Read Online Heart and Soul by Sally Mandel - Free Book Online

it. Then in a split second, they’d get it. Most people just smiled and kept a respectful distance. One jogger passed by and said, “Thanks for the music, man.” David gave him a sweet little bow. But a pair of middle-aged women changed direction in midstream and started following us, but I mean tailgating in the worst way.
    David had been talking about a piano he’d played as a soloist in a royal recital in London. The soft pedal had jammed and Rachmaninoff’s thundering Third Sonata came out sounding like a lullaby. In the middle of the first movement, he’d crawled under the instrument in his tuxedo, fixed the problem, dusted himself off and finished the piece.
    â€œDoesn’t that bother you?” I asked David, nodding toward the women who had almost rear-ended us when we stopped walking. They just stood there staring at him as if they were part of the conversation.
    He barely gave them a glance. “Not really. I’m used to it.”
    â€œWho’s she?” the shorter one asked David.
    â€œBug off,” I said to her.
    David took my arm. “You’ll have to excuse us, ladies,” he said. “Have a lovely afternoon.” We escaped to a spot sheltered by one of Central Park’s monstrous gray rocks. Other than a barefoot guy asleep with his hat over his face, we were alone.
    â€œI don’t think I’d like that part of being famous,” I said. David had stretched one leg out, the other with knee bent where he rested his hand. A few years later when I saw Michelangelo’s David, I remembered that day and David Montagnier’s hand like a perfect piece of sculpture.
    â€œEven when I was small, people stared at me,” David was saying. “I don’t know why, really. I adjusted, and now I barely notice unless someone is very aggressive and touches me. That’s unpleasant.”
    â€œYou were playing solo in London when the piano broke?” I asked. “Must have been in ’eighty-six.”
    He thought about it, then smiled. “Yes, you’re right. What else do you know about me?”
    â€œAsk me a question, any question,” I bragged.
    He thought about it for a second. “All right, what was the first competition I won?”
    â€œStuttgart,” I answered. “You played Prokofiev’s Seventh. They liked the way you nailed that killer last movement.” He laughed. I loved the sound of that, maybe especially because it didn’t happen all that often.
    â€œThis could be frightening,” he said. “Do you know everything?”
    â€œNot enough,” I said. “Like how come you never concentrated on a solo career?” There wasn’t much about that in the Juilliard library. Not on the Internet, either. I’d checked it out at the World Web Coffee House, where for a cup of joe and twelve bucks you could sit in front of a computer for an hour and find out just about anything. If I didn’t have the twelve bucks, it was two dollars for five minutes. I got so I could soak up a lot of information in five minutes.
    â€œI’m surprised you don’t know,” he said.
    â€œOh, I read your article about music being a collaborative art form, but I’m not buying it.” All that crap about carrying on the two-piano tradition now that the golden age of duo pianists was past and Vronsky and Babin were gone.
    He was quiet for a while. Then he looked me square in the face, reached out and cupped my chin. “Because I’m lonely.” I had the feeling I’d just heard something the man had never said aloud.
    When I was eleven, we went on a family camping trip in the Catskills. I was sitting on the steps of our cabin one morning when a fawn came out from the trees. We watched each other for a while, and then he came right up to me. I held my breath and very slowly stretched out my hand. The fawn inched closer and touched his nose to my fingers. Then he turned and