Read Online Murder in A-Major by Morley Torgov - Free Book Online

that he calls the first a rhapsody, and the second an intermezzo—”
    Schumann turned slightly and, looking over his shoulder, called, “Clara, if you will—”
    Behind Schumann, a door opened and Clara Schumann emerged from an anteroom leading by the hand the same tall, handsome fellow I'd seen that night at the concert hall. For someone so athletic in appearance, he seemed to be taking hesitant, small steps, like a schoolboy being trotted out before a roomful of grownups to recite a poem. Letting go his hand, Clara motioned for the youthful composer to seat himself at one of the two grand pianos, her gesture gracious and, I thought, a bit too theatrical.
    Nor did I fail to take note of another gesture. “Distinguished guests,” Clara said, “please welcome from Hamburg…Johannes Brahms.” Then, as she passed behind Brahms on her way to her seat, her hand brushed across the back of his neck. The touch was so slight, so subtle, that I doubt anyone in the room noticed, anyone, that is, except me. Ascribe it to the particular angle at which I was seated, or ascribe it to the fact that a detective's vision tends to be binocular, even off duty. But there was no denying: that brush of Clara Schumann's hand against the back of Johannes Brahms's neck was not accidental.
    Though I am no music critic, I felt almost from the opening bars of the Rhapsody that we were in the presence of an enormously gifted musician, a man with powerful melodic ideas and the technique to give voice to those ideas. The Intermezzo , softer, more poetic, sounded to my ears like a long sigh. It was not so much an expression of passion as it was a deep sigh of yearning, of longing for someone who was just beyond reach.
    The final lingering note of the Intermezzo was followed by enthusiastic applause and a few shouts of “Bravo!” Schumann strode to the piano and lifted Brahms by the shoulders, turned him about to face the small audience, then stepped back, leaving the young man, looking awkward and sheepish, to bask alone in the admiration and approval of everyone in the drawing room.
    My attention wandered for a moment to the back of the room. There, standing by herself, as though isolated from the rest, was Clara Schumann. She did not join in the applause. I saw no outer demonstration of enthusiasm on her part for the performance we had just witnessed, but on her face there was a look that seemed to me to go far beyond admiration and approval. It was a look that seemed to match the mood of Brahms's second selection, that same sense of yearning and of longing for someone who was just out of reach.
    By now the clock in the drawing room showed the hour as nine thirty, and our host found himself forced to offer lame excuses for the absence of the guest of honour. To rescue her husband in what was so obviously an embarrassing situation, Clara Schumann spoke out. In a cool, confident voice, she said, “You're all well acquainted with the Liszt legend, I'm sure. First he enters a room in spirit. His body follows much later.”
    The room exploded in laughter. Schumann beamed appreciatively at his wife. And Johannes Brahms, who had been ushered to a chair in the front row, gazed up at Clara Schumann with an expression I can only liken to pure undisguised adoration.
    With characteristic poise, Madam Schumann took charge. “While the heavens are opening and Maestro Liszt is preparing to descend, we will proceed in the meantime with the Beethoven.”
    As the musicians took their places to perform the Beethoven Trio, I watched Clara Schumann return to her place at the back of the room. But even there, in a relatively dark corner, she continued to be the centre of my interest. And despite the purity and beauty of the Trio, and Helena Becker's intense contribution to the performance, my attention kept shifting constantly from Clara in the rearmost row of seats to Robert and Johannes in the front row, and back to