to see her Halloween costume. She was to be an angel, complete with halo and wings. I had to admit that it was a beautiful costume. I'd have wagered that Magda had purchased the satin, cut it to fit and sewn it by hand. To some, it would have seemed a waste for one night of a little girl's life. Obviously, to Magda it did not. I thanked God for Magda.

On Halloween night, the family gathered at our house. Rachel was to accompany Esther on her rounds. Hence Rachel was also in costume. She was dressed as a cat, wearing black tights, black leotard and a hood with pointed cat's ears. She had drawn whiskers on her face with an eye pencil. My two girls looked adorable. In Rachel's case, too much so to leave the house, in my opinion. The leotard fitted skin tight and showed her charms to far too much advantage. However, I kept that opinion to myself as I took the obligatory pictures.

Naomi, Aaron, Bobby and I took turns dispensing the spoils to the goblins, witches, ghosts, etc., who came by our door. Magda looked to the supper preparations. Between ghostly visitations, I managed to have a Scotch or two. By the time that the angel and the cat returned, I was in an expansive mood. Rachel was carrying Esther, who was a tired but very happy little girl. She exclaimed, "Look, Daddy. Look at all the things I got!" Magda and Rachel stressed to Esther that the Halloween treats would be rationed. Esther agreed, somewhat too readily, I thought. I was pleased to see that Magda had taken custody of Esther's booty.

Magda and Rachel took their tired charge to bed, while the rest of us finished the supper preparations. Since we knew that her Halloween rounds would extend beyond her usual bedtime, Esther had eaten previously. Everyone else was getting quite peckish. I laid the table, something I have always enjoyed doing. I have no idea why, save that it was my job as a child. My mother taught me to do it properly and always praised me when I did a good job. Rachel and Magda returned. Rachel was now sans cat costume and whiskers, thank God. Magda and Naomi served supper, and we set to with a will.

The supper conversation first revolved around Halloween. I was curious about something, so I broached the question. "When I was a kid," I said, "when we went from house to house, we said, 'Shell out, shell out. Witches are about.' Not 'Trick or treat.' How about you, Aaron?"

"Yes," he agreed, "it was 'shell out.'"

Naomi said it had also been "Shell out" for her. Rachel, however, said she'd always said, "Trick or treat." Bobby concurred that it had been "trick or treat" for him.

I mused, "I wonder when it changed."

Aaron sighed, "It must have been in the sixties or seventies. I guess it's more of the American influence. It's awfully difficult to keep our traditions alive when we're bombarded by Hollywood."

We all agreed. I changed the subject. "It's wonderful to share occasions like this. I can't tell you how much it means to me to be a part of this family. Aaron, I'm curious: how long did it take you and Naomi to accept me?"

Naomi spoke first. "As soon as I knew that my little girl was head over heels in love with you, I just prayed that you were a good man. I soon discovered that you were. Accepting you was easy."

I smiled and turned to my father in law. "How about you, Aaron?"

Aaron looked at his plate for a few moments. Then he said, "It was different with me. It took quite a bit longer."

I said softly, "Was it the age difference?"

"Partly. Largely, perhaps. But there was more than that." He paused for a sip of wine. "You see, you're a gentile, what my parents would have called a 'goy.'"

I was astounded. "Aaron," I said, "I had no idea that my not being Jewish made so much difference to you."

"Don't get me wrong," he replied, "I'm not a racist. Not by any means. But you had all the earmarks of the kind of person who used to torment me when I was a kid. You were raised in London, Ontario, a bastion of the old Upper Canada. You went to Royal Canadian College, a school that until about twenty years ago excluded Jews. And the University of Toronto. Did you know that my dentist, Sid Taylor, was one of the first Jews ever to graduate from the U of T dental school?"

I stared at him. I guess like most Canadians, especially Torontonians, I was proud of the tolerance of our multicultural society. Of course, I'd always seen it from my perspective. I was, as Aaron said, a WASP with a privileged education. I said, "Obviously, there are things about this city and this country that I don't know anything about. You mentioned being tormented as a child. Tell me about that."

Aaron poured himself another glass of wine and took a drink before continuing. "You see," he said, "I was born here in Toronto. So was Naomi. But our grandparents weren't. Mine were born in Russia, Naomi's in Poland. My dad was also born in the old country and came here as a baby. My dad was raised in the Harbord and Spadina area. He went to Harbord Collegiate. And so did I."

"That's a school with a very distinguished history," I said, "many of our cultural leaders graduated from there. People like the great composer John Weinzweig and the conductor Victor Feldbrill."

Aaron responded quickly, "Yeah, and what do those people have in common? I'll tell you. They're Jewish, that's what. That area was as close to a Jewish ghetto as Canada ever had. When you said you lived on Harbord, everybody knew you were a Hebe." He gulped his wine again. "When I was growing up, in the fifties, there were people in this town that didn't even consider Jews to be Canadians. We were some kind of godless foreigner. In spite of that, my dad loved this country. He served in the Canadian army in the war. He was wounded and decorated. But did that make a difference to those smug bastards? Hell no. My mum and dad worked themselves nearly to death to keep their little grocery store in business. And I got beaten up regularly on the way home from school. I soon learned which places to avoid. And I remember the time that a boy I thought of as my friend called me a kike and made jokes about making a lampshade or a bar of soap out of me. But there were lots of more subtle things. Like whether you could go to a certain school, buy a house in a certain area, be considered for a job or even shop in certain stores. Did anti-Semitism exist in Canada? Hell yes. I experienced it every day." Aaron looked at me and sighed. "So when I was faced with the prospect of my only child marrying a red-haired WASP with a diploma from Royal Canadian College, I had to think long and hard about it."

There was silence around the table. Finally, I said, "Just because I went to that school doesn't mean that I'm like that. I was never taught to hate by my parents. And I may be naïve, but I think that being a musician has to make you more tolerant. You said that all those great Canadians who went to your high school were Jewish. Yes, they were and are. Many of Canada's greatest artists are Jewish. The two people who are most responsible for my becoming an artist, my piano teacher and my composition teacher, are both Jewish. I love them dearly. Madame Levinsky always believed in me. She not only wanted me to be better, she was convinced that I could be the best. And she'd never accept less from me than my best. Without her, I'd never have a playing career. And Sol Safire gave me incredible care and support. He made me believe in myself. Sol is as much a father to me as my own dad was." I paused and then continued. "And it's not just Jews. I have many Chinese, South Asian and black colleagues. I won't say that it's not possible for a musician to be a racist, but it's a hell of a lot harder than it is in a lot of jobs."

I refilled my wine glass and nearly emptied it in one swig. "I fell in love with a wonderful girl. The fact that she was Jewish never entered my mind. I was only aware of the fact that she was the most beautiful, brilliant and exasperating female I'd every known."

Bobby spoke up. "Hell no, Morry's not prejudiced," he said, "he even puts up with an old queen like me. Believe me, being a Jew is easy compared to being a queer. But a Jewish faggot, now, he's in real trouble."

Everyone laughed. Aaron reached across the table and took my hand. "Morry," he said, "please don't misunderstand. I wasn't attacking you. I know what a good person you are. You're the husband of my wonderful daughter and the father of my grandchild. I treasure you. But I thought I needed to explain where I came from. Tensions shouldn't exist in families. There needs to be understanding."

I squeezed Aaron's hand in return. "You're right, father in law. And I love you for you ability to be honest with me. Thank you."

It was one of those defining moments that are so difficult to categorize and yet so impossible to live without. In one evening, I learned things about Aaron, and hence about Rachel's background, that I'd never have known otherwise. This business of having a family frightened me. No wonder I'd avoided it for all these years.

The next morning came all too quickly. When the alarm clock sounded reveille, I was tempted to ignore it and remain in the arms of Morpheus. I'd imbibed a bit too liberally the night before and had no desire to greet the dawn. However, I had two appointments that I couldn't miss. I stumbled out of bed and into the shower. Magda, bless her, brought me coffee while I was dressing.

The first appointment was at the Mercedes dealer down the street. It was time for the Benz to have its winter inspection and especially for its snow tires to be installed. The C43 is a marvelous car with truly exciting performance, but its power can't reach the pavement in an Ontario winter without proper rubber. I handed the key to my service advisor, Ray Chiu, and signed the service order. The dealer provided a shuttle service to the financial district. That was my next destination.

The second appointment was with our financial advisor, Ian Butler, whose office was in the Exchange Tower. I was not looking forward to that meeting. Ian oversaw our investments. He was a decent chap and absolutely trustworthy, but he did go on about things. I've never understood business matters and never wanted to. As usual, Ian got me a cup of coffee and then began his presentation. He felt duty bound to keep me informed about the state of our family finances, especially our investments. I tried to keep my eyes open during his recitation. Then, as I always did, I accepted his recommendations and signed the orders to sell and/or purchase stocks, bonds or whatever. The fact that I always did as Ian advised had become a standing joke between us. However, he occasionally showed a bit of exasperation, as he did on that day. "Goddam it, Morry," he said, "why the hell don't you at least ask some questions? Why don't you try to act like you give a damn? How do you know that I'm not robbing you blind?"

I smiled. "Because I know that you wouldn't do that. I trust you. But the most important thing is that you've always made money for me. The day that you stop doing that, I'll hire someone else." Ian looked startled. I clapped him on the shoulder. "Damn, Ian, don't you know me well enough by now to know when I'm joking?"

I left Ian's office in better spirits than when I'd arrived. I took the elevator down to the concourse level and walked toward the St. Andrew's subway station. I'd booked a rental car for the day. I'd pick it up near the Yonge and Bloor subway station. Thus, the subway would provide me with practically door-to-door transportation.

At the Queen Street station, two young women boarded the train and took the seat opposite me. One was very small and dark. She looked Mediterranean. The other was taller, plumper and blonde. As they sat down, the small one was talking rapidly. She seemed to have no need to breathe. Her friend was wearing a short skirt -- too short for a girl with such plump thighs. As she arranged herself on the seat, I couldn't help but see a flash of black-pantied crotch. As I looked up, I was rewarded with a glare from the blonde. I blushed and looked away.

I couldn't help but overhear their conversation. Actually, it was more of a monologue by the shorter girl with the occasional agreeing noise by her companion. The gist of it was "So he was like... And then I was like... And like, you know? Well, then we were like... But there was this guy... So he goes... Then I go..." Etc., etc.

Actually, I found it quite amusing. Listening to the vapid conversation brought a smile to my face. For the only the second time that day.

We were approaching the Bloor Street station. The girls got out of their seats and prepared to get off. The blonde bent over to pick up her bag. This brought her head close to mine. She said, softly but vehemently, "You supercilious son-of-a-bitch!" She turned and headed for the door. I followed meekly.

As the blonde girl left the train, the heel of her left shoe caught in the crevice between the car and the platform. She fell to the concrete right in front of me, her skirt hiked almost to her waist and her shoe jammed between the train and the station.

I quickly bent over. I pulled the shoe loose. Then I knelt beside the girl. I asked, "Are you hurt?"

"My ankle hurts like hell," she said, "but my pride is more injured." She gave a little rueful smile. "Thanks for rescuing my shoe. Especially after what I said to you."

I grinned at her. "Hell, I deserved it. Most people who know me would no doubt agree with you. Now, let's try to get you off this floor. Can you stand?"

I put my arm around her as she gingerly tried to stand. When she tried to put weight on her left leg, she cried out and winced.

"All right" I said, "take it easy. Lean on me, and we'll get you to a bench. OK. Just a little bit at a time." The girl sat down with a sigh. I asked, "Where's your friend? She seems to have disappeared."

"Yeah. Lupe has to meet her boyfriend. They're going to lunch." She reached down and felt her ankle. "Christ, this hurts! You don't suppose it's broken, do you?"

"I'm a musician, not a doctor. I can play a tune for you, but I can't fix your ankle. However, I can take you to some one who can."

"Would you? Even after the way I acted?"

"As I said, I deserved it. I'm going to pick up a car. The rental office is right outside the subway station. By the way, I'm Morry Stewart." I held out my hand, and she shook it.

"And I'm Linda Lott." She paused for a moment and then said, "Good. You didn't laugh at my name. That gives you good marks in my book."

"Why would I laugh? I've had my share of jokes at my expense, I assure you. Now, put your arm over my shoulder and lean on me. Don't put any weight on that ankle."

We took the escalator up one level and were soon in the rental office. The paper work was ready, and I was given the keys to a Chevrolet Malibu. The car pickup station was in the parking garage right outside the garage elevator. I helped Linda into the Malibu, and away we went.

As soon as we were out of the garage, I called Jerry's clinic on my cell phone. Jerry Greenstein has been a pal of mine for years. He's been my family doctor ever since he opened his practice. Now he runs a clinic with a twenty-four-hour walk-in service. So even if I can't see Jerry himself, there's always a doctor there who has access to my complete records. It's much better than going to a crowded hospital emergency service. Today, Linda was in luck. The waiting time was negligible, and the receptionist even said that if we came right now, Linda would see Jerry himself. Soon, we pulled up in front of the clinic. I'd explained that Linda would need help into the clinic, so one of the nurses was waiting on the sidewalk. She helped Linda into the clinic, and I went to park the car.

By the time I entered the clinic, Linda's ankle had already been x-rayed. She was in an examining room with Jerry. I asked Cindy, the head nurse, if I could join Linda in the examining room. She led me to the proper door and knocked discretely. Jerry agreed to let me in. He looked up from taping Linda's ankle and grinned at me. "This young lady is in luck," he said, "Her ankle is sprained, but it's not broken. Judging from what she's told me about how it happened, it could have been much worse." He said to Linda, "I'm going to prescribe some pain killers. Tylenol 2. Use them whenever you need to. But they have a whack of codeine in them, and they may make you a little groggy. So don't drive or anything like that. It's going to take a little while for this ankle to heal. I'd advise that you see your family doctor in the next couple of days."

Linda looked glum. "I don't have one," she said, "I haven't been in Toronto very long, and it's just not easy to find a family doctor. The ones I've called have said their practices are full up."

I looked at Jerry and raised my eyebrows. He nodded. "You now have a family doctor," he said. "I'll take care of you myself. If you're a friend of Morry's, we can't have you without a doctor. And as your doctor, I'm advising that you stay off that ankle as much as possible over the next week." Jerry left after shaking hands with both of us. I helped Linda to her feet, and she leaned on me as we made our way back to the waiting room. I helped her to a chair. She waited while I went to get the car. When I pulled up in front, the nurse helped Linda to the car.

When she had her seat belt on, I asked, "Where to?" She didn't say anything right away. She just looked glum. "Don't worry about my knowing where you live," I said, "I'm not a stalker. I'm a married man with a baby daughter."

Linda smiled a little at that. "It's not that," she said, "you've been terrific. I don't care if you know where I live. It's just that I don't see how I can stay off my feet. Oh I can probably get some time off from work, but I live in an old house in Parkdale. It's a nice place, but the kitchen and washroom are on a different floor than my bedroom. I have to do the stairs a lot. And public transit is the only way I can get to work. That means the street car and subway."

"Can your roommate help you?"

"I don't have a roommate. I thought that I was really lucky to find a nice place that I could afford by myself. Now, I'm not so sure."

"Well, let's take you home and see what we can do. What's your address?"

Linda grinned at me. "You're not going to believe this," she said, "it's 34 Chastity Street."

I smiled back at her. "And you may not believe this, but I actually know where Chastity is," I said, "I have a friend who lives right around the corner from you." I drove the car out of the garage and headed west toward Parkdale, the area so named because it borders on High Park. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something pink sticking from my shirt pocket. I pulled it out. It was my copy of the car rental contract. I handed it to Linda. I asked, "Would you mind putting this in the glove box?"

Linda took the paper from me. She opened the glove box and began to refold the paper. Suddenly, she exclaimed, "Oh fuck!"

"Please don't do that when I'm driving. I might hit something. What's the matter?"

"You're F. Morris Stewart!"

"Guilty," I agreed, "is that a problem?"

"I feel like even more of an idiot. Not only do I insult a man and impose on him, but now I find out that he's one of my heroes."

"I've been called many things in my ill-spent life, but hero is not one of them. Explain, please."

"I'm working as an office manager for Manulife Insurance," Linda said, "but my degree is in music. In composition. I've loved your music for years. And I've seen you in concert several times. I have no idea why I didn't recognize you."

I laughed. "I'm hardly a household name. And my face is nothing if not forgettable. But I'm flattered that you like my music."

Linda was quiet for a few blocks. Then she said, "I hate to impose even more..." She hesitated.

"Oh go right ahead. Impose away."

She blurted out, "Would you mind looking at a few of my pieces? It would mean so much to me."

We were nearing her street. The clock on the dashboard was reading 11:45. "Let me call my wife," I said, "I need to tell her that I'll not be home for lunch."



-------

Chapter 29

34 Chastity Street was a large Victorian house. I parked the car at the curb and crossed to the passenger door to assist Linda. As it had in the subway, her skirt proved too short to allow her to modestly exit the car. This time, I pointedly averted my eyes, much to her amusement. But not before observing a few wisps of blonde hair escaping the leg band of her black panties.

I helped Linda into the house. She hobbled into the kitchen. She asked, "Would you like some coffee? Or something stronger?"

I grinned. "Something stronger would be nice," I said, "what do you have?"

"I'm afraid," she said, "that all I have is rye. Will that be all right?"

"Fine," I lied, "just fine."

There was an old Heintzman upright piano in a corner. I opened it and played a few scales. The piano was in reasonable tune, but the regulation was terrible. The weighting of the keys was irregular. Even an octave was painfully uneven.

Linda hobbled back into the room with two drinks in her hands. "I'm sorry," she said, "you must find my old piano terrible."

"Not at all," I lied. "Where's that music you wanted me to see?"

Linda opened a filing cabinet and took out a folder. "These are the only things I'd dare to show you."

I looked at the scores. The first two were for piano. I sat at the upright and played through the first piece. It was in two movements. The was first slow, and the second was presto, very fast. I found it rather easy to sight read and charming in a naïve way. When I finished, Linda was staring at me.

"God," she said, "you played that the way that I always wanted it to be. So fast. It took my breath away."

I smiled at her. "It's not that difficult," I said, "and it's well-written for the instrument, which makes it even easier to play. You must be a good pianist yourself."

"I've played since I was a child, but I'm certainly not a pianist like you."

"I'm afraid that I had an unfair advantage. I studied with Madame Levinsky at Juilliard."

Linda's eyes grew wide. "Rosina Levinsky? She's a legend! I've heard that she took only one or two of the best Juilliard students every year."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration, but she was selective. By the time I knew her, she was accepting only graduate students. And she was a taskmaster but never unreasonable."

"Is she still alive?"

"Yes, as of a week or so ago. She's in her nineties and living in Florida. She's in excellent physical shape for someone her age, and her mind is as sharp as ever. I've been meaning to call her. I feel very guilty for not having done so."

"Rosina Levinsky! No wonder you have such incredible technique."

"Actually, I don't recall Madame ever stressing technique. Her teaching was about only two things: first and foremost, the music; second, avoiding bad habits. I recall her telling me, 'It's not true that bad habits die hard. They never die, but they kill the pianists who develop them.' Yes, Madame rather assumed your technique was sound and that you'd keep it that way, but always at the service of the music."

Linda said, "I'm sorry to be asking you all these questions, but I have a CD of you playing Rachmaninoff. It's one of my favourite recordings. Do you still play his music."

I smiled broadly. I said, "I do. Yes, I do play Rachmaninoff." I sat down at the piano once more. Although this steed was severely wanting, more a plow horse than a race horse, I began the third of Rachmaninoff's Études Tableaux, opus 33. Actually this particular little piece was never published until after the composer's death. Perhaps he felt it too personal an expression to share with the world. I soon lost myself in it, the difficulties of Linda's elderly upright forgotten. As always, this piece seemed to play itself. When I finished, there was silence. I looked at Linda. She was crying.

"Oh my God," she said, "I never knew that old wreck of a piano could sound like that. Thank you so much."

"You're very welcome. But your piano does need a bit of work. If you'd like, I'll give you the number of my chap, John Gray. He works wonders with pianos." I looked at my watch. "Oh, I see that it's time to pick up my car. You must forgive me. But first, there's the matter of your music. Yes, I believe that you do have talent. But you need to work on the craft. That's a simple matter if the music is in you. If you'd like, I could recommend several excellent teachers."

"You don't teach?"

"No. I'm not a teacher. I've only had one student in my life, and she almost taught herself. Often, I learned more from her than she from me."

"Who was that?"

"My wife, Rachel Kline Stewart."

"She's your wife? I didn't know. I guess I should have, but I honestly didn't. God. She's great. I studied some of her pieces in university."

I suddenly felt incredibly old. I thought of Rachel as very young. Now, a young woman was telling me that she studied Rachel's music in university. I said, "As well you should have. We can all learn from Rachel." I rose to go.

Linda said, "Thanks so much for everything. I hate to ask another favour, but could you help me upstairs before you go?"

"Certainly. A few years ago, I had an injury similar to yours. I can show you a technique I learned for negotiating stairs." I helped Linda to her feet. I directed he to put her right arm over my shoulder. I put my left arm around her and held her just above the hip. "Its a good thing you have a wide stairway. We can go up side by side. Now lift your good foot onto the first stair and pull yourself up. That's it. Bring the other leg up to the stair. Now it's simply a matter of repeating the process. You'll soon be good at it."

We soon reached the second floor. Linda said, "My bedroom is just over here. Do you mind helping me for a few more steps?" We entered the bedroom. Linda sat on the bed with a sigh. "Just one more thing. Could you check the bandage on my ankle? I'm afraid it may be coming loose."

I knelt on the floor and gently took her foot in my hands. I checked the tension of the bandage. It seemed fine. I lifted my eyes to tell her so. But before my gaze reached her face, I was greeted by another sight. I had no idea when Linda had removed her panties -- perhaps when she got my drink. But she had done so. Her legs were splayed open, and her skirt had ridden up her thighs. Her pudendum was displayed. In fact, it was virtually in my face. She was definitely a natural blonde, and she was very aroused. Her lips were very wet, engorged with blood and invitingly open. I might have been looking at an illustration from a gynecology textbook. I put down her foot. I reached for the hem of her skirt. I gently pulled it down until her crotch was concealed. I rose.

Linda was blushing beet red. She was looking down, not meeting my eyes. She held her face in her hands and began to sob. I put my arm around her shoulder. She looked up, tears running down her face. She buried her head in her hands and continued to cry.

I put my hand under her chin and lifted her face. "I have only one question," I said, "Why?"

"I'm sorry," she said between sobs, "I'm really not like that. I don't know why I did it. Oh God, I've had a hell of a day."

"It's all right," I said. "Let's forget about it." I smiled at her. "But I must admit that it was a beautiful sight to these old eyes. I feel flattered that you shared it with me. If I were younger and single, I'd have joined you on that bed in a flash. And speaking of flashes, be careful in the future. The next guy you flash might not exercise restraint."

"I've never flashed anyone before. And I don't plan to make a habit of it. Like I said, I don't know why it happened."

"Please don't do it to me again. My old heart might not be up to the strain. Now, I have to go. Don't worry about showing me out."

Linda said softly, "There's a key on the hall table. Just lock the door and drop the key through the mail slot. Thanks so much for everything."

"Here's my card. Call me if I can help in any way."

"Oh yes, you were going to give me the name of a composition teacher. Let me give you my phone number. Do you have a pen?"

I handed her a pen and another of my cards. She wrote her address and phone number on the card and handed it back to me. "Take care, Linda," I said. "We'll talk soon."

I did as she'd asked, locked the door and dropped the key through the slot. I still had the card she'd written on in my hand. As I walked back to the car, I put it in my wallet. As I did so, I noticed that she'd dotted the "i" in Linda with a little heart. I said to myself, "This could be major trouble, old boy. Best steer clear of this one." I was reminded of the similar situation with my niece Jennifer. Jenn had not only flashed me, she'd pulled my face into her crotch. At least Linda hadn't been that aggressive. Thank God. Showing up at home reeking of pussy wouldn't be a very good idea.

Why the flashing technique? Was it a common ploy among young women, or was it simply a coincidence that I'd encountered it twice? And both girls had used a similar pretext. At least in Linda's case the injury had been real. Jenn's ankle was perfectly healthy. As was her pussy. And there was certainly nothing wrong with her musculature. I vividly recalled almost suffocating in her gash. While many men might say that would be a great way to go, I doubt that they'd carry through when faced with the real possibility of drowning in vaginal secretions.

I said that I'd encountered the flashing technique twice. Actually, there was a third time. And I hadn't always as much restraint then. It happened when I was married to Kelly. The genitals in question belonged to Gayle Young.

Gayle had been my manager. She'd left artist management to become the editor of Soundstreams, a magazine concerned with what they described as "sound art." Presumably that designation was to neatly avoid a definition of music. Gayle had married and moved to Grimsby, a village just outside St. Catherine's, Ontario.

Gayle was a beautiful woman, very fit and athletic. In fact, it was her athletic prowess that caused her serious injury. It was a skiing accident. She'd been cross-country skiing with her husband. The tip of her ski caught on a patch of ice. Cross-country skis have different bindings than downhill skis. Downhill bindings are designed to pop loose in such a situation. Cross-country bindings are not. The result was that, as Gayle fell, her leg was twisted as well as bent. She'd suffered quite a nasty break. The doctor at the little regional hospital hadn't set it correctly. She'd come to Toronto for corrective surgery. The result was that the healing of her leg took a very long time.

Gayle's husband Reinhart Reizenstein was teaching art at the University of Guelph. His specialty, lucky dog, was figure drawing. Naked females. He was normally able to return home in the evenings. His schedule for the week in question wouldn't allow that. Gayle phoned to ask if I could pick up some supplies and bring them to her. I readily agreed. It was a nice day, and, although St. Catherine's was about a two-hour trip, I wouldn't mind the drive. I picked up the groceries. I added a nice bunch of flowers for the invalid, and I headed for the country.

When I arrived, we had a nice cup of tea and a bit of conversation. Gayle was getting about the house on crutches. She couldn't drive, and even being a passenger in a car was difficult. She told me that her injury was no longer painful, but she'd obviously be glad when the cast came off. The break was below the knee of her right leg, but for some reason the cast extended just above the knee. She was wearing a full skirt, and she offered to show me her cast. Just as Linda had, Gayle sat on her bed. She raised her skirt to mid-thigh. She said, "The worst thing is the loss of muscle tone in the leg. Here. Feel the difference between the right and left." She took my hands and placed them on her thighs. I gently ran my hands up her legs. Her skirt rose higher, and I suddenly found her pussy in my face. Gayle smiled and said, "I'm sorry, but I can't wear my panties. I can't get them over the cast."

For my part, I didn't regret her lack of pants. I proceeded to eat her to several orgasms. Then she bent over the kitchen table, and I fucked her doggy style. She explained that was the most convenient way to cope with her cast. Again, I didn't complain.

As I drove back to Toronto after my tryst with Gayle, I felt a brief twinge of remorse. After all, I knew Gayle's husband. I wouldn't call him a friend, but I did know him. I even had a couple of his paintings. But I had to admit to myself that I'd wanted to fuck Gayle for a long time. When she was representing me, it hadn't seemed proper. God, I had a strange sense of propriety in those days.

Back in the present, I drove the rental car back to where I'd gotten it. I took a cab to the Mercedes dealer to pick up my car. It was ready. I checked the work order to make sure all was as it should be and handed my credit card to the receptionist. As I signed the slip, I noticed that my right wrist was hurting. I didn't think much of it. Probably just that damned old piano of Linda's. I shouldn't have been showing off. As I drove home, the pain seemed worse. And it continued to hurt all evening. I resolved that the next morning I'd call my doctor for an appointment.



-------

Chapter 30

Over the next few days, my wrist gradually felt better. I put it out of my mind and got on with my business. As usual, I had deadlines to meet. However, I did manage to honour my commitment to recommend a composition teacher to Linda Lott. I recalled that Ron Smith had returned to Toronto after some years of teaching at Stanford University in California. Ron could be a bit stuffy, but by reputation he was an excellent teacher and would help Linda with her technique. I phoned Linda and gave her Ron's home phone number. Then I called Ron to warn him. He said that he'd be happy to look at Linda's work and help her if he could.

One morning when I awoke with Rachel in my arms, I thanked whatever Gods there were that I hadn't succumbed to the blandishments of the succulent Linda Lott. I'm sure that she'd have been a "sweet little arm-full," as Jimmy Jimson used to say. But I was equally positive that she could never have been Rachel's equal in the lovemaking department. It's usually the case that sex is exciting at the beginning of a relationship. The participants "fuck like crazed minks," to quote Jimmy Jimson again. As time goes on, sex becomes, if not routine, certainly less exotic and less of an obsession. This was not the case in my relationship with Rachel. Every time we were together seemed almost as exciting as our first encounter. Rachel was a woman of infinite variety. She could always "push my buttons," as the saying is. She could inspire this old carcass to feats of sexual excellence.

Life in the Stewart manse had returned to a semblance of normality. Rachel had become friends with Stacie Charles, the young wife of Jack Charles. They were our neighbours. Jack was a lawyer and had represented me in the past. He always seemed a decent chap, and Stacie was absolutely charming. She was also beautiful and petite. Stacie and Rachel made a striking pair. They were almost exactly the same height, and they were both beauties but markedly different. Rachel was slim with alabaster skin, black hair and amber eyes. Stacie was much more voluptuous. She had large breasts and a marked flair to her hips. She was a blue-eyed blonde with a few cute freckles on the bridge of her nose.

Esther also took to Stacie immediately. At every visit, she tried to monopolize "Auntie Stacie." She would sit on Stacie's lap and listen with rapt attention as Stacie read to her. These sessions would often end only when Magda took Esther upstairs for her nap. After one of the story marathons, Stacie said to me, "Morry, do you realize that Esther can read?"

I smiled. "Stacie, Esther is a very bright little girl, but that would be pushing the envelope, even for her. After all, she's just started junior kindergarten."

"Nevertheless, she can read."

"How can you tell?"

"She's been reading to me for a week. Today, we took turns reading. And it wasn't a case of memorization. I deliberately chose books that hadn't been read to her."

"My God."

"Not only does she read, she doesn't read like a young child. I'd guess that her reading level would be about junior high or high school."

"I need a drink."

Stacie grinned, "You're just like my Jack. Booze is your refuge. But in this case, I think I'll join you."

Rachel had entered the room. I turned to her, "Stacie has been telling me that Esther can read. Is that true?"

Rachel smiled. "Yes, dear. She reads quite well. I was planning to tell you tonight. Her kindergarten teacher was the first to discover it. Not only can Esther read, I'm afraid that I agreed that she could read to us after supper. Just one story."

"What did you give birth to, woman?"

Rachel laughed. "As I recall," she said, "you were a partner in that enterprise. She's as much your fault as mine."

As it turned out, Esther had other surprises up her sleeve. Of course, she'd loved music from her earliest days. Even when she was a baby, she sang with perfect intonation and perfect memory. By the time she was two years old, she could sing even the most complex melody after only one hearing. Since she was a baby, she'd been fascinated by the work that Rachel and I did in our studios. She liked to visit us while we were working. The first time she came to my studio in the middle of the day, she asked me, "Daddy, do you mind if I watch you work?" I was stunned. Those were almost exactly the words that her mother had asked years before. For only the second time in my life, I assented. I agreed that she could watch me, as long as she was quiet.

For weeks, she would sit quietly and listen as I practiced the piano or composed. When I played, she'd sit on the chesterfield with her bears. When I was composing at the computer, she'd stand behind me. I grew to anticipate her visits with pleasure. Then there was that momentous afternoon.

I was working at the computer when Esther said, "Daddy, that sounds funny."

"What sounds funny, Precious?"

She walked to the piano and clambered onto the bench. "This," she said. She played the notes I'd just written. Not just the melody but the harmony and rhythm as well. I was astounded. I had not yet played that passage through the sampler. She could not have heard it. The child had actually been reading over my shoulder. Reading music. And hearing it while she was reading. At sight.

She wrinkled her nose. "Maybe it should be like this." She played again, changing only a few notes.

I sat staring at her. Finally, I recovered the use of my voice. "How did you do that, Sweetheart?"

Esther laughed. "Don't be silly, Daddy. You know how."

I felt a chill down my spine. Obviously, this little girl could read music and actually hear it at sight. She could also play the piano, at least enough to demonstrate her correction of my music. But the most frightening thing was that she was right. I'd made a mistake, and she'd corrected it. A four-year-old girl was editing my music.

"Precious, can you read music?"

"Of course I can, Daddy. It's easy."

"How did you learn?"

"By watching you and Mummy, silly. After a while, I could tell which things on the page went with what you were playing on the piano. But I still don't know what some of the words mean." She came back to my side. "Like this one," she said.

The word at which she was pointing was andante. I said, "It's Italian. It means kind of a moderately slow speed, not too slow or too fast. Kind of like 'laid back.'"

Esther looked puzzled. "Why don't you just say that? Why do you use funny words?"

I sighed. "I guess it's because everybody else uses them and has done for a long time. So all the musicians know what you mean by them. And it's easier to write presto instead of 'really fast' or largo instead of 'really slow.'"

She furrowed her little brow and pursed her lips. "I guess that makes sense. So I guess that I'll have to learn all these silly words then. I've been making up some pieces, and I'd like to write them down so that I don't forget them."

I suddenly felt very old and frightened. What sort of creature had I sired? It was clear that she was incredibly gifted in many areas. How would she make her way in the world? I feared that she'd encounter resentment from those less gifted. Which meant most of the world's population. And how would she fit in socially with other children? Most children her age were straining to fit together pieces of Lego, but she was writing pieces of music. Yes, I feared for my daughter, but at the same time I was very proud of her. She might even be a greater genius than her wonderful mother. Rachel and I had to talk about this.

Esther and I went up the stairs together. She was carrying her bears. Or rather carrying little Cooper and dragging poor Edward. Of course, Edward had never known any other form of locomotion than being dragged on his head. We arrived at the ground floor. Rachel was there waiting for us. She scooped Esther in her arms. "Hello, my little princess!"

Esther giggled and wriggled in Rachel's grasp. "Oh don't tickle me, Mummy! Please don't. I don't want to laugh, I want to tell you about my fun with Daddy."

Rachel looked at her soberly, almost sternly. She said levelly, "And what fun was that?"

Esther laughed. She said, "Daddy said he didn't know I could read music! He's so silly. He had to know. I'm always looking over his shoulder when he's writing songs. But he almost made me think he didn't know. And he said he didn't know I could play the piano. He's so silly."

Rachel looked at me. I was standing openmouthed. Esther's conversation with her mother made it clear to me that Rachel already knew the extent of Esther's musical talent. What was this, a conspiracy of superwomen?

Rachel put Esther on her feet. "OK, toots," she said, "you go see Mummy Magda. Get ready for supper. Tell her you want to wear your new yellow dress." Esther scampered up the stairs. Rachel turned to me. "Morry, I know what you're wondering. How long have I known? I have to admit that it's been at least a month."

I gasped at her, "A month?"

"Yes. A few months ago she came into my studio one day and asked if she could watch me work. I was actually kind of flattered that my daughter would want to watch her mother work. And I know that she watches you as well. After a few days, I forgot that she was there. Until the day she came in with her piece."

I asked, "Her piece?"

"Yes. She'd drawn a staff on her art paper and then written in the notes. I looked at them, and they made sense!" She looked into my eyes. "A little child was writing music that worked. And it clearly wasn't a case of monkeys and typewriters. Do you remember that joke about how long it would take for a bunch of monkeys with typewriters to recreate Shakespeare? That kind of stuff is totally random. This isn't. But," she said, "that wasn't the capper. Do you know what she did next?" I shook my head. "She went to the piano and played her music. And she played it damned well."

My eyes began to tear. I asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

She stared at her feet. "It's a combination of things," she said. She looked up. "First of all, there's the fact that I was so late in telling you that she could read. And your reaction to learning that wasn't what I expected. When I found out, I was so happy. It's like her first steps or her first words. But you seemed upset. I tried to understand why. I couldn't, but I certainly didn't want to upset you like that again. Certainly not so soon."

I went to Rachel. I took her in my arms and held her. "My love," I said, "my wonderful love. Of course, I'm proud of Esther. I always have been and always will be. But please allow me to be the least bit astounded by it all."

"I understand," she said, her voice muffled against my chest. "It's kind of overwhelming. Magda says she hasn't found anything that Esther can't do. I know that I certainly haven't."

I grinned. "Of course there are things she can't do."

Rachel looked puzzled. "Like what?"

"Like leaping over tall buildings at a single bound."

For a moment, Rachel looked at me as though I were daft. Then she smiled. "Oh," she said, "I remember. Those old Superman videos of yours."

"Yes, Little Love. But what frightens and upsets me about Esther's genius is how other people will react to it. How can we give her a semblance of a 'normal' life?"

Her expression sobered. "Morry," she said, "now I understand. What will we do? How can we help her and protect her?"

I lifted her face and kissed her. "My love," I said, "It must be possible. After all, your mum and dad did a pretty good job with you."

"But," she said, "I'm not nearly as talented as Esther is."

"It's much too early to tell," I said. "Do you remember the conversation we had years ago about Mozart and Schubert?"

Rachel looked puzzled. "Yes, of course. I asked you which one was more talented. You said that it was impossible to tell but that Mozart had achieved so much more. You were kind of down on Schubert for being a lazy bum."

"Well, to be fair, he had many problems. Such as being gay in staid Vienna at a time when it was not even acknowledged that people like him existed. He also had an addictive personality. He was hooked on booze, kinky sex and God knows what else. At least that's what I've read."

She asked, "Schubert's problems aside, do you know why I really remember that day?" I shook my head. Rachel smiled at me and continued. "It was the day that I had bite my tongue to keep myself from telling you that I loved you. And I sort of regret that I did. If only I'd told you that I loved you and wanted to marry you, maybe we'd have been together longer."

Now it was my turn to be puzzled. I said, "Why do you think we'd have gotten together then?"

She looked up at me and smiled. "Because," she said, "if I take the amount of time between when I propositioned you and when I landed you," she kissed me, "and multiply it by whatever number you'd like to compensate for my age at that time." She gave me a professorial look and pretended to be writing on a blackboard. "OK," she said, "we'll take the time between said proposal and the actual deflowering. We'll divide by that amount of time. Then, we'll take the time on that special day -- the time between my taking you by the hand and the time that we actually made physical love -- and we'll divide everything by that. Do you know what that means?"

I looked at her in confusion. "What?"

"You silly old fart," she yelled, "I could have had you a long time before I did. It took me so long to realize that you might love me, too."

I nuzzled her hair. "Darling girl," I said, "I probably wanted to jump your bones from the first time I saw you. But I had a few scruples that wouldn't let me do that. Telling me that you loved me wouldn't necessarily have hastened the big event." I kissed her. I said, "But I do feel like an idiot. Subconsciously, I'd obviously known how much I loved you. But the age difference was excessive."

Rachel grinned at me. "Idiot!" she exclaimed. "Not only did I actually have to seduce you, I had to propose to you. In fact, as I remember, it wasn't so much a proposal as a demand. Something like. 'You gotta fuck me before I die.'"

"No, little one," I said. "The F-word could have been applied many times before then. Your blackmail was about making you an honest woman."

Rachel looked at me with her piercing amber gaze. "I am an honest woman," she said. "I've never had another man -- never even wanted another man -- and never will. From almost the first day I met you, I staked you out as my man. I have no doubt that I could have committed violence on any broad who'd come on to you. Still could, for that matter."

I strengthened my resolve not to tell her about my episode with Linda. "Yes, my love," I said, "I know. But what has all this to do with Esther?"

Rachel smiled. "I guess," she said, "it's the long way of telling you that I wanted to bed you from the first time I met you. But I wouldn't have wanted Esther to have been conceived an instant earlier. Or later, for that matter. She's the perfect child. There isn't any better."

I pulled her close. "I can't forget," I said, "that bastard Jason ran you down when you were carrying her. God, do I ever remember," I said. "In a way, I'm glad that I didn't know you were carrying Esther until you were out of danger. My old ticker might not have stood up to the strain of worrying about both of you." I kissed her gently. Rachel's cheeks were as wet as my own.

Suddenly, our serious mood was broken. Esther burst into the room. "Mummy! Daddy! Look! I'm wearing my new dress. The new yellow one." She spun about and struck what I was sure she considered a modeling pose.

I knelt down by her and took her little hands. "You look gorgeous, sweetheart. Yellow looks lovely on you."

"I love yellow, Daddy. It sounds like G major."

Oh my God. What was going on with this child? I asked her, "What key does red 'sound like?'"

Esther wrinkled her nose. "It's sort of like E major. But not quite. I'll have to think about it. But gray is E minor. And brown is A minor. For sure."

Synesthesia. That was the technical term. She was seeing colours in terms of music. Or vice versa. I knew that many composers had experienced that. I never have. To me, music was music, and colours were colours. Sounds, colours and images were different and distinct to me. Perhaps that was why I'd never written much music for the theatre. I wrote exactly three theatre pieces: two one-act operas and a ballet. And none of them were my idea. They were all commissioned, and I needed the money at the time. Frankly, I've never been fond of any of them. Would Esther eventually write operas? I hoped so. The medium seemed to elude both Rachel and me. I had great admiration for composers with that gift, such as my friend James Rolfe. It simply wasn't my cup of tea.

The next day, Rachel came into my studio while I was practicing the piano. When I took a break, she said, "Morry, that piano of yours is getting to be quite a senior citizen. You need a new instrument."

"That would be nice," I said, "but I have a sort of sentimental attachment to it. You see, it's the first grand I ever owned. At the time I bought it, I had very little money. Both Kelly and I ate a lot of peanut butter sandwiches to pay for it."

"We could move it into the study. We should have a piano in there. But you're playing a lot more now, and you really need a good instrument."

I smiled. "What would suggest? A Bösendorfer?"

Rachel wasn't smiling. She asked, "Why not? You deserve the best."

The Bösendorfer piano was made in Vienna and had been for over one hundred seventy years. It was considered the Rolls-Royce of pianos and priced accordingly. Now I was sure she was pulling my leg. "My darling, silly little wife, do you have any idea how much those monsters cost?"

"In fact, I do. I've been looking into them for a while. Lowrey's is the dealer here. I went to their store the other day. They have a new Model 290 in stock. We could have it delivered tomorrow if we wanted to."

I stared at her. "The 290? A. K. A. the 'Imperial?' I know many people who live in houses that cost less."

Rachel grinned mischievously. "But we don't. We live in a bloody mansion, and we have plenty of money. Anyway, there were some people from a university looking at the piano when I was there. I know how long it takes to get one from the factory, so I..."

"Tell me you didn't buy it."

She grinned more broadly. "OK," she said, "You didn't buy it. But I did. It will be delivered on Friday. And they'll move the old one upstairs."

"But I've never seen it, much less played it. I admit that I've never played a bad Bösendorfer, but there's always a first time."

"There's no problem. They'll take it back if you don't like it. Anyway, it's all done. You'll be playing away on it by this weekend."

"This," I said, "may be the craziest thing you've ever done."

"But it's no different than when you surprised me with my studio. Which, I might add, also included a new Steinway grand."

"But that's just a little one."

"It's more than big enough for me. And, I should tell you, it impresses the hell out of clients who come to talk about commissions. But wait till they see the Bösendorfer."

The piano was delivered exactly as Rachel had said. Although I've seen them in action many times, I'm always impressed by the ease with which expert piano movers can handle a large grand. One of them once told me that he'd far rather move a grand piano than an upright. You simply take the legs off, bundle it up in blankets, put it on a dolly, and away you go. If you need to go around corners, you tilt it up on end. In no time, the piano was set up in the studio. I knew the exact specifications of the instrument: nine feet six inches long, five feet nine inches wide. Weight: one thousand two hundred fifty-five pounds. Nine sub-bass notes, for a total of ninety-seven keys. The finish was a brilliant, sparkling black. It was a monster, and it looked even bigger than it was. I must admit that I felt like a child at Christmas. While the movers were installing the old piano in the study, I sat down in the new piano chair. The tufted leather upholstery gave me a sense of decadent luxury. I lifted the lid and put it on the full stick. I gazed on the interior, admiring the workmanship. Everything sparkled. Even the strings seemed polished. I sat again at the keyboard and adjusted the chair. I had to play this wonderful instrument. Besides, I rationalized, the technician would be here soon for the post-delivery tuning and regulation. I needed to play it in order to give him advice. Reverently, I touched the keys.

I ran scales up and down the keyboard. The touch seemed absolutely even from one end to the other. The sound had that typical Bösendorfer bell-like quality. It seemed to me that the technician would have little to do. I lifted the cover over the nine sub-bass keys. I had to use them. I went to the shelf and found the one piece in my repertoire that made use of this extended bass, Gaspard de la nuit by Maurice Ravel. I hadn't played it in years, and I'd never played it on a Bösendorfer. I sat at the piano and soon lost myself in the music, reveling in the sonic beauty of Ravel's masterpiece and this glorious instrument. Gaspard was inspired by poems of Aloysius Bertrand, a very odd French poet. The poems dealt with images such as a water nymph luring people to their doom, a hanged body swaying on a gallows and a demonic gnome. Ravel's interpretation of them has been described as "black magic." Black it may be. Magic it certainly is.

When I finished playing Gaspard, I heard applause behind me. I turned in astonishment. There were Rachel, Esther and Magda. I'd not even been aware of their entering the studio. Rachel kissed me on the cheek. She said, "Morry, it sounded magnificent even upstairs. We had to hear it close up. Finally, you have a piano worthy of you."

The next day, Esther began what was to become a tradition. Each evening before supper she insisted that we hear her play the music she'd written that day, and she insisted on playing the Bösendorfer. She called it "Daddy's big shiny piano." At first, it seemed almost comic to see the tiny child in command of the monstrous piano, but in a few days, it seemed a normal state of affairs. However, it would be a long time before she'd be tall enough to reach the pedals.

Esther's pieces became better and better. Every afternoon, she showed me her work and asked my advice. I gently made suggestions, most of which she heeded. Most, but not all. Occasionally, she smiled and said, "Oh Daddy, that's not what I meant. It's supposed to be that way. That's how it looks in my head." Every evening I experienced that tingling I'd had when listening to Rachel's first pieces. Like her mother, this child was far more talented than I. I wondered if Rachel would have been equally precocious had she been raised in a musical household.

Stacie Charles continued to visit. Esther would often drag Stacie into the study, or, if Rachel or I were taking a break from our work, to one or the other of our studios and play for her. I almost intervened, but Stacie didn't seem to mind.

On seeing Stacie, I felt a bit guilty. She and her husband Jack had invited Rachel and me to supper several weeks before. I felt that it was about time we returned the favour. I extended an invitation to Stacie for the next Wednesday. I was careful to include Mrs. Jefferson, their housekeeper and cook. She was a large and imposing black woman. She had a regal bearing, and, as I knew, a vocabulary of wonderful menus. I thought that, from my brief exposure to her cuisine, that she might be the equal of some of the finest chefs in Toronto. And I knew she was an integral member of the family. In fact, Stacie called her "Aunt Charlotte."

The day arrived. On learning that Stacie and Jack were coming to supper, Esther insisted on giving us a concert. I agreed on condition that she play only one piece. Esther readily agreed, saying that she'd written a new piece especially for the occasion.

The Charles contingent arrived. I was on the deck preparing the barbecue when I heard the doorbell. When I arrived at the front door, I found Esther in Stacie's arms, squealing and kissing her. I shook hands with Jack and Charlotte and ushered everyone into the study.

After everyone had their drinks in hand, Esther insisted that we come to my studio to hear her play. Her new piece, Edward and Cooper, was her finest to date. It had a lovely form. Like most well-written pieces, it was logical and easy to follow. I was impressed, but not nearly so impressed as were Jack and Charlotte. Of course, they'd had no idea what to expect of a four-year-old child seated at a grand piano.

After her ovation, Esther was bundled off to bed. We adults enjoyed our repast on the deck and adjourned to the study for desert, coffee and drinks. We soon divided into couples. Stacie and Rachel were engaged in conversation, while Charlotte and Magda discussed cuisine. Jack and I took a bottle of Laphroaig to the deck. As we sat and drank, Jack turned to me and said, "Morry, Esther is a genius."

I sighed. "You may be right," I said.

"What are you going to do?"

"Well," I said, "I have some experience with young female geniuses. Rachel has turned out all right, so I have high hopes for her daughter."

Jack was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, "Stacie wants kids. Well, we both do, but now she wants them sooner rather than later. We always agreed that we'd have children, but she'd planned to finish law school before becoming a mother. Since getting to know Esther, she's changed her mind."

"Well," I said, "I'm the last one to give advice in these matters. It seems to me that I've always just stumbled into things. I never intended to become a father. But now that I am one, I'm eternally grateful. I have a wonderful child. And it could so easily have been otherwise."

Jack asked, "How so?"

I told him of Jason's vehicular assault on Rachel when she was pregnant with Esther. "You see," I said, "They both might have been killed. Or Esther could easily have been damaged in the womb. Instead of the bright little girl you see, she could have been disabled, either physically, intellectually or both."

Jack poured himself another Scotch. "My God," he said. "I had no idea." He paused and sipped his drink before continuing." "Stacie's been assaulted as well. Not recently, but she came from a very abusive home. In fact, when I took her in, she'd just been badly beaten."

It was my turn to be astonished. "I'd never have guessed. But she doesn't seem to have been damaged by that experience. She's a normal, delightful young woman."

"The human spirit," Jack said, "is difficult to deter. Stacie is a naturally sweet, giving person. I have no doubt that she'll be a wonderful mother. I just wonder if I'm up to the task."

I grinned at him and clapped him on the back. "No fear," I said, "if a hell-raising old fart like me can rise to the occasion, it should be child's play for you. Pun intended, by the way."

Jack looked at me with a sheepish grin. "In any case, I may soon find out. You see, Stacie's gone off the pill."

"Her idea or yours?"

"Mainly hers, but in the end I didn't put up much of an argument. Like you, I'm not getting any younger. And God knows we can afford kids." He drank and looked into his glass. "Charlotte is extremely keen on the idea." Jack smiled. "She says she's always wanted 'grand babies.'"

"Yes, I can see that she mothers Stacie."

"Yeah. Hell, for that matter Charlotte mothers me as well. But Stacie is her special pet. She practically raised her. God knows Stacie's own mother isn't good for much. I only worry that she'll spoil the kids rotten."

I motioned Jack to a chair. We sat staring out at the fountains sparkling in the lights. "You know, Jack," I said, "I can't help thinking that your household mirrors mine in so many ways. We both live very privileged lives. We have beautiful, charming, wonderful young wives. You and Stacie have Charlotte looking after you, and Rachel and I have Magda. A child would very nearly make us identical. With obvious differences, of course. I don't know if it's obvious, but Rachel is definitely the dominant force in this household. I've learned that once she makes a decision, the best thing is to smile and say 'Yes, Dear.'"

Jack laughed. "We may be more alike than you realize," he said. "I don't know how well you know her, but Stacie is extremely bright and determined. I'm sure that she'll sail through law school. I wouldn't be surprised if she wound up on the Bench." He laughed again. "Wouldn't it be ironic if I were to appear in court before her?" He sipped his drink. "Of course, that's an interesting fantasy, but it could never happen. It wouldn't be ethical." Jack took a sip of his drink. He began to laugh and wound up coughing and sputtering. I patted him on the back until he got his breath back.

I asked, "What the hell is so funny?"

He laughed again. "I was just thinking of Magda and Charlotte. They're both wonderful women, but don't you think that they look ridiculous together? I can see the similarities you mentioned, but to consider them as mirror images..." He gasped. "It's like the old movie Twins. You know, the one where Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger are supposed to be twins separated at birth."

I laughed with him. "Yes," I said, "they definitely are the long and the short of it. But they seem to hit it off well."

Jack finished his drink and stood. "And we've probably had more than enough to drink, since we're both laughing like little kids. It's time for me to collect the girls and head home. Morry, thanks so much. I don't know when I've had such a good time. You and Rachel really know how to put on a spread."

"And thank you for those kind words. Coming from you, they mean a lot. I suspect that Charlotte feeds you as well every night as she did when you entertained us at your place."

"Why? Is it showing on my waistline?"

"No, old chap. And even if it were, I should be the last person to criticize anyone else's avoirdupois." I patted my ample paunch. "Alas, I lost my girlish figure long ago."

As we rejoined the ladies Jack said, "Morry, this has been great fun. I don't know when I've enjoyed an evening so much. We must do this again."

"Yes," Stacie said. "Next time at our place. We'll set something up soon. And we must include Esther and Magda. I'd love to have another concert by our budding genius."

"Don't mind if I do," I said, amidst gales of laughter.

We bade the Charles party adieu and headed for bed. As I undressed, I noticed that my right wrist was acting up again. It was stiff and sore. Very sore. This was getting to be a bother. I had concerts scheduled soon. If this continued, I'd not be able to play them. Obviously, I could no longer postpone a visit to the doctor.



-------

Chapter 31

The next morning my wrist was still quite stiff and sore. I called my doctor, Jerry Greenstein. He gave me an appointment that afternoon. Obviously, he was taking the situation seriously.

Jerry spent quite a while examining my wrist and asking questions. Then he sent me next door to the radiology clinic. The technician took x-rays. She developed them, and I took the film back to Jerry. His reaction surprised me.

"It's just as I thought," he said. "There's no skeletal abnormality. This is a soft tissue injury."

I was puzzled and somewhat worried. I asked, "What do you think it is?"

"I believe that it's a repetitive stress injury. Probably as a result of your occupation."

"Do you mean playing the piano?"

"Exactly."

"But I've played the piano for donkey's years and never had anything like this."

"Can you think of anything else that may have caused this?"

"No, but..."

"But nothing. I want you to see a specialist. There's a guy at McMaster University Medical Centre who specializes in musicians' injuries."

"You must be joking."

"No, I'm not. His name is Peter Chong. He's recognized all over the world as an expert in this field. He's also a friend of mine, so the chances are pretty good that I can get you an appointment soon."

"OK. I guess it's worth a trip to Hamilton to find out what's wrong with me."

"You're damned right it is. Now, I want you to do as I say. Listen to me. Do not play the piano until you see Dr. Chong."

"But Jerry..."

"Don't 'but Jerry' me. Read my lips. Do not play the piano."

I drove home seething. It was easy for Jerry to tell me not to play. It was going to be much more difficult for me not to play. The piano had been a large part of my life since I was a child. There had been precious few days when I hadn't played. I remembered a holiday that Kelly had insisted we take. We were on a Scottish island for fourteen days. Without a piano. I almost went insane. It gave me some understanding of the withdrawal symptoms an addict experiences. Near the end of our stay I discovered an old upright in a village pub. I played it until closing time. I slept well that night.

When I arrived home, Rachel met me at the door. "I just spoke to Jerry Greenstein," she said. "He's made an appointment for you with the doctor in Hamilton. It's for 11:00 in the morning the day after tomorrow." I groaned. Hamilton was about an hour's drive. Allowing time for parking at the hospital and finding the doctor's office, I'd need to head off at 9:00, 9:30 at the latest. Rachel grinned at me. She knew better than anyone that I was not an early riser. She continued. "And Jerry said that I was to keep an eye on you. He wants you away from the piano and the computer."

"Christ! What am I supposed to do? I can't write or play music. Am I to sit quietly in a corner and be a good little boy?"

Rachel stood on tiptoes and kissed me. "Please be good, Morry," she said. "Help the doctors fix this problem. Please don't make it worse." Her amber eyes twinkled. "Now come with me. I have a surprise for you." I followed her into the study. There were a man and a woman seated on the chesterfield by the piano. The man turned. I almost fainted. It was Sol Safire.

"Sol, oh God it's good to see you." I rushed over. As Sol stood, I grabbed him in a bear hug. "Oh God, Sol. Don't do this to me, you old sonuvabitch. Don't spring surprises like this on me. My heart can't take too many shocks like this." My eyes blurred as I looked at the ugly old bastard's face. He had tears running down his cheeks as well. It seemed only yesterday when we thought Sol was at death's door.

"Morry, I'd have called, but I didn't know I was coming to Toronto. This crazy broad shanghaied me."

For the first time I looked at his companion. It was Laura Fabian. She was an editor for G. Schirmer publishers in New York. Laura was closer to my age than to Sol's, but the two of them had been friends for many years, in spite of the fact that Schirmer wasn't his publisher. I recalled that once when Rachel and I had teased Sol about his "girlfriend" he'd simply laughed. "I hate to disillusion you," he said, "but Laura bats for the other team." He winked at Rachel. "She's more likely to be interested in you than in me."

Laura rose, and I shook her hand warmly. "Laura, it's so good to see you. And thanks for bringing this silly old fart with you. But seriously, what brings you to Toronto?"

Laura laughed. "It's very simple," she said. "What opera is playing now at the Canadian Opera Company?"

"The Handmaid's Tale by Poul Ruders."

"That's right. Guess who publishes Poul's music?"

I took a stab at it. "Schirmer?"

"Bright boy. So I'm here representing Poul and helping him as best I can. Basically, I'm trying to keep the opera company's P. R. machine from monopolizing him and running him ragged. Right now, Poul's resting in his hotel room under strict orders to answer only his cell phone. And of everyone in this city, only I am in possession of that phone's number."

Rachel broke in. "Morry, would you mind if Sol and Laura stayed for supper? And Poul, of course."

"Mind? Hell no. If you hadn't asked, I'd have insisted. Sol knows that he should treat this house as his own. I haven't seen Poul in quite a while. It will be a real treat to get reacquainted with him. Laura, you're always welcome. In fact, we have plenty of room in this old barn. It would be great if all three of you could stay with us. And that would give Esther a chance to spend time with her zeyde." Zeyde means grandfather in Yiddish. That was what Sol had told Esther to call him. After all, she thought of him as her grandfather. And, in a way, he was, since he'd been like a father to both her parents.

At this very moment, Esther ran into the room, followed by Magda. "Zeyde, Zeyde!" She shrieked, holding Sol's leg tightly. Sol sat and pulled Esther into his lap.

He hugged Esther, kissed her and held her at arm's length. He asked, "How's my little love, my Eynikl?"

"Oh Zeyde," Esther said, "I'm not so little any more. Did Daddy tell you I can play the piano? And I'm writing music?" Sol looked at me and raised an eyebrow. Esther continued. "Can I play for you? Please, Zeyde. Please."

I interrupted. "Esther, you mustn't be rude. Say hello to Ms. Fabian."

Esther said, "Oh sorry, Daddy. Sorry, Zeyde." She slid from Sol's lap. She stood in front of Laura and extended her hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Ms. Fabian."

Laura smiled broadly and took the proffered hand. "And I'm likewise pleased to meet you, Ms. Stewart."

Esther scampered over to me. "Can I play for Zeyde now, Daddy? Please?"

"Darling, why don't we wait until Mr. Ruders gets here. I'll bet he'd like to hear your music along with Zeyde and Ms. Fabian."

"OK," she said, obviously disappointed. "Is Mr. Ruders the tall man with the beard and the funny accent?"

I looked at her disapprovingly. "Mr. Ruders is Danish. English isn't his first language. If you spoke Danish, I'll bet that Danish people would think that you sounded funny speaking their language."

Esther looked puzzled. "But I don't know how to speak Danish."

"Neither do I. That means that Mr. Ruders has one up on us, doesn't it?"

"Yes Daddy."

"And he and Ms. Fabian and Zeyde are going to stay with us for a few days. Isn't that nice?"

Esther said, "So we're waiting for Mr. Ruders to get here. But you promise that I can play when he's here."

I bent over and looked at her eye to eye. I made the classic gesture over my breast. "Cross my heart."

"OK. But can I show Zeyde some of my music?"

"You'll have plenty of time for that. It's time now for you to go with Mummy Magda and make yourself pretty for company." At that, Esther left without further complaint.

Sol sighed and said, "Wow. What a little whirlwind. She's stirred up quite a thirst in this old carcass. Is there any way that this alter kaker could get a drink around here?"

I laughed. "Alter kaker my ass. Sol, you're a long way from being a geezer. What would you like? That wussie Scotch you usually imbibe?"

"Wussie my ass. You got any Macallan?"

"Your tastes have improved. Yes, I do. Twelve year old OK?"

"Oh, I suppose so."

I poured the old bastard a drink, got one for myself and for Rachel. Laura was on the phone in the hallway, presumably talking to Poul. We all sat down. I took this first opportunity to really look at Sol. God, he'd aged since I'd seen him last. The old bugger must have been around fifty when I first knew him. For years, he'd looked the same. Now, in his eighties, time seemed to be catching up with him. He looked gaunt. No other way to put it. His cheekbones threatened to puncture his skin. He had that look that very old people develop. They don't quite fill out their clothes. His suit seemed to hang on him. I had to face the fact that Sol, my mentor, my surrogate father, Esther's adopted grandfather, might not be immortal.

Sol turned to me and spoke. "So what's all this about with Esther writing music?"

Rachel answered. "It's true. She does. And it's amazing stuff."

Sol looked into his glass. "I should have known. After trying to teach you," he gestured toward Rachel, "I learned humility. I learned that there were people, or at least one person, who could do the things normal people never can. I should have known that you'd produce another genius."

The room was quiet for a few minutes. Then Laura came back in holding her phone toward me. She was smiling. "Morry, Poul gratefully accepts your hospitality. He'd like to talk to you."

I took the phone from her and poured her a Scotch. For the next few minutes, Poul and I renewed our acquaintance. He thanked Rachel and me for our kind offer. When he asked what he could bring, I simply said, "You and your clothes." It was settled. Poul, Sol and Laura would stay with us for the duration of their visit to Toronto. Poul said that he could be at our house in about forty-five minutes to an hour. I went to the intercom terminal and asked Magda to make sure that the guest rooms were made up and the washrooms stocked. Then I returned to my guests.

Over the next hour, Sol and I caught up. Laura interjected every once in a while when she thought Sol was being too modest. As I'd hoped, he was writing more music than ever. Laura was, as she said, "still courting him" for Schirmer. But Sol was unwilling to leave Schott. They'd given him, as he punned it, a "Schott" when he most needed it.

Very little time seemed to pass before the doorbell rang. Magda answered it. She ushered in Poul, looking taller and more grizzled than ever. He was followed by a taxi driver carrying bags. Magda directed the driver to the appropriate bedroom. Poul and I embraced in the European style. The last time I'd seen him was when I was on tour in Denmark several years previously. He'd been to Toronto since then, but I was out of town playing a concert. On Rachel's insistence, Poul had come to the house and had a nice visit with Rachel and Esther. But he and I had a lot of catching up to do.

Somehow, Magda had produced beautiful hors d'oeuvres. She served them, along with bottles of white and red wine. Sol, Poul, Laura, Rachel and I chatted away, ate goodies and drank. Suddenly, a tiny yellow tornado burst into the room. She was wearing her "G major" dress.

"Zeyde, Mummy, Daddy," Esther yelled, "can I play now?"

I took her on my knee. "Darling," I said seriously, "it's not nice to interrupt people when they're talking."

Esther squirmed. She said, "I know Daddy. It's just that..."

"And you haven't said hello to Mr. Ruders."

"I'm sorry, Daddy." Esther scampered over to Poul and held out her hand. "Hello Mr. Ruders. Welcome to our house."

Poul gravely shook her hand and said, "Thank you Esther. I'm very happy to be here."

Esther ran back to me. "Can I play now, Daddy? You said I could when everybody was here.'

I kissed her. "I know, baby. You really want to show Zeyde some of your nicest pieces, don't you?"

"Oh yes, Daddy. Please."

I addressed the group. "Can we please move the festivities downstairs? Magda, will you carry the edibles and potables?" I said to Esther, "I assume that you want to play the big piano."

"Oh yes, Daddy. Please. It just sounds so nice. And it's so easy to make nice sounds on it."

We progressed down the stairs to my studio. By the time I arrived carrying Esther, the group was arrayed on the chesterfield and chairs. Magda had arranged the hors d'oeuvres and drinks appropriately, and, I noted with some amusement, had seated Esther's bears, Edward and Cooper, near the piano.

Esther clambered on to the big leather piano chair in front of the Bösendorfer. I raised it, as had become my custom. Esther turned to her audience. She made sure that she had their attention. She said, "I'd like to begin with one of my favourite compositions, Edward and Cooper."

Rachel said in a stage whisper, "They're her bears."

Esther paused for effect and then launched into this piece. I noted that it had been expanded since my last hearing. It now had at least three new episodes, all of them developmental, combining the two principal themes. But the most telling change was near the end. The two themes, presumably representing Edward and Cooper, combined to form a new theme, almost heroic in its scope. When the piece ended, the room was quiet.

Into this silence, Sol said, "I'll be goddamed."

"So," Poul said, "will I."

Esther was clearly awaiting her ovation. I began clapping frantically. I was soon joined by everyone else. After the applause died, Esther turned again to the piano. She said, "This is my latest piece. I call it Scherzo appassionato."

Rachel whispered to me, "I helped her with the title."

Esther began to play.

I was astounded. I had no idea how this little child had developed such technique and command of the keyboard. Of course, her abilities were circumscribed by her size. Her little hands couldn't reach large intervals. Large leaps about the keyboard were physically impossible for her. And, of course, she couldn't reach the pedals. That simply made her technique all that much more impressive. She managed to live within her physical limitations. They weren't even noticeable. Her little piece was as impressive as a virtuoso work by Liszt or Chopin. When she finished, I was speechless and motionless. This time, Poul led the applause.

Esther climbed down from the piano chair. She clambered up into Sol's lap. "Zeyde," she said, "was that all right?"

The old bastard was crying. He hugged her tightly and said, "Oh my wonderful child, my Eynikl, it was marvelous." He held her and rocked her.

Poul took a big pull from his glass. "Morry," he said, "I don't believe what I just saw and heard. Part of me wants to deny that it happened. To believe it's impossible. The sober part knows that it did happen. I saw it. I heard it. I feel humbled and frightened."

I took a drink of my own. "So do I, Poul. So do I."

Magda announced that supper was ready. We trooped up the stairs to the dining room. Magda took the tired but triumphant Esther to bed. Of course, she'd eaten previously. Magda was a stickler for keeping Esther on her schedule no matter what.

Over supper, conversation turned to Poul's opera, The Handmaid's Tale. It was, of course, based on the famous novel by Canadian writer Margaret Atwood. But, although Margaret had written several other libretti, she hadn't written the libretto for this opera. Paul Bentley had written it with her blessing. The opera had premiered at the Royal Danish Opera in Copenhagen. It had been a smash hit and had been mounted elsewhere in Europe, the United States, and now in Canada. The libretto had originally been in Danish, but it had now been translated into English. Poul said that he felt each production had gotten better and that the Toronto version seemed the best so far. He was overjoyed with what he'd seen and heard in rehearsals so far. Of course, he and Laura offered complimentary tickets to Rachel and me. They seemed somewhat surprised when we told them that we had a season subscription to the Canadian Opera Company. Poul grinned and said, "And you call yourselves composers? Composers never go to hear other composers' music."

Everyone laughed. I proposed a toast to the success of The Handmaid's Tale. Poul countered with his own toast, "Here's to our gracious hosts, Rachel, Morry and Magda, and to the future of their wonderful child, Esther."

After the toast, Laura said quietly, "I'm not only happy to drink to that, I want to publish her pieces. In fact, I'll publish anything she writes. And I'd like an exclusive contract."

Rachel yelled, "No!"

There was silence for a few moments, everyone stunned by Rachel's vehemence. Then Laura said quietly, "OK. But if you change your mind, let me know. I'm certainly willing to negotiate the exclusive part. But do you have any idea of the commercial possibilities? Your daughter could easily be a millionaire in her own right before she's in first grade."

"No," Rachel said, "I don't know, and I don't care. I want her to be successful in life, but I don't want my child made into a circus freak. I won't have it. She's a little girl. She's a brilliant little girl, but she's still a little child. Please let her grow up as normally as possible."

Laura patted Rachel's hand and said softly, "I understand. But the world will find out about her. And soon. How many people have heard her music?"

"Only a few," Rachel said.

"And from those few, it only takes a casual remark or two, perhaps totally innocent, to spread the word. Believe me, fame will come to her, and soon. If she were the child of unknown parents, it would probably take longer. But she's the daughter of two very high-profile artists. The word will spread quickly. You're going to have agents and publishers coming out of the woodwork. If you want to control the effect on her, I can help. If I represent her, I can certainly keep my colleagues at bay, especially the less-principled ones. And believe me, there are quite a few of those. Do Esther a favour. Think about letting me represent her. I'm sure that you don't want to stifle her. And I know that you want her to be the best she can be. Let me help. You'll never be sorry."

Sol said quietly, "I trust Laura. I've known her for many years, and I never knew her to be anything but totally honest. When she says she has Esther's best interest at heart, I'm sure you can believe her."

Rachel said, "But she's not your publisher."

"No, she isn't. That's because Schott took me on long before Laura was in the business. I owe that company a lot. They've never been anything but good to me. Laura and I are great friends, but I think it would be unprincipled of me to allow that friendship to destroy a long-standing business relationship."

Poul spoke. "Schirmer is my publisher, so I've also known Laura for years. Every time I come to North America, she's there for me. She takes care of everything. For example, here in Toronto she's worked with the COC to make the best use of my time and allow me to focus. As you can see tonight, I even have free time to spend with friends."

I said to Rachel, "Darling, I think we should talk to Ken Davenport." I turned to Laura. "Would you be willing to meet with Ken, perhaps tomorrow? I could invite him for lunch, let him listen to Esther, and leave you two alone to talk."

Laura smiled. "I'd be delighted to see Kenny anytime. He's a great guy, and I haven't seen him for years. And of course, I'd love to hear Esther playing her music."

I smiled back at Laura and, "Esther will love playing for you and her Uncle Ken." I turned to Rachel. She was looking a bit less distraught. I said to her, "Darling, Ken has been my agent for many years, and he's represented you since your very first commission. Is there anyone on earth that you trust more than him?"

At last Rachel smiled. "Yes, there is. I trust you more than anyone. And after you, there are my parents, Uncle Bobby, Magda and our beloved Sol. Ken is next."

Laura said, "I'd be honoured if one day you felt that you could add me to that list."

Sol said, "I'm sure she will. Now, since we're just about through with supper, I wonder if this lazy bastard," he pointed at me, "could get an old Jew a cup of coffee."

The next day, Ken came over for lunch. Laura had to take Poul to radio and TV interviews in the morning, but she managed to return to the house in time for lunch. After lunch, Magda took Esther, Laura and Ken to my studio. I remained in the study. I could hear Esther playing. She continued for about thirty minutes, perhaps a bit longer. Shortly after she finished, Magda brought Esther upstairs and into the study. Esther sat at the piano and played softly, obviously working on a new piece. Magda said, "I left the two of them downstairs. I'll make some coffee for them. Would you like some?"

I said, "Yes, I would." I thought to myself that, not only would I like coffee, I might have a little something extra in it. Waiting to hear the results of the discussion downstairs was making me very nervous. More nervous than I'd ever been before a recital, up to and including Carnegie Hall.

Rachel came into the room and sat beside me. She took my arm and said in a shaky voice, "Are you as nervous as I am?"

"Yes, darling. Perhaps even more so. I'm going to have a drink. Would you like one?"

Rachel nodded. I went to the bar. I poured a gin and tonic for her and a Scotch for myself. I took them back to the chesterfield. We clinked glasses and drank.

I noticed a difference in the music that Esther was playing. It seemed more fluent and polished than it had a moment before. I looked toward the piano and saw Sol seated on the bench beside Esther. He was talking to her softly as she played. I looked at Rachel. We both smiled. Sol was working his magic with yet another student, his third in our family.

As I watched Esther and Sol, I found myself distractedly rubbing my sore wrist. With all the turmoil of the past two days, I'd almost forgotten about it. The next day, I'd see Dr. Chong. Then, all would be known. Sol spoke and jarred me out of my reverie. He said to Esther, "Now would you play that passage up to speed and at full level?"

Esther said, "Yes, Zeyde." She began to play. Wonderful sparkling notes poured from her tiny hands. The passage lasted only about a minute. It left me wanting more. Much more.

There was applause from the doorway. I turned. Ken and Laura were there. Soon we'd know the results of their meeting.



-------

Chapter 32

Ken and Laura entered the study. I saw to it that they were seated in the comfortable overstuffed leather chairs near the French windows, and I took their drink orders. I could have predicted that Ken would have his usual Campari and soda. But Laura surprised the hell out of me. The day before, she'd been drinking Scotch. But on this occasion, she requested a "gin and it." I knew about this concoction because it had been my mother's favourite tipple, as it was for many English ladies of her generation. I was puzzled why Laura, an American woman of Italian ancestry and a sophisticated New Yorker, would ask for this disgusting mixture of red vermouth and gin.

Laura laughed. "I actually developed a taste for it while I was working in Moscow."

Rachel exclaimed, "In Moscow!"

Laura smiled at her, "Yes. There was an older English lady I met at the International Students' Centre in Moscow. She invited me to her rooms one evening and offered me a gin and it." I smiled to myself. Knowing Laura's proclivities for the fairer sex, I wondered what else this older lady may have offered her. Laura sipped her drink and then continued. "To make a long story short, she took me under her wing and became my mentor. Her name was Jesse Goodhouse. Still is. We've stayed in touch over the years. Since Jesse first offered it to me, I've associated this drink with comfort and peace. Both of which I badly need at the moment."

Ken asked, "What were you doing in Moscow?"

"Kenny, I may hav mentioned to you that I did my doctoral work in Soviet music." He nodded, and Laura continued. "Well, at a certain point, I thought it was ridiculous to study Soviet music in the U. S. A. It was sort of like learning to cook Chinese food in Wisconsin. I'd learned quite a bit of Russian, so I thought, 'Why the hell not go there?' I headed out with the foolhardiness of youth. I soon learned that my Russian left quite a bit to be desired. But the friendliness of the Russian people overcame my own shortcomings."

I said to everyone, "You may not know this, but Laura is the foremost expert in the music of the former Soviet Union. She is a personal friend of most of the leading composers in Russia and the other former Soviet republics. She was a close friend of the late Alfred Schnittke, the greatest Russian composer since Shostakovitch. And she is a great friend of probably the finest living Russian composer, Sofia Gubaidulina, as well as the great Georgian composer Giya Kancheli."

Laura sipped her drink and then waved disparagingly. "They're easy people to know," she said. "As I said, they were some of the friendliest folks I've ever known. I lived in the same student hostel as Giya and took classes at the Moscow Conservatory from Alfred and Sofia. I've found it almost dishonest that I made my fortune, so to speak, simply by being in the right place at the right time and meeting such wonderful people. But," she continued, "we're not hear to discuss my adventures in Russia. We're hear to talk about the young lady seated at the piano."

Ken spoke. "Before we do that," he said, "I'd like to hear from the artist herself. Esther, will you come here for a minute?"

Esther said, "Yes, Uncle Ken." She slid from her perch on the piano bench, scampered over to Ken and climbed on his knee."

Ken looked at her very seriously. "Darling, you know that Ms. Fabian and I have been talking about you, don't you?" Esther nodded. "And we've been talking about some pretty amazing things. First off, you like having people listen to your music, don't you?" Esther nodded again. "And you like playing for them don't you?" Esther nodded even more enthusiastically. "But how would you feel about playing for a whole lot of people at once?"

Esther wrinkled her little brow. She asked, "How many?"

"Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Maybe tens of thousands."

Rachel leaned forward and seemed about ready to object. I held her arm and smiled at her.

Esther looked at Ken in wonder. "You mean like a rock concert?"

"Could be," he said.

"Wow. That would be so cool."

"But," Ken said, "it would be an awful lot of work. And there would be a lot of people around all the time. It would be very confusing."

Esther hugged him. "But I know you'd help, wouldn't you, Uncle Ken? And Mummy and Daddy and Mummy Magda and Zeyde?"

"Yes, and Ms. Fabian as well. We'd all help. But you'd have to play in front of all those people."

Esther paused and thought. "Well, maybe I could do that. But not right now. Could I just play for maybe a hundred or so people to start? I mean I'd like to do the other stuff in a while but not right now. It's kind of scary, and I'd like to sort of work up to it." She turned to me. "Is that how you did it, Daddy?"

"Yes, Precious. That's how Daddy did it. But that was because not a whole lot of people wanted to hear Daddy then. It took a long time before lots of people wanted to hear me all at once."

"Can I take a long time, too?"

"Well, it's different with you, my little love. You see, lots of people will want to hear you right away. I think that's what your Uncle Ken is saying, isn't it, Ken?" He nodded. "It's up to you how many of them you want to play for."

Rachel broke in angrily. "This is putting the cart well before the goddam horse. We haven't, certainly I haven't, agreed to let this child appear on a public stage. It's far too early to talk about venues."

Laura said, "Rachel is absolutely right. However, Kenny has simply helped to remind us of what we already knew. Esther is almost as big a ham as her dad." Laura's remark sparked a bit of nervous laughter.

Uncharacteristically for her, Magda was the next to speak. "I share Rachel's misgivings. I'd like to remind you that I have nearly as big an emotional attachment to this child as her parents do." I was amazed not only by the fact that Magda chose to speak. Filipino women of her generation were raised to be quiet caregivers. I was also amazed by her fluency. In spite of her heavy accent, her vocabulary and syntax amazed me. I knew that she'd been taking evening courses, first at George Brown College and then at Ryerson University. Obviously her studies had born fruit. She continued. "I think it's fair to say that I've spent as much time with Esther as either of her parents, maybe more. I knew about her ability to read words and music before either of them. She played the piano for me before either Rachel or Morry knew she could. I know how smart and outgoing she is. But I also know how sensitive she is." Magda paused. She seemed to be searching for a word. "How vulnerable she is. So far, everyone who has heard her read a story or play a piece of her music has been very encouraging. All of us love Esther or are friends of her parents. We have no reason to be negative and say unkind things about her. Strangers are not like that. People can be cruel. I know all about that. When I first came to this household, before Esther was born, for the first time in Canada I was accepted for who I was, not made fun of for my funny accent or stared at. For the first time since leaving my country, I felt like I was part of a family. A nurturing family. In my culture, family is the most important thing in a person's life. That's why so many of us go back to the Philippines. We can't live outside our families. And I'll admit that I almost went back before I met Rachel and Morry. I felt so alone. I don't want Esther to feel that way on a stage in front of strangers." Magda turned to me. "Morry, how old were you when you played a concert for the first time?"

I tried to recall. "I don't remember exactly. I know that I'd played Kiwanis festivals and the like since I was younger, but I think my first real concert was when I was in high school."

Magda asked, "Were you scared?"

"Terrified," I admitted.

"Did you feel alone on that stage?"

"Absolutely. It was just me and a sea of faces."

"Esther's only social experience outside this family is her junior kindergarten class." Magda looked around the room. "So why would you, or most of you, even talk about putting this little girl, this tiny child in a situation like that? Does it matter if it's a hundred, a thousand or a hundred thousand strangers? Families are meant to protect children. That's the reason we have families." Again, she looked around the room, looking directly into the eyes of each person. "With the exception of Ms. Fabian, every person here says that they think of themselves as a member of Esther's family. We all say that we love her. Let's act like it."

There was silence for a minute. Then Sol said, "I agree." He looked about the room. "I find it telling that of all the people assembled here, Magda has put her finger on the exact issue. Esther has to be protected. However, as she didn't say, because she hasn't the experience. Esther also needs the opportunity to express herself as an artist. She craves an audience. You've seen how much she needs, hell she demands, the opportunity to share her music with us. And make no mistake, even at her tender age she is an artist. I've taught generations of the best, and I know talent when I see it. I just spent some time working with Esther on her latest piece, and I believe that I learned more than she did. Things that it took me years to learn, she seems to know instinctively. Just as her mother did." He gestured to Esther. "Come here, Libling."

Esther climbed down from Ken's lap and scampered over to Sol. He picked her up and kissed her on the forehead. He held her in front of us. "You see here the future of art music. I make a vow to you right now. Give her to me as a student, and I'll give you back the greatest genius since Mozart. Maybe a greater genius than Mozart." He put Esther back on his lap. "Hell, I'd be more than happy to pay my own way to live here and teach this little monster. Please, let me do this. It's my legacy to the world." Sol hugged.

Esther giggled. She said, "Zeyde, you're talking funny. My music isn't anything like Mozart's stuff. I've heard his music. It's not anything like mine." Then, she seemed to have a realization. "Does this mean you'll be here all the time?" She put her little arms around him. "Oh, Zeyde, that would be wonderful." The two hugged each other and rocked in the overstuffed chair.

Ken spoke. He said quietly, "Please don't misunderstand. Laura and I have Esther's best interest at heart. We'd never knowingly put her in an untenable situation. Before we get carried away, let me outline what we talked about. Laura, please feel free to jump in if I forget anything." She nodded. Ken took a deep breath and continued. "First of all, we both feel that it's premature to put Esther before the public. And if we represent her in our different capacities, me as agent and Laura as publisher, we can help to protect her. I made a few notes." He took his reading glasses from his pocket, put them on and unfolded a sheet of paper.

"To begin, since Esther is a minor, there will be no question of any exposure of her or her music without the written consent of her parents. Second, we feel that it's best to wait at least a year before considering any public exposure. This year would give Esther a chance to mature a bit more, both physically and artistically. We also thought about the best ways to introduce her to the public. Perhaps she should be introduced on a high-profile TV show in the States, maybe Letterman or Leno. They've both been major springboards for artists' careers. And that way Esther would be performing for just a small studio audience. Thinking ahead even more, we talked about the wisdom of having a commercial recording ready for release simultaneously with her first exposure. We'd also like to have at least one publication of sheet music of Esther's compositions ready at the same time. I'm sure that you can see the advantages of preparing all three, performance, CD and publication, to coincide." Ken looked first at Rachel and then looked me in the eye as he said, "Concerning the important matter of money. And it is important. People should be paid for their work. Both Laura and I will have standard contracts, accepting our standard fees, or less. Esther's moneys will be paid into a trust fund to be administered by her parents until she reaches the age of majority. Laura, do you have any comments?"

"Yes," she said, "Rachel, Morry, both Kenny and I pledge to do our best to help Esther, not to profit from her. We'll be available to you at any time. If there are, and there may well be, harassing contacts from fast-buck artists, simply let us know. We'll slap restraining orders on them so fast their heads will spin clear around."

Esther giggled at the image of someone with his head spinning around. She climbed off Sol's lap and went over to Laura. "Ms. Sabian, are you Uncle Ken's girlfriend?"

Laura smiled. "No, honey," she said, "I'm not."

Esther said, "Good. Cuz Uncle Ken is married. And his husband, Uncle Bruce, would be really upset if he had a girlfriend." Everyone in the room laughed except Ken, who blushed deeply.

Laura hugged Esther. Then, she became serious as she said to Rachel and me, "Rachel and Morry, take all the time you want to think about this. Talk to your lawyer about it. Let's make the best arrangement for Esther that we can."

I turned to Rachel. I said, "I'm sure that Jack Charles will represent us. He's a good friend, and he's one of the best intellectual property lawyers in the country."

Rachel squeezed my hand and smiled. "Of course he will. And I know he'll do a great job."

Sol broke in. "Before we get too carried away," he said, "if you agree to let me help Esther with her compositions, will you allow me some input into when they're ready for public consumption?"

Rachel smiled at him, "Of course, Sol. You know we'll always count on you."

"And how about a piano teacher for Esther? Without any formal training, she's amazing. But think about what she'd be like with a really good teacher."

I asked, "Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Hell yes! That old harridan Rosina Levinsky. She and I talk once in while, and I know that she's going nuts in that mausoleum in Florida. Can you imagine Rosina with a bunch of old farts whose idea of a good time is a quilting party or a game of shuffleboard? I'd be willing to bet that she's like an old fire horse waiting for the bell. Offer her Esther, and she'll be here so quickly it'll make your head swim."

I smiled. "Sol, I had no idea that you and Madame Levinsky were friends."

"We're not," he said vehemently. "She can be a real bitch. You look up the 'C' word in the dictionary, and they got her picture. But we respect each other for what we do. Is there a better piano teacher in the world than Rosina? I don't think so. And if you can find a better composition teacher than me, I'll get outta the way."

Esther said, "Zeyde, what's the 'C' word?"

I answered quickly, "Crotchety, dear. You can look it up later."

Esther asked, "Do they really have her picture?"

"No. Zeyde was exaggerating."

Rachel looked at me questioningly. "Morry, do you agree with what Sol says about Madame Levinsky?"

"Yes, of course. She's the best. But Sol, I don't think that Madame has ever taught children. In fact, she's told me that she spent her life avoiding them."

Sol laughed. "She's so full of crap that her eyes are brown. I know of at least three kids that Rosina has taught. Besides, artistically Esther isn't a child. Just let Rosina hear her once, and she'll never let go of her. Can I call her?" Rachel looked at me. We both nodded. Sol said, "OK. Is there a phone I can use privately?"

"Use the one in my studio," I told him. Sol went downstairs.

Magda sighed. "I don't really understand everything that's going on here," she said, "but would you like something to eat and drink while Professor Safire makes his call?" There was a murmur of agreement. "Fine," Magda said. "I'll take Esther upstairs for her nap and then put a few things together." She picked up Esther and headed upstairs.

"In the meantime," I said, "we have a well-stocked bar. I'd be happy to top up your drinks."

We sat and made small talk for a few minutes. Then Magda wheeled a serving cart into the study. She'd magically assembled an array of things that would do a professional caterer proud. We ate and drank. Only a few more minutes passed before we heard Sol's voice from the foot of the basement stairs. "Morry," he said. "Come down here. Rosina wants to talk to you." I poured myself a fresh drink and headed downstairs, not without some trepidation. Sol passed me on the stairs. "I smell food," he said. "You bastards were going to keep it all for yourselves, weren't you?"

I entered my studio, sat at my desk and picked up the phone. I took a deep breath and said, "Hello, Madame."

Madame Levinsky answered in her familiar aristocratic Central European voice, "Bonjour, Morry," she said. "Sol has been telling me some rather amazing things. Has he been drinking?"

I smiled. "Not to excess, Madame."

"Is your daughter the genius he claims her to be? I find that incredible."

"I don't know what Sol told you, Madame. But Esther is a very gifted little girl. Very gifted."

"So Sol says that I should come for a visit. What do you think?"

"Madame, Rachel and I would be proud to have you as our guest at any time. Please come whenever you'd like. I will gladly arrange a flight. Well, let me rephrase that. I'd best have my manager do it, since I'm quite hopeless with such things."

I could hear the smile in her voice. "Same old Morry," she said. "You can do anything except practical things. Well, I'd love to come. I'm suffering severe lack of stimulation in this geriatric warehouse. If nothing else, the trip will do me good. And I'd love to spend some time with you and Rachel. It's been far too long." Again the smile returned to her voice. "Just please keep that uncouth old barbarian, Safire, away from me."

"Yes, Madame. Anything you say."

"You were always a good boy, Morry."

"Thank you. Now I'll get my manager, Mr. Davenport. He can make all the arrangements with you."

I put the phone on hold and hurried up the stairs to the study. Soon, Ken was at the desk in the study deep in conversation with Mme. Levinsky.

Madame must have been very anxious to leave her "geriatric warehouse." Ken told me that she'd asked him to get her to Toronto as quickly as possible. I urged him to book her a first-class ticket. It wouldn't do to have the queen of the piano travelling steerage. He booked the ticket with dispatch. Soon Mme. Levinsky would be living in our house. Poul had departed for Copenhagen, so we had plenty of room. I thought to myself that we'd need it. Although a small woman, Madame had always been able to fill any room in which she found herself with the sheer force of her personality.

The days passed rapidly, and Rachel and I found ourselves on the way to the airport to meet Madame. Ken had booked Hassan to drive us in a stretch limousine. I suspected we'd need it for Madame's luggage. Hassan dropped us at the arrivals level and drove to the limo holding area. We went to the appropriate gate for the flight arriving from Orlando. Soon, a small woman with an elaborate white coiffure, encrusted in gems, wearing a blue Dior suit and carrying an elaborate cane, swept through the doors, followed by a beleaguered Sky Cap wheeling a large cart of luggage. Madame had arrived. I smiled. If she had this much presence at more than ninety years of age, what would she have been like at thirty?

Madame spotted us immediately. She waited for us to come to her, as indeed we did. She gave Rachel a brief though affectionate hug and held out her hand for me to kiss. I did so, with the appropriate bow. How else does one greet royalty?

After a brief cell phone call, Hassan was whisking us away in the limo.

Rachel and I made a desultory effort to explain the sights to Madame as we sped along the expressway into the city. She, in return, seemed properly appreciative although unimpressed. Finally, we arrived chez Stewart.

Magda greeted us at the door and shepherded Hassan up the stairs to Madame's room. Ken, Laura and Sol were waiting in the study. Madame swept into the room and took in the gathering with an imperious gaze. "My God," she said, "is that Ken Davenport? Ken, I must say that you've not aged as well as I'd hoped. And Laura Fabian," she said, "still trying to sell the music nobody wants, are you, dear?" Her gaze turned to Sol. "And you, you old barbarian reprobate, I'm surprised that they let you out of your cage."

"Translation," Sol said, "the old biddy is glad to see us. Ken, you look great. Laura, you're doing a great job. And as for me, I don't take any guff from this old broad, and she loves me for it." Madame made a gesture with her hands and turned her eyes toward heaven. The import was obviously that, altough she was burdened with such Philistines, she could bear it. Sol was undeterred. "So," he said, "Rosina, what's your poison? Most of us are drinking Scotch."

I cringed. Sol was probably the only living being who would dare to address Madame by her given name. Madame, unfazed by Sol's onslaught, simply turned to me and said, "Morry, est-il possible d'avoir un petit Pernod?"

"Oui, Madame," I said and poured her Pernod.

"And when," said Madame, "do I meet this paragon, this young lion of the piano?"

"Madame, it's rather late, and she's five years old," I said.

Just then, Magda came into the room carrying Esther. "I'm sorry, Morry," she said, "Esther heard Hassan moving Mme. Levinsky's bags into her room and woke up. She actually jumped up and said, 'She's here!' The child has refused to go back to sleep before meeting Mme. Levinsky." Magda put Esther on the floor. She immediately ran to Madame.

She asked, "Oh, Madame, can I play for you? Can I play the big piano?"

Madame looked at me questioningly. I said, "She prefers to play the Bösendorfer."

Madame smiled. "The child has taste," she said. Then to Esther she said, "Petite chérie, êtes-tu sûr n'êtes-tu pas trop fatigué?"

Esther jumped up and down and said, "Non, Madame. Est-ce que je peux?"

Madame again did her raised eyebrow thing. To me she said, "I didn't realize that the child spoke French."

I laughed. "Then why did you speak French to her?"

Sol answered. "It's part of her 'grand-dame' act. Hoist on her own petard, she was. By a five-year-old." He laughed, coughed and took a swig of his Scotch.

I took Esther in my arms and led the procession downstairs. Esther immediately clambered up the piano chair and took her position at the Bösendorfer. As was her custom, she looked around to assure that her audience was attentive. Then she launched, not as I'd expected into one of her more contemplative pieces, but into her Scherzo appassionato. As she played, I looked around the room. Everyone looked amazed, but Madame was the most astonished of all. She positively stared at Esther. Her eyes seemed to devour the child. I could swear that she memorized every note, every gesture.

When Esther finished her piece, there was the customary raucous applause. Then Madame stood beside Esther. "Petite, that was your own piece, wasn't it?" Esther nodded. Then Madame put her hands on the keyboard. "I'm going to show you some things that will make it easier for you to play it. For instance, when you do this," she demonstrated, "it would be ever so much easier if you'd do it like this," again she played. Esther followed her raptly. "Now try that," Madame said. Esther did so. The notes flowed even faster and more fluidly.

"Oh thank you, Madame," Esther cried, "Daddy said you were the best piano teacher in the world. And you are. Can you stay and help me some more?"

For the first time in my life, I saw tears in Madame's eyes. "Oui, oui, petite chérie, je resterai. I'll stay."



-------

Chapter 33

In all the excitement, I'd missed my appointment with Dr. Chong. I called his office, prepared to be properly chastised. I was amazed when his secretary immediately put the doctor himself on the line. "Mr. Stewart," he said, "I need to see you. We mustn't let this thing drag on. When can you come?"

I asked, "When can you see me?"

"Tomorrow," he said. I heard a murmur in the background. Obviously, his secretary was showing him his schedule for the next day. "It appears that I have an opening at 10:00 tomorrow morning. Can you be here?"

I groaned inwardly. It would mean leaving home at 8:00. Which meant that I'd probably have to pick up something to eat on the way. It wasn't that I couldn't have breakfast at home. It was simply that my old stomach could never tolerate food that early in the morning. It had been trained by too many late nights on the road. Aloud, I said, "I'll be there. Can you give me directions?" He did, and I dutifully wrote them down. I immediately put the directions in my wallet. I was much too capable of leaving them on my bedside table and only realizing that fact as I neared Hamilton. That evening, I had a few drinks after supper and went to bed early. As I prepared to ascend to my bedroom, I could hear Esther and Madame in my studio. Esther was learning a Chopin Prelude. Madame stopped her, saying, "Non, non, petite. C'est trop rapide. Too fast. Essai il aiment ceci. Laissez lui respirez. Let it breathe." All the while, Magda buzzed about like a mother hen, looking at her watch. She obviously felt that it was long past Esther's bedtime. It was certainly my bedtime, considering my trip of the morrow. I ascended the stairs, happy to have a reason to miss the inevitable confrontation between Magda and Madame.

The next morning, I groaned as I awoke. Rachel was, as usual, beside me. I had no memory of her coming to bed. I'd obviously fallen asleep rapidly, aided by several shots of excellent whisky. I pried myself out of bed, trying not to wake Rachel. There was a discreet knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood Magda with a tray. On the tray was a pot of coffee and a basket of croissants. I marveled at Magda's unerring ability to do the right thing at the right time. I wondered briefly if the woman ever slept. Perhaps she wasn't actually human but some sort of alien super nanny. I forced myself to eat one of the croissants and drink some coffee. Much refreshed, I was able to perform my morning ritual of shaving, showering and defecating. After dressing and gulping down several additional cups of coffee, I stumbled downstairs. I walked through the back garden to the garage and set off for Hamilton in the Benz.

The best route to Hamilton was the Queen Elizabeth Way, the venerable QEW. Traffic on this expressway was often a bugger, but the westbound lanes were lightly traveled on this morning. Of course, eastbound traffic heading for Toronto was stop and go. All the suburbanites were going to work. I was happy to be traveling in the opposite direction.

Upon reaching Hamilton, I followed Dr. Chong's directions and quickly found the university medical centre. Since I was quite early, I parked and sought out the cafeteria. After imbibing two cups of abominable coffee. I headed for Dr. Chong's office. Entering the door, I was greeted by the sight of a gorgeous young Asian woman seated at a desk. Her lustrous hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and she was wearing a tight fuchsia top that was obviously meant to reveal the curves of her perfect breasts to lecherous males such as me. She said, "Mr. Stewart?" I admitted to being just such a person, and the vision of beauty stood to usher me into the inner sanctum. She was wearing a very short black skirt over dark hose. I wondered briefly what it would be like to nestle one's nose between those lovely thighs. Old married men like me should not be exposed to a sight like her at that hour of the morning.

The vision of feminine pulchritude ushered me not into an examining room but into the doctor's office. She announced my presence, and the doctor stood to shake my hand. He was a tall Asian man, about my height. What surprised me about him was his apparent youth. On his head, there were only a few strands of white hair intermingled with the black. Considering his eminence in the medical profession, he must have been at least a dozen years older than he appeared. He invited me to sit down and tell him about my problem. I began by saying, "Dr. Chong, I'm a pianist..."

As he interrupted me, he smiled. "Mr. Stewart, I know who you are. I've been a fan of yours for years. I'm also a pianist of sorts. I have a Bachelor of Music in piano performance from the University of Toronto. I studied with Anton Kuerti. But a lot of my unofficial study consisted of listening to your recordings. Especially those of Rachmaninoff. Now, I understand that your problem is with your right wrist."

I was somewhat taken aback. I said, "Yes. It's the right wrist."

Dr. Chong was writing on the chart. "Have you changed your playing style recently?"

I said, "No. No, I haven't."

Dr. Chong wrote a bit more. Then he said, "Can I observe you playing?"

"Certainly," I said, "but there's no piano here."

"But there is in here," he said. He opened a door to another room. In that room there was a five-foot Yamaha baby grand. "Hardly the sort of piano to which you're accustomed," he said, "but I hope it will serve."

I sat on the bench and ran a few scales. The piano seemed in good regulation. Somewhat nonplused, I asked, "What would you like to hear?"

Dr. Chong smiled. "How about the third of the Rachmaninoff Études Tableaux?"

I turned to the keyboard and began to play. As always, my old friend played itself. I felt more an awestruck spectator than a participant. When I reached the end, Dr. Chong said, "Now, feel your wrist." I did. "Does it hurt more or less than before you played?"

I concentrated and answered, "Actually, less, I believe."

"Try something else," he said, "Something that really gives the right hand a workout." I thought for a moment and began Chopin's Etude Opus 10, No. 1, a study in arpeggios for the right hand.

Dr. Chong smiled again. "Now," he said, "how does your wrist feel?"

"Fine," I said, feeling puzzled.

"Yes. I didn't see you doing anything that would cause the symptoms you're having. I thought perhaps, since you're a Juilliard product and a former student of Rosina Levinsky, that you might use your wrist more. But I see that most of the weight on the keys comes from your shoulder and forearm."

I grinned at him. "That's a common misconception," I said. "The wristy Juilliard grads are at least a generation after me. Madame Levinsky would have put splints on my wrists if she thought I was using them too much."

"I see. But you're also a composer," Dr. Chong said. "Which composition programme do you use?"

Again, somewhat bemused, I answered, "Finale."

"Excellent," he said. "I have Finale running on that computer over there. Go to the computer and enter the music you just played." I did so, and soon found myself rubbing my wrist. "I see," said Dr. Chong. "Come with me."

He led me back to his office. "Mr. Stewart," he said, "have you ever considered alternatives to the computer mouse?"

I didn't immediately understand what he was asking. I said, "I beg your pardon?"

"For entering music," he said. "It's a task that involves considerable mouse movements. Have you considered an alternative?"

"No," I said, completely bemused, "what are the alternatives?"

Dr. Chong smiled. "There are many," he said. "There are tablets, multi-button systems, a multitude of alternatives." He grinned at me. "I'm going to write you a prescription," he said, writing as he spoke. "If you will agree to go to this store, show them this scribble, try the input devices they present to you and choose the most comfortable one, I will not put your wrist in a cast or a sling. Otherwise, you'll have both a cast and a sling. Guaranteed."

I was beginning to understand. "Dr. Chong," I said, "are you saying that my computer is the cause of my problems?"

"No. Not the computer. Your mouse." He smiled at me again and said, "Do you know Bill Buxton?"

"God yes," I said. "He's a composer and a friend of mine, though I haven't seen him for a while. He's also the guy who came up with a lot of the concepts and code for music composition programmes. But he never patented any of it because he didn't believe that anyone should own computer programmes."

"Not quite true," Dr. Chong said. "Whatever his beliefs, Bill didn't own the programmes he developed. Since he was an employee of the U of T, they were the property of the University of Toronto Computer Research Facility. Said facility never saw fit to copyright them. It was obvious that the administration saw no value in them. I know because I was there working side by side with Bill. We used Digital Equipment Corporation PDP-10 computers, since the PCs of the day had insufficient power to do real time music synthesis, let alone converting notation to sound and vice versa. Bear in mind that this was before MIDI." He laughed. "Now, of course, the average PC has many times the capacity of a large PDP-10 system of that day."

I looked at him with newfound respect. "I never knew that you worked with Bill," I said.

"Few people do," he replied. "But that's quite aside from your problem. The point I was about to make was that Bill and I had been working on many different input devices, even at that early time. I'd told him that, based on my medical studies, the mouse was a lousy model. It could create problems for people who used it daily for hours on end." He smiled. "Such as you, I should imagine."

There was a knock at the door. The vision of loveliness from the office entered. "Uncle Pete," she said, "Mr. Samuelson has arrived."

Dr. Chong smiled. "Thanks, Anne," he said. "We're just finishing up here." She left, closing the door after her.

I asked, "Uncle Pete?"

That drew laughter from Dr. Chong. "Yeah, Anne is my sister's daughter. She's going into McMaster Medical School in the fall. She wants to earn some money, so I let her replace my regular receptionist while she's on holiday." He sighed. "It's hard to believe that the little girl I used to bounce on my knee will soon be my colleague." He continued. "Now, to get back to the point at hand, that being your wrist. When you go the establishment I've recommended, you'll be shown a number of input devices. Some resemble mice, but aren't. Others simulate tablets, joysticks, all sorts of things. Try them and choose the one that seems to suit you best. If you find that you're not happy, don't hesitate to change to a different type. But take your mouse and put it in a drawer. Please."

I thanked the doctor and shook his hand. I left his office and entered the reception area. The perfect specimen of young femininity rose from her desk, blushing. "Mr. Stewart," she said, "I hesitate to ask. But could I have your autograph?" She held out a copy of my recording of the Rachmaninoff Preludes.

I smiled and took the CD from her. "Of course," I said.

She blushed an even deeper shade of red, if possible. "Could you make it to Anne? With an 'E?'" As I took her pen and prepared to sign the CD booklet, she said in a rush. "Oh wow, I'm such a great fan of yours. And this is my very favourite recording. I can't believe that I've met you."

I wrote, "To the Beauteous Anne, thank you so much for everything. Yours sincerely, Morry Stewart." I handed it to her and said, "Thanks, Anne. Your uncle tells me that you're going to be a doctor."

She blushed again. "Yeah," she said. "Going into the family business, I guess."

I took her hand, shook it and then put it to my lips. I asked, "Would you like tickets to my next concert?"

"Oh God, yes of course," she said.

"Let me know where to send them," I said with a smile. Anne wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I carefully folded it and put it in my wallet.

As I left, she said, "Thanks so much, Mr. Stewart."

"Thank you, Anne," I said. "And please call me Morry. Mr. Stewart was my dad."

She blushed again. It seemed to be easy to make this girl blush. "Thanks, Morry," she said.

As I drove back to Toronto, I reminisced about how Jimmy Jimson and I might have handled such a sweet young morsel in days gone by. Even now, I thought it would be all too easy to discover how much of her body was involved in those blushes of hers. However, I was hors de combat. Not in that business any more. Still, the idea was intriguing. Though I knew that I'd see the private areas of young Anne only in my mind's eye, that simulated view was sufficient to produce a stirring in my groin.

I arrived chez Stewart and walked into the middle of a storm. Magda, Madame and Rachel were all trying to talk at once. When they saw me, I immediately became the focal point of their activity. "Please," I said. "One at a time. In order of descending age, first Madame. What can I do for you?"

"Morry," she said, "I simply must be able to work with Esther without interference." Magda looked as though she were about to interrupt. I held up my hand. Madame continued. "And we must have something like this." She held up a drawing. As best I could determine, it seemed to be some sort of stilts connected to the pedals of a piano. "Esther simply cannot progress without being able to pedal. It's playing with one hand behind her back. It must be done."

"Very well," I said, "I think I know someone who can help us make such a device. Now, Magda, what do you have to say?"

Magda snorted. She said, "Mme. Levinsky says that she must have a free hand with Esther. I've taken care of Esther since she was born. And I don't think I've done a bad job. I know what's good for her, and I don't want her working all these long hours. She's a little girl and needs her rest and play time."

"Good point," I said. "We can strike a compromise, I'm sure. Now, Rachel, my love, what have you to say?"

Rachel smiled and kissed my cheek. "Just about exactly what you've said, darling. Now, how about your wrist?"

I smiled. "The wrist is going to be fine, and I can play the piano again. You'll never believe it, but the pain is the fault of my computer mouse. Dr. Chong wants me to buy an alternative device at this store." I showed her the "prescription."

Rachel said, "Great! Maybe I'll go with you and pick something out for myself. Now, what about this compromise you mentioned?"

I sighed. I'd just entered the house, and here I was being asked to mediate a dispute. "Well," I said, "I understand everyone's concerns. There is no doubt that Madame and Sol are in charge of Esther's musical education and should have free reign in that regard. But Magda is in charge of her health and well-being. Esther is a young child. Her routine shouldn't be greatly intruded upon. Magda's first concern will be Esther's needs, just as it always has been. If she decides that Esther needs a break, no one is to interfere with her."

Rachel laughed. "Excellent," she said. "Solomon himself couldn't have done better."

I said, "Speaking of Solomon, where are Sol and Esther?"

Rachel gave me the same look that I'd seen many times from Esther. It was usually followed by the words, "Silly Daddy!" In this case, Rachel said simply, "They're in your studio, of course. Hard at work."

"And that fact brings up another point. Since Madame is teaching Esther on my piano, and Sol is teaching Esther on my computer, I have, in effect, been evicted from my own studio. I suggest that this afternoon we buy a new computer music station and install it in Esther's room."

Rachel smiled and said, "Yes, dear."

Madame was not smiling as she said, "And don't forget the pedal extensions."

Rachel needed to "get ready" before our shopping expedition. What women do to get ready has always been a mystery to me. But it seems to me a necessary prelude to nearly any enterprise. While waiting for Rachel, I called John Gray, my favourite piano technician. I explained the situation to him. He agreed to come to the house that afternoon. He wanted to see Esther play so that he'd have a better idea of what was needed.

After I'd spoken to John, Rachel still had not appeared. I went downstairs to my studio. As I'd expected, Esther and Sol were seated in front of my computer. "Eynikl," Sol said to Esther, "were going to try something different. I'm going to write something, and you tell me what's wrong with it."

"OK, Zeyde," she said. "That sounds like fun."

Sol entered about a page of music into the computer. "Now, Eyfele, have a look at this and tell me what's wrong with it."

Esther looked at the screen and soon began to giggle. "Oh, Zeyde," she said, "it's so silly."

Sol said softly, "Show me what's silly."

Esther climbed down from her chair by the computer and clambered up on the piano chair. "For starters," she said, "the beginning is all wrong. It goes like this." She played. "But it should go like this." She played again. Then she demonstrated several more errors. Finally, she turned to Sol smiling. "The whole thing should go like this." She played her corrected version. She finished just as I entered the room. "Oh Daddy," she said with great excitement, "Zeyde and I were just playing a really fun game. He makes silly mistakes, and I have to find them."

I picked her up in my arms and kissed her forehead. "Yes, darling. I heard."

Esther turned to Sol. "How did I do, Zeyde?"

"You did really well," he said. "Perfectly." Just then Magda entered the studio. Sol smiled at her. "OK," he said. "Playtime is over. Here's Mummy Magda."

Magda took Esther from me. As she carried the child up the stair, Esther was chattering away. "Oh, Mummy Magda," she said, "I had such fun with Zeyde. You'll never guess what we did."

I smiled at Sol. "You tricky old bastard," I said. "That was a clever exercise."

"Yeah, maybe," he said, "but the little devil found stuff to improve that I didn't think of. She scares me even more than her mother. If that's possible."

"Why should you be scared of me?" Neither Sol nor I had heard Rachel enter the room. Apparently, she was ready to go shopping.

Sol smiled at Rachel. He went over to her and took her in his arms. He bent over and kissed her on the forehead. "Why would I be afraid of you? Well, let me put it this way. All my life I worked at the perfection of my craft. You came along, a child who could do things that I couldn't. Now, you produce a daughter who is about twelve or thirteen years younger than you were when you came to me. And she can also do things that amaze me. Why wouldn't I be afraid of both of you? You were born knowing how to create music that would take talented composers years to master, if they ever did." I couldn't help noticing that Sol's usual Bronx accent was gone, as were his customary Yiddishisms.

Rachel stood on tiptoe and kissed Sol on the cheek. "I love you, Sol. And rest assured, without you, I'd never have accomplished half of what I've done. You and Morry opened a new world to me. As for Esther, yes, she's phenomenally talented. But you, in your usual way, have begun to open that world to her as well. She lives in a household where music is a daily fact of life. And she sees that both her parents enjoy it. So she thinks that music is fun. It's more play to her than work. And you, you crafty old devil, are utilizing that attitude to point her subtly in the right direction. Don't underestimate your abilities or your achievements. As I said, I love you, not only for what you've done for me but also for who and what you are. And Esther loves you, too." When she finished, the old bastard was crying. Rachel and I left the house heaving a sigh of relief. At least, I was certainly heaving that sigh.

We had a successful shopping expedition. I chose an odd-looking device. It had a large trackball surrounded by many buttons. I'd chosen it after trying many different gadgets. A number of them were already hooked up to a computer running Finale, the composition programme I used. I only bought my gadget after the salesman said he'd throw in the macro adapting it to Finale and giving each button the function of the demonstration unit. It all seemed quite ideal to me. I couldn't wait to try it under "real world" circumstances.

Rachel, on the other hand, chose what seemed to my undiscerning eye a simple tablet and stylus. However, she seemed delighted and quite sure it was exactly the sort of "input device" she needed.

We'd also bought a new computer system, complete with a first-class music card and excellent monitor speakers. I planned to install the workstation in Esther's room the next morning.

When we arrived home, John Gray was waiting in the study. He had a piece of paper in his hand and a big smile on his face. I asked him what was up. He said, "Give me a vodka martini, and I'll tell you." I did, and he began his narration.

He said, "To begin, when I arrived, Magda took me downstairs where Esther was having her piano lesson. I was overwhelmed. It's quite impossible, you know, that someone that young and small can play like that. However, when Mme. Levinsky, a delightful lady, by the way, explained to me what she had in mind, I immediately understood. Here's my conception." He handed me the sheet of paper. "Note that the extensions can be adjusted for different pianos and, of course, adapted as Esther grows. They're also firmly braced. I noticed that Esther is quite an athletic player, and I'm sure that she'll pedal the same way."

I asked, "How soon could you supply this?"

John grinned again. "Within the week," he said. "I know a gent who'll delight in the challenge. And he has a terrific workshop. But, I think you also should invest in one more thing -- a chair for Esther."

I smiled. "A sort of piano highchair," I said.

John said, "Not exactly. I'd like to have something made for her along the lines of a typical piano chair but with a much greater range of adjustment. It should also be made very strong and steady."

I groaned. "How much is all this going to cost me?"

"A helluva lot," John said. "But tell me it's not worth it."

"OK. You got me. It's worth whatever it takes. I'm going to join you in a drink." While I poured myself a Scotch, I mused, "You know, most parents of a five-year-old are only worried about the expense of toys, clothes, etc. Mine has taken over my one-hundred-ninety-thousand dollar piano, has two full time music teachers, and is costing me even more money for custom-made gadgets. Why me?"

John said, "Morry, you know that ninety-nine percent of the parents on the planet would gladly trade places with you."

"Perhaps," I said. "Perhaps."

I signed a cheque for John, leaving the amount blank. I knew he'd not abuse my trust. As he left, Rachel entered the study. I showed her John's drawings. "Gosh," she said, "if I'd had things like this when I was her age, I might have become a decent pianist. Not in Esther's league, but a lot better than I am."

I felt that tingle down my spine again. I asked, "When did you begin playing the piano?"

"Not until I was eight," she said, "but I was quite small for my age."

"You still are," I said, "but that's the way I like 'em. 'Spinners, ' we used to call them."

Rachel asked, "What's a spinner?"

"Well, it's a girl who's small enough that you can just sit her on your penis and spin her like a top."

She swatted me. "You filthy old bugger," she said.

"Yes, I am. And later, I plan to show you just how filthy I can be. Prepare to spin."

Rachel said, "Seriously, Morry. I need to ask you a question about Madame."

"OK."

"Madame is Polish, right?"

"Yes."

"But she seems very comfortable in French. In fact, I've noticed that she teaches Esther in French most of the time. Not that I'm complaining. Madame's French is excellent, and the more Esther gets to practice the language the better."

"But you're wondering why a Polish woman would choose French over English or her native tongue."

"Yes," she said.

Sol's voice answered. He'd come into the study and was pouring himself a Scotch. "I'll tell you," he said. "It's a goddam affectation. Pure and simple. The old broad speaks better English than I do."

Madame's cultured tones answered. She was standing in the doorway. Behind her was Magda, carrying Esther. "Sol," she said, "most of the people in the English-speaking world have a better command of the language than you." She turned to Rachel. "I assume you'd rather hear the real story," she said. Rachel nodded her head. To me, Madame said, "Un petit Pernod, si vous plais, Morry."

"There she goes again," Sol said.

Madame scolded, "Quiet, barbarian!" Sol was quiet. "Now," she said, accepting her drink. "Let me begin at the start. I was born in Poland between the wars. My parents were members of the upper-middle class. The Jewish upper-middle class. Like most educated Poles of the day, we claimed French as our second language. As a child, I had a tutor from France. I also studied piano, something that was considered acceptable for a young girl. Rather like embroidery, perhaps. I became quite good at piano, and my parents sent me to study in Paris." Madame sipped her Pernod and looked at the ceiling for a moment. "There, I met the most dashing man I'd ever seen, Joseph Levinsky." She pronounced "Joseph" in the French manner, with the accent on the second syllable. "He was one of the great piano virtuosi of the time. Mon dieu, how he could play." She sipped and stared again, as though conjuring the images of long ago.

"To make a long story short, Joseph swept me from my feet. It would be an understatement to say that my parents were less than pleased. They let me know that they'd intended me for better than a musician, whom they saw as little better than a vaudeville clown. But I was determined, and we were married." She paused again and sighed.

"Joseph was much older than I." She turned to Rachel. "In fact, our age difference was similar to that between you and Morry."

Esther's voice said, "Is Daddy really old?"

Madame smiled, "Tranquillité, petite," she said. "Ton pére n'est pas vieux. Il est exactement le bon âge." She sipped her drink and continued.

"Joseph was so dashing. He was the toast of Europe, in demand everywhere. We traveled constantly, but we made our home in Paris. Actually, we divided our time between Berlin, Vienna and Paris. But, as the war clouds gathered, it became increasingly difficult for us to visit German speaking countries.

"You see," she said, "Joseph was of Polish ancestry but born in France. He was a French national. French was his first language. He spoke Polish, but with a quaint accent. Of course, he also spoke highly accented English, German and Italian. But the important thing to the Germans was that Joseph and I were Jewish. Well, to be more accurate, our parents were Jewish. Neither of us had practiced the religion, but that didn't matter to the Nazis. We knew that we'd be in trouble if we remained in Europe.

"The problem was that it was very difficult to obtain a permanent visa, I believe they now call them 'green cards, ' to the United States. One had to have a firm offer of a job, at the very least. Playing the piano would get you into the country but wouldn't allow you to stay there. Fortunately, someone came to our aid. Efrem Zimbalist, the great violinist and father of the actor, Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., had been appointed head of the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia. He'd played with Joseph many times. He was also Jewish and understood our plight. He offered Joseph a position at Curtis. It was a godsend. We arrived in Philadelphia three days before the Nazis invaded Poland and the war was on. Well, the U. S. A. didn't declare war until about two years later, but all of Europe was at war. A few more days, and we'd never have gotten out of Paris."

Madame smiled at Rachel. "I realize, petite, that does not directly answer your question. Joseph and I had a wonderful life in Philadelphia. He continued to teach and to play. He concertized extensively after the war. I also taught, primarily teaching what Joseph had taught me, with a few additions of my own. We had a good life, but we never felt at home there. We always spoke French at home. When Joseph died in 1957 at the age of 80, I accepted a position at Juilliard. There, I had wonderful students, such as Morry, and not so wonderful colleagues, such as that old reprobate." She pointed at Sol with her glass. "But I don't regret a moment of my life. And it's being fulfilled now with our wonderful Esther." She rose and patted Esther's head. "Il est temps pour ton petit somme, cherie. Puits de sommeil, petite."

Esther replied sleepily, "Merci, Madame. Je t'aime."

Magda left, taking Esther for her nap. Madame turned to Sol. "Now, you old reprobate," she said, "you said that my French was an affectation. It's no such thing. But how about all your Yiddishims? Do they not constitute an affectation?"

Sol grinned. "Absolutely! I never claimed otherwise. Hell, I might be able to hold my own in Yiddish with an American Jew, but not with a native Yiddish speaker. I just love the sound and feel of the language. It's my heritage and I love it. And with the permission of our hosts, I'll now pour myself another drink."



-------

Chapter 34

I thought about those terrible days immediately after Kelly's death. I recalled how bereft, forlorn and hopeless I'd been. I'd often thought, then and in the following years, if only Kelly could have lived to see all that had happened since. And then I'd catch myself and realize that if she'd lived none of this would have taken place.

The contrast with my former life and my current life couldn't have been more marked. I had everything I'd ever wanted, including many things I'd never consciously desired. A daughter, for instance. A girl in whom I took great pride. Not only was she a genius, like her wonderful mother, Esther was a sweet, genuine and lovely person. Again, like her mother.

It was in this vein that I spoke to Rachel one night after we'd made love. "Darling," I said, "thank you so much for saving me. I could easily have been a hopeless old drunk or even dead by now but for you."

"Morry, you're a silly old fart," Rachel murmured against my chest. "I'm the one who should thank you. When we first met, I was an insufferable brat. You showed me what I could become. You've given me my life." She lifted her head and grinned at me. "As far as being a hopeless old drunk ... well, at least you're not hopeless."

I swatted her pretty bum. "Brat! You'll atone for that remark. I shall ravish you yet again."

Rachel smiled. "Promises, promises," she said.

Esther's development proceeded apace. Every day I was amazed by the sounds I heard coming from her piano and composition lessons. One evening after supper, Sol looked into his Scotch glass and said, "Morry, I don't know where that little devil came from. When I was teaching her mother, it was hard enough to stay a step ahead. With Esther, it's almost impossible."

Madame said, "Bien sûr. She is formidable, cette petite. Every day she questions everything. 'Pourqoui' is the word she seems to use most. Why is this? Why is that? Why must we do it that way? But when I explain, she immediately comprehends. She could not be taught by someone who was not secure in their craft. She would tear them apart."

Sol rose. He walked over to Madame, bent and kissed her on the cheek. She feigned disgust. "You old dragon," Sol said, "I couldn't agree with you more. This girl of ours is a handful. She's a tremendous responsibility. But God knows she's worth it." He returned to his seat and held out his glass for a refill. I obliged. Sol looked around the room to see if he had our attention. When he was assured that he did, he continued.

"In that light, I've been thinking about the time frame for springing her on the world. I doubt that she'll be ready to handle the stress in less than two years. And God knows the world isn't ready for her. Let's take it slowly and carefully for a while."

Rachel said, "I agree. Except I'd like to wait longer, if possible. I was in my teens when I had my first public exposure, and I found it overwhelming. If I hadn't had Morry and Sol beside me, I couldn't have coped. Esther is a little child. If it were possible, I'd rather wait until she's in her teens."

Magda said, "I agree with Rachel. Can't we wait until she'd older?"

Madame sighed. "Malheureusement," she said, "we may wish to wait, but the world may not be willing to wait."

There was silence for a few moments. Then I said, "Madame is right. I know that the word is getting around. I'm sure that no one is deliberately gossiping about Esther. But even a few words in curious ears may be enough. Esther's genius is the sort of story that every reporter, print, blog or broadcast, would love to break. Sooner or later, if we don't go to them, they'll come to us. I suggest that we continue with Esther's training. When it's unavoidable and only then, we'll arrange for Esther to have limited public appearances."

Everyone agreed, and we made out way to bed.

A few days after that conversation, I was passing the stairs to the basement. I heard the opening measures of the second movement of Rachmaninoff's First Piano Concerto. The one in F-sharp minor. I recalled Madame explaining to me the difference between F-sharp and G-flat. "The keys on the piano are the same," she said, "but the expectations of the composer are different, and the performer must reflect that. It is a different world." Of course, she was right.

I quietly made my way down the stairs. The door to the studio was open, and I peeked in. Madame was playing the orchestra reduction while my daughter was playing the solo piano part. Suddenly, Esther stopped playing. She hung her head and said, "I just can't get that part. I've tried and tried, but it's not right. Can we do something else?"

"Non, petite," Madame said. "We will try again. But what is it that you don't like?"

"This part," Esther said, pointing at the music. "I've tried it a couple of different ways, but it doesn't sound right."

"I understand, petite," Madame said. "You have in your head an ideal way that this music should sound, yes?"

Esther nodded. "Yes," she said, "but I just can't make it come out that way. Like I said, can we do something else?"

Madame patted Ether's head. She said, "A wise old man named Voltaire once said, 'Le mieux est l'ennemi du bien.'"

Esther looked puzzled. "The best is the enemy of the good," she quoted. "What did he mean?"

Madame chuckled. She said, "He meant that we often feel if we can't do things perfectly, we think that we should not even try to do them at all. Do you understand?"

Esther nodded. "Yes," she said, "but why should we just do something OK? Shouldn't we always try to be the best?"

"Certainement, petite. And you will do this thing that bothers you. You have been trying too hard. Let us try it once more. This time, we will just relax and have fun."

Esther smiled doubtfully. "OK," she said.

They began again from the beginning. The difference was striking. It was as though Esther were not reading Rachmaninoff's music. The music coming from her hands sounded spontaneous. It was as though she were improvising it. It was her own. As I listened, there were tears in my eyes. There was no doubt that Esther understood this least understandable of all Rachmaninoff's major works. And she seemed to understand it instinctively. Madame had always maintained that Rachmaninoff was the touchstone for pianists. If they didn't understand his music, they'd never understand their instrument. That always seemed a mite too simplistic for me. Now I was starting to wonder.

Esther was, like her mother, a musical genius. But she was still a child who needed the discipline of regular hours, habits and mealtimes. There were also many subjects that she would study only reluctantly. French was not a problem, since she spoke it daily with Madame. And she understood the utility of Italian in her music. Conversational Italian was a different matter. Oddly enough, it was Sol who stressed the necessity of Esther's learning Italian and also German.

"She's gonna be a celebrity long before she can vote," he said, "an international celebrity. And let's face it, the big money in our business is in Europe. Sure North American orchestras pay their soloists big bucks, but the schmoks in the audience only know what they read in the newspapers. Most of 'em are posers. They wouldn't know real music if it bit 'em in the ass. And the so-called journalists are mostly toches-lekers -- ass-kissers -- who enjoy basking in the limelight of celebrities. In Europe, it's a whole different ball game. The bastards there are sharks. They're not easily impressed. Not the audiences, critics or anybody. And they expect big-time artists to be literate in the major languages. If Esther doesn't learn Italian and German, the bastards will eat her alive and laugh behind her back while they're doing it."

From my experiences abroad, I knew that Sol was overstating quite a bit. I had a reasonable command of conversational French. But he did have a point. I hadn't been "eaten alive" by the foreign press, but I'd often felt embarrassed by my rudimentary command of languages other than English and French. So we hired special Italian and German tutors for Esther. Yet more money poured into her education. Not that I resented it. Not even when more tutors were hired for math and science, subjects to which Esther's genius did not extend. Some people maintain that music is mathematics and vice-versa. Nothing could be further from the truth. Of course time values are divided into simple fractions. The more adventurous composers may even use compound fractions. But that's as far as it goes. There have been many attempts to reduce music to mathematical formulae: the twelve-tone system, the laws of probability and countless other ideas. In spite of them, music remains, as a great man once said, "organized inspiration." Esther was a musical genius, but her grasp of mathematics was little more than any other intelligent child her age.

As time went on, I became convinced of the wisdom of hiring the extra tutors. Esther's education progressed rapidly. I often overheard her conversing in Italian and German with her tutors. Her command of the languages was increasing daily. I wished that I had more than a smattering of those languages. It would have helped to have them spoken at the dinner table. However, the only one with a working knowledge of Italian and German was Madame, and, as she often reminded me, her job was to teach piano, not languages.

Esther passed one birthday. Then two. Another loomed. I had reclaimed my studio, at least partially. Esther's composition lessons were in her room. She had her own computer system there. Much of her practice time was allotted to either the Steinway in the study or the one in Rachel's studio. This left me enough time to practice and compose in private. A week before Esther's seventh birthday, that privacy was invaded. Magda came rushing into my studio. She was obviously agitated. "Morry," she said, "Ken is on the phone. You'd better talk to him."

I picked up the phone. Ken as soon as he heard my greeting, Ken began to speak breathlessly. "Morry," he said, "it's happened. And we've got to do something to get control of the situation."

"Calm down, Ken," I said, "what's happened, and what situation do we have to control?"

"Esther's cover has been blown. Martin Knelman with the Toronto Star called me. He said that he wanted to do an article on Esther, and he'd like an interview with you and Rachel. I put him off, not thinking too much about it. But then I got a call from one of the writers at Macleans Magazine called asking if it was true that I represented a child musical genius. She said they were planning a cover story on precocious children and wanted to do a feature on Esther."

"So, that doesn't sound to me like a reason to..."

"But Morry, it's been going on and on for days. More and more people writing and calling. Today, I got a call from Maurice Duplessis at Analekta Records. He says he'll give Esther an excessive recording contract. Sight unseen. And Knelman called again. His article is going to run next week in the Star, whether we like it or not. He says that our reluctance to 'come forward, ' as he puts it, makes it even more intriguing."

"OK, I still think that you're blowing this out of proportion. But what would you suggest that we do?"

"I talked to Laura Sabian, and she says that she has an in with one of the producers on the Tonight show. She thinks we can probably get a spot soon."

I sighed. Suddenly, I felt very tired indeed. "Ken, Rachel will go into orbit when she hears about this."

"And just what is it that will launch me into orbit?"

I turned. Rachel was standing by the door. I put my hand over the phone mouthpiece. "Darling," I said, "it's Ken. Please go into your studio and pick up the phone."

Over the next twenty minutes, the three of us were able to agree on only one thing: we needed a family council. And we needed it right away.

That evening, we gathered in the studio: Rachel, Magda, Sol, Madame, Ken, Laura, who'd caught a flight from New York, and me. We sipped our drinks, reluctant to start the conference. Finally, Sol sighed and said, "All right, goddam it. Let's not pussyfoot around the issue. We knew a couple of years ago that this shit was gonna come down. Is it time to launch Esther on an unsuspecting world or not?"

Ken said, "Laura and I are in agreement on this. We should arrange her debut in a way that we can control. And soon. Otherwise, it may be out of our hands."

Rachel responded vehemently. "No," she said, "absolutely not. I refuse to have my child made into a side show. Treated like a freak. I won't have it."

"But Rachel," Ken said, "you know that we have Esther's best interests at heart. We just want control over her media exposure."

"I don't want any goddam media exposure," Rachel said. "That's the point. I want her to have a chance to be a normal little girl with a normal childhood."

"Darling," I said, "you're saying exactly the things that I said when I first realized how gifted Esther is. The problem is that she's not like all the other little girls playing in the park. She's a musical genius. That gift carries responsibilities and burdens as well as benefits. If only it were otherwise, we wouldn't be having this discussion. Believe me..."

"Shut the fuck up!" Everyone turned to stare at Sol. He grinned at us. "Now that I have your attention, I'd like to point out that Rosina has been trying to get a word in for quite a while. Rosina, you got the floor."

"Merci, Sol," Madame said. "When first we spoke of this situation, Magda had the most penetrating insight and the most eloquent way of stating it. I'd like to ask her opinion. Magda?"

Magda stared at the floor for a moment. Then she looked around the room, making eye contact with each of us. "As you'll remember," she said, "I've been against putting Esther on the stage. I've always thought of her as my own child." She paused and sighed. "Well, she isn't." She looked at Rachel. "She's yours. Yours and Morry's. But even more than that, she's her own person. Esther has become more and more her own person over the past couple of years. In just the last few months, I've noticed a big difference in her maturity. Sol, you once said that I might not understand the need of an artist to communicate with the world. Maybe I don't. But I do know that Esther needs to have her music heard. And she's the one person we haven't asked about this. After all, it's her life we're talking about. Let's ask Esther."

"Ask me what?" Esther stood in the doorway by the stairs. She was dressed in her Winnie-the-Poo pyjamas, holding Cooper in one arm and grasping Edward's foot in the other hand. "What do you want to ask me, Mummy Magda?"

-------

Jay Leno's first two guests were ushered from the stage during the commercial break. The band played to entertain the studio audience while the home audience watched commercials. The band stopped, and Leno turned to his audience. "Folks," he said, "tonight we have the great honour of presenting for the first time in public a young lady whom I believe may be one of the greatest musical geniuses of all time. But you'll be able to judge for yourselves. We'll meet Esther Stewart in a moment. But first I'd like to welcome her teachers, both professors emeritus of the Juilliard School in New York: Dr. Rosina Levinsky, one of the greatest piano teachers of all time, and Dr. Solomon Safire, the distinguished composer and teacher of many of our finest composers. Please welcome Rosina Levinsky and Solomon Safire."

Madame Levinsky and Sol Safire walked on stage together. They greeted Leno and took their place on the chesterfield. Leno turned first to Madame. He said, "First of all, Mme. Levinsky, I'd like to ask you..."

Madame interrupted him. "No, Mr. Leno," she said, a twinkle in her eye, "first of all, I'd like to correct you. You introduced me as 'one of the greatest piano teachers.' On the contrary, I am the greatest piano teacher, not one of."

The audience roared with laughter. Leno played along with her. "I stand corrected," he said, "the greatest piano teacher. But back to my question, Mme. Levinsky. Of all the students you've taught, how would you rank Esther Stewart?"

"Well," Madame said, "it is not my practice to rank my students. Any student who is granted the privilege to study with me must be exceptional. They are all great artists with different strengths. That being said, Esther is on a different level all together. At the age of seven, she is already one of the finest pianists of our time."

Leno looked puzzled. He asked, "How can that be? The piano is a huge instrument for such a small child."

Madame smiled. "Mr. Leno, the piano is a huge instrument for the largest person. But it is not as big as Esther's talent."

Leno turned to Sol. "Dr. Safire," he said, "you've taught many of the finest composers today, including both of Esther's parents, F. Morris Stewart and Rachel Kline Stewart. How would you rank Esther as a composer?"

Sol snorted. "Again, like Rosina just said, rating students isn't my business. And rating composers is a chump's game. But I gotta say that probably the greatest composer of all time is Mozart. Esther's mother, Rachel, is right up there close to him. Esther may be even better."

Leno leaned back. "OK," he said, "what makes her so good?"

Both Madame and Sol began to talk at the same time. Sol gallantly deferred to Madame. "Talent," she said. "Simply talent. Before she came to me it was raw and unrefined. Now she's a polished artist. But all the talent is hers."

Sol grinned. "I couldn't have said it better myself," he said.

Leno stood. He said, "Madame Levinsky, would you come with me and show our audience the custom additions to the piano?" Madame followed Leno to the piano. "To begin with, this chair doesn't look exactly standard."

"It isn't," Madame said, "this chair was custom made for Esther. It allows a much wider range of adjustment than a standard piano chair, and it allows for the fact that, although she is small, she moves more than the average pianist, putting more stress on it. This chair is not only very adjustable, it is very rigid."

Leno asked, "And what are these?"

Madame said, "Those are the pedal extensions. You see, when Esther is seated, she can reach the keyboard, but she cannot reach the pedals. Her legs are too short. These are, again, custom made. They are adjustable. Pianos can be of different heights. These extensions are also very sturdy. Esther pedals very forcefully. These stay where they're put. An artist must have her pedals in the same place every time."

"So," Leno said, "with these additions, a small girl can play a full-size nine-foot grand piano."

Madame snorted. "With these, Esther plays a Bösendorfer Imperial, which is quite a bit larger."

Leno led Madame back to the conversation set. He engaged Sol.

"Dr. Safire, you told us that you taught both Esther's parents, Morry and Rachel. They're both very successful composers. You must be proud of them."

Sol grinned. "You have no idea. They're like my children."

Leno asked, "When did you become aware of Esther's talent?"

Sol said, "Well, I knew she was talented almost from her birth. But aware of the scope of her talent? When she was four. That's when she began reading. Reading language and music. By the way, she's fluent in English and French and reads both quite well. She's getting better at Italian and German, because she knows she needs them for her music. As far as music goes, it seems to be her natural language. She's a native music speaker. It's kind of like if you're not a native English speaker, you don't think in English. As someone put it, you know you've conquered the language when you can dream in English. I believe Esther was born dreaming in music. It's her native tongue."

Leno said, "It sounds as though she's an extraordinary young woman."

Sol grinned. "You don't know the half of it."

And I understand that she calls you her zeyde, which, if I read it right, is Yiddish for grandfather."

"You got that right."

"Why does she call you that?"

Sol snorted. "Because I am her musical grandfather. I took both her parents under my wing when they were snot-nosed brats. I'd like to think that it's in gratitude that they gave me this wonderful child who can do everything that ordinary mortals cannot."

Jay Leno once again turned to his audience. He took a deep breath. "So," he said, "without further ado, let's meet Rachel Kline Stewart, F. Morris Stewart and their daughter, Esther Naomi Kline Stewart.

Rachel, Esther and I walked on stage. Esther was between Rachel and I, each of us holding one of her hands. Rachel and I sat in the two large chairs. Esther was on my knee. Leno smiled at us. "Welcome, Rachel and Morry," he said. "And a special welcome to you, Esther."

I looked at Esther. "What do you say, darling?"

Esther said, "Thank you, Mr. Leno." She held out her little hand, and he gravely shook it.

Leno, being of Italian descent, just couldn't resist checking out her Italian. He asked, "Come siete, cara?" In Italian. In other words, "How are you, dear?"

Esther replied very softly, "Benissimo, grazie." Leno looked stunned. Esther asked, "Perchè mi avete chiesto quello?" (Why did you ask me that?)

Leno hesitated, then replied, "é la cortesia comune." (It's common courtesy.)

Esther grinned. "OK," she said, "Perchè parlate italiano?" (Why do you speak Italian?)

"Il mio padre era italiano." (My father was Italian.)

"OK. Can I play now. Mr. Leno?"

Leno looked at the audience with his patented, "What do I do now?" Look. He turned to me and raised his eyebrows.

I said, "It's probably best if we get to it soon."

Esther looked at Sol, Madame and Rachel. "Zeyde, Madame, Mummy, should I play now?"

Leno asked her softly, "What are you going to play first?"

Esther squirmed a bit on my knee. "I'd like to play some Rachmaninoff with Daddy."

I smiled at her. "The Suite No. 2, right, Precious?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"So tell Mr. Leno and all the people which movement we're going to play."

Esther looked suddenly shy. She said softly, "We're going to play the Waltz."

"Are you sure, Precious? That's really a tough piece to start with."

Esther grinned mischievously. "Are you a scaredy cat, Daddy?"

I sighed, "Yes, dear. I am. But if you're game, so am I."

Esther jumped off my knee. "OK," she said, "let's play."

Leno, ever the pro, rolled with the punches. "So for the first time ever anywhere, here's the Stewart Piano Duo, Esther Kline Stewart and F. Morris Stewart, playing the Waltz from the Suite No. 2 for Two Pianos by Rachmaninoff."

Esther clambered onto her special chair and tested her pedal extensions. When everything seemed to be working to her satisfaction, she looked at me, raised her little hands and launched into the Waltz.

I was immediately kept on my toes trying to follow her. This movement was marked presto, which was difficult enough, but Esther, doubtless because of her excitement, launched into it prestissimo. Nearly twice as fast. I kept pace, not without difficulty, as the child executed the first piano part flawlessly. When we arrived at the second theme, she changed tempo, stretching the grand melody for all it was worth. Suddenly, we were back to the presto theme. Just as suddenly, we reached the main statement of the melody. As Esther played the wonderful melody, she looked heavenward. Tears came to my eyes. We built to the climax and began back down the slope. The presto theme came back, interrupted several times by melodic episodes. Esther really had the bit between her teeth now. In the final statement of the melody, she took off with soaring and sparkling motives. The movement ended with the flirty little gesture in the first piano.

There was silence and then a roar of applause. As she'd been taught, Esther came to the side of her piano, waited for me, then held my hand as we bowed to the audience. Leno came beside us. "The Stewart Piano Duo playing Rachmaninoff, ladies and gentlemen. We'll be right back with more -- a piece written by Esther Stewart."

The audience continued to applaud during the commercial break. Leno shepherded us back to the main set. When the red light on the camera lit, we were seated as previously. "Welcome back," Leno said, "we have the amazing Stewart family with us tonight. Daughter Esther, mother Rachel, father Morry, and, I guess that I can consider Dr. Safire and Madame Levinsky family members as well."

"Well," sniffed Madame, "I certainly hope so. Both Esther and her father are my pianistic creations."

"And I," said Sol, with his customary twinkle, "taught Esther, Rachel and Morry everything they know."

Leno asked, "Really?"

Both Sol and Madame burst into laughter. "Hell no," Sol said between gasps, "nobody could imagine a family like this, much less create them."

Leno said, "Professor Safire, may I call you Sol?"

Sol replied, "Hell yes. It's my name."

"Sol, can you describe Esther's own music to us?"

"Hell no," Sol replied. "You can't describe art like hers in verbal terms. If you could, it would be prose or poetry. It's not. It's music. And damned fine music. Don't be fooled by the size of this meidl. She has a giant talent. And sometimes I think she has an ego to match, just like her dad."

Leno asked, "Have you taught any child prodigies before this?"

"Well," Sol replied, "there was Rachel here. She never finished high school. She came to me at Juilliard at the age of, what? Fifteen, sixteen, something like that. And she was better than my graduate students twice her age. I'd kind of call that a prodigy, wouldn't you?"

Leno persisted, "So how do you teach a child prodigy?"

Sol sniffed, "Same as you do anybody else. Treat them like an equal."

"I agree," said Madame, "exactly. If you treat Esther like a child, she'll act like a child. Treat her like an adult, and you get amazing results."

Esther said, "I don't like people talking about me like I wasn't here. You can talk about me later. Can I play now?"

The audience erupted in laughter. Leno played with their reaction for a moment. Then he said, "All right, Esther. What are you going to play for us?"

She said, "I'm going to play Edward and Cooper."

"They're her teddy bears," Rachel said.

"But," Esther said, "I'm going to play the shorter version, since Mummy said you don't have much time." Rachel blushed. The audience laughed again.

Esther hopped down from my knee and went to the piano. As before, she checked the pedal extensions and chair adjustments. Then she launched into her piece.

Since the first time I'd heard this piece it had not only grown in size but also in complexity. The harmony was more adventurous, and the technical demands on the player were considerable. As usual, this little dynamo carried it off with aplomb.

As she played, I looked at the large monitor over the stage. I was astonished to see Edward and Cooper, the two somewhat battered bears, seated on a loveseat in front of the piano. The TV crew had obviously brought them in while we were talking to Jay Leno.

Esther had added a bit of a bravura ending to the piece, the little show-off. She ended with her head back and her eyes closed. Once again, the audience roared.

Leno went through his "we'll be right back" routine. Esther reclaimed her bears and my lap. She seated Edward and Cooper on either side of her. I expected that we'd be led out by one of the associate producers. Instead, Leno came over to me. He said, "I've canceled the last guest. Could you and Esther do the encore you talked about with my producer?"

I looked at Esther. I asked, "What do you think, sweety?"

"Sure," she said, "Can we play the Tarantella, Daddy?"

"Aren't you too tired for that, Precious?"

"You're being silly again, Daddy. It's a fun piece. Lots of fun. Can we play it? Please?"

Leno motioned us for silence and took his seat behind the desk. He looked at the camera. "We're back with the Stewart family," he said. "We couldn't let them go without hearing one more two-piano piece played by Esther and Morry. Esther, what are we going to hear?"

"We're going to play the Tarantella from Rachmaninoff's Suite No. 2. Daddy thinks I'm too tired to play it, but I'm not." She started toward the piano, then came back. "A tarantella is supposed to be a dance that you have to do if you're bitten by a tarantula. That's a big poisonous spider. If you dance it right, you can cure yourself." She headed for her piano, amidst chuckles from the audience.

We seated ourselves, and Esther launched into the Tarantella. Once again her tempo was closer to prestissimo than presto. I followed along in her wake. Amazingly, I was able to follow her rubato, the little variations of tempo so important to romantic music. There's the famous story of Chopin saying to one of his colleagues, "Here's my rubato." He breathed gently toward a candle, barely disturbing the flame. Then, he said, "And here's yours." He blew the candle out. Esther never blew the candle out. As she became more impassioned, the candle occasionally flickered, but it always returned to its full brightness. As we neared the end of the piece, she yelled at me, "More! More!"

We finished the Tarantella to even more applause than before. Leno came over to Esther. He picked her up in his arms. He said, "Sweetheart, at the end, you said something at your dad. What did you say?"

Esther sniffed. "I asked for more bass. The piano he's playing doesn't have as much bass as the one he plays at home. There should be more bass in the second piano part right at the end."

Leno asked the audience, "Isn't she amazing?" They all applauded. "Tomorrow night," he continued, "we'll have a star-studded lineup. But I have to confess that I can't remember who the hell they are." He turned to Esther again. "Esther, can you come back again tomorrow?"

"No," she said, "we have to go back home. Mummy has a symphony to write. And I have this sonata I'm working on. But maybe we could come another time. Would you like that?"

"I definitely would like that, sweetheart. And bring your mom and dad, your zeyde and Madame Levinsky, if you'd like."

"Can I bring Uncle Bobby?"

"Sure. Bring the whole family. Just come back and play for us. Please."

"Thank you, Mr. Leno.'

"Isn't she adorable? Esther Kline Stewart, ladies and gentlemen. And her dad Morry. As well as her mother, Rachel, and her adoptive grandparents, two of the great music teachers of our time, Sol Safire and Rosina Levinsky. Esther, you're amazing. But don't tell anybody I said so."

"OK," she replied seriously, accompanied by gales of laughter from the audience.

Rachel gathered the sleepy Esther in her arms, and we left the studio. As we were packing up in our dressing room, Jay Leno stuck his head in. He asked, "May I come in?"

I smiled, "Of course. It's your studio. I'm just getting my family ready to go."

Leno grinned at us. "I was completely serious about inviting you back. Any time. As well as being a genius, Esther is such a sweet kid. An unbeatable combination."

At this moment, Ken Davenport stuck his head in the studio. He was accompanied by Laura Fabian. I grinned at them. "Great timing," I said. "Mr. Leno, let me introduce Esther's agent, Ken Davenport, and her publisher, Laura Fabian."

"Jesus," said Leno, "seven years old and she has an agent and a publisher. Nice to see you again, Laura. Nice to meet you, Mr. Davenport." He turned to me again. "OK, these are your people. Well, my people will call your people. How's that?" He winked at me. I winked back. I couldn't help but like the guy. He was just as charming as his image. But right now, I had a very tired little girl who needed to get back to the hotel. At that moment, as though by magic, Magda materialized and took Esther from Rachel's arms.

Ken said, "Let's go. We have two limos waiting outside. They'll take us back to the hotel. After Esther has a hot chocolate and the rest of us have something else, I suggest a good night's sleep. Unless, that is, you'd rather watch the show."

I slapped my head. "Of course! It's not live. We just taped it. What time is it?"

Ken grinned at me. "Morry, I assumed that you knew how to read that thing on your wrist. It's called a watch." I looked at my watch. It was just after 8:00 PM.

Esther was suddenly awake again. "Can I watch it, Daddy?"

Magda said, "Uncle Bobby and Papa and Nana are all taping it back in Toronto. You can watch it as many times as you'd like when we get home."

Esther said in a somewhat pouty voice, "But I want to see it tonight."

Rachel came over to Magda and Esther. "Sweetheart, if you'll be good and have a nap before then, we'll promise to wake you up in time to see yourself on TV."

Esther looked at her with a very serious expression. "I'll be good, Mummy," she said, "cross my heart." She made the appropriate gesture.

Esther was as good as her word. Magda took her to the bedroom she was sharing with Esther. She came back into the living room soon to tell us that Esther had fallen asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. In spite of her excitement, the child must have been exhausted.

Rachel and I retired to our bedroom. I thought that a nap might do us good. Fortunately, Rachel had other ideas. No sooner had I closed the door than she was all over me.

At the appointed time, we gathered in the living room of the suite. Esther climbed on my knee. Ken switched on the TV. The Tonight Show was just beginning. Leno got through his first two guests, one of whom was plugging his movie and the other was a bimbo pop tart. Then, he introduced Madame and Sol. We sat in rapt attention. When the Rachmaninoff began, Esther moved in time with the music. After the show ended, I asked her what she thought of it. "I could have played better," she said. "I mean, it was OK, but it could have been better."

Madame smiled at her. She said, "You'll always think that you could have done better, petite. That's what makes you an artist."

After a nightcap, we retired for the evening.

The next morning, Rachel and I arose sleepily shortly before we'd scheduled room service to bring our breakfast. Magda was to bring Esther to our room. The four of us would have breakfast together, preserving, as much as possible, the rhythms of our normal lives. As it happened, the waiter arrived with the breakfast cart just before Magda and Esther came. On our cart was the New York Times. I leafed through it while the waiter set the table for us. One article caught my eye. The headline read, Wunderkind introduced on, of all places, the Leno Show. Under the headline was a picture of Leno holding Rachel in his arms. I said under my breath, "Oh my God."

Rachel said, "What is it, darling?"

"It's a review of our appearance last night. Already. In the Times, no less."

"Read it to us, Morry," Sol said.

I took a deep breath and began to read. "In the 19th century, Schumann wrote on hearing the young Chopin, 'Hats off, gentlemen, a genius.' Today, fewer people wear hats. If they did, those hats would have been in the air last night. Esther Kline Stewart, the latest pupil of the great piano and composition pedagogues Mme. Rosina Levinsky and Dr. Solomon Safire, both professors emeritus of the Juilliard School, literally set the musical world on fire. Esther is the daughter of F. Morris Stewart and Rachel Kline Stewart, both celebrated composers. On Jay Leno's Tonight Show, the seven-year-old Esther Kline Stewart performed, with her father, F. Morris Stewart, himself considered one of the leading pianists of our time, piano repertoire that would challenge mature virtuosi. Esther and her father performed as a duo, playing the Waltz from Rachmaninoff's Suite No. 2 for two pianos, Opus 17. The duo took a breathtaking tempo that kept the audience on edge, much like watching a trapeze artist without a net. They performed flawlessly. Then Esther proved to us that she is also a composer to reckoned with. Her own composition, Edward and Cooper, dedicated to her teddy bears, is a minor masterpiece. She and her father ended their appearance with the Tarantella, also from Rachmaninoff's Suite No. 2. If their tempo in the Waltz had seemed foolhardy, the speed with which they played the Tarantella seemed impossible. The scene was incredible. A tiny seven-year-old seated at a concert grand piano, her feet on custom-made pedal extensions because her legs are much too short to reach the pedals comfortably, imploring her father near the end of the piece for more bass. Alas, as she told our reporter on her way to her dressing room, the Tonight Show's Steinway had no more bass to give, unlike the Bösendorfer she's used to at home. As she said to our reporter, 'Bass is really important in Russian music. Especially Rachmaninoff. Just listen to his Vespers. You have to have bass for his stuff.'"

I finished reading the review aloud. There was silence in the room. As was his wont, Sol broke the silence. "So," he said, "the goddam cat is well and truly out of the bag. That review will have been read by people all over the world. What the hell do we do now?"

Ken and Laura looked at each other. Laura nodded at him. "Well," he said, "the Analecta recording of the Rachmaninoff Suite and Esther's own pieces will be arriving in stores this week. It's also posted on a number of websites, including iTunes. I expect that my office will be flooded with calls and emails today, all of them offering concerts. As we discussed, we'll carefully pick a few venues and work from there. Once all of that is in place, we should take the return date that Leno has already offered us. There will, of course, be offers from other TV shows. But I believe that we do Leno again before considering anything else. There's such as thing in this business as loyalty. He likes us, and we want him to continue to like us."

Rachel was crying softly. Esther climbed into her lap. She said, "What's wrong, Mummy? It sounds like the man in the newspaper really likes us."

Rachel hugged her. "Yes, sweetheart, he does. I guess I'm crying because I'm selfish. I want to keep you all to myself. Now I have to share you with the whole world. I knew it was going to happen, but it hurts all the same."

Rachel said softly, "Our lives changed last night. We just weren't aware of it until today. I suspect that we don't understand just how much they've changed and in what ways." 


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The End
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Posted:  2004-12-20
Last Modified: 2010-11-20 / 08:39:12 am
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