Read Online Body & Soul by Frank Conroy - Free Book Online

The very idea that Weisfeld might find out made him feel slippery inside, as if a stone had rolled over in his chest.
    The doorman touched his cap as they went inside. The gleam of marble, dark wood, the smell of wax. The elevator car was mirrored and had a small padded bench. They entered and the attendant came after them, closing the doors and the safety gate. Claude watched the numbers through the small window as they ascended to the tenth floor. He felt relieved—he had never gone up that high for Al.
    At the door to the apartment Weisfeld removed his beret and rang the bell. "You will wait for me at the piano. I won't be long."
    After a moment the heavy, ornately carved door swung open. A thin elderly man with a pronounced stoop stared out at them from over his glasses. His Adam's apple was so large it looked like a bone stuck in his throat. Weisfeld urged Claude forward with a hand on his back.

    "Franz," he said.
    "Herr Weisfeld. So this is the wunderkind?"
    "Just so. Shake hands with Franz, Claude. He will be looking after you."
    Claude obeyed.
    "How is the maestro?"
    "Good. He worked all morning, so a little tired, but good."
    "Wait in there, Claude." Weisfeld indicated the living room, behind a set of half-open sliding doors. "We won't be a minute."
    Claude slipped into a large room. A thick oriental rug, heavy drapes, an entire wall of books, couches, a wing chair by the fireplace, footstools, hundreds of framed pictures and photographs everywhere on the walls and tables, and there, at the far end of the room, standing free in a large open space, an enormous black piano. As Claude approached silently he could see his reflection in its side. He sat at the bench, opened the lid, and stared at the keys. He didn't move until Franz entered and walked, stooping and with a slight limp, across the room to open a side door.
    "A small bathroom here," he said, closed the door, and approached the boy. "Should you ever need to call me or Helga from the back, just pull this." He tugged a ribbon of heavy cloth hanging over the drapes. "Gently. Don't jerk it."
    "Who is Helga?"
    "Helga is my wife. She is the cook." He glanced back at the other end of the room. "The big doors will be kept shut while you practice."
    As he said this, Mr. Weisfeld came in. He was rubbing his hands together as he walked. "Now, Claude. Do you have any questions? Has Franz explained everything? Good."
    "What about the man at the door downstairs?" Claude asked.
    "They will be given their instructions," Franz said.
    "Don't worry," Weisfeld said. "You come after school at three-thirty and you leave at six. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. They will know all about it. So."
    The two men looked down at the boy.
    "Why don't you try it before we leave?" Weisfeld said.
    Claude flushed. "What should I play, I don't have, I didn't bring any—"

    "Try the little Schubert piece. You don't need music for that. The little one you were playing in the store."
    Claude raised his arms, opened his hands, and began to play, instantly adjusting to the fact that the keys seemed to go down without resistance, or just enough resistance so that he could feel them, every key the same. He had the sensation of playing almost without effort—as if the piano itself were playing, and he was simply moving his fingers along with it. When he finished he looked up.
    "It's different. It's very different."
    Franz was nodding, a faint smile on his face.
    "Of course," Weisfeld said. "I told you."
    "I like it," Claude said.
    "Well, maybe if it likes you, it will teach you," Weisfeld said. "We will see."

    Sometimes the phone rang two or three times in a week, and then there were long periods—a month or more—when he almost forgot it was there. The shrill sound would pull him out of sleep, and he would get up and get dressed like an automaton, follow her up the stairs, into the cab, and fall back asleep almost instantaneously.
    It was always the small stocky man with the round