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Alexander had betrayed her. Claude reached for her arm, but she flung him away. Grabbing her bag and coat, she ran out of the room, down the book-lined corridor, and out the door.

CHAPTER TWO
Claude
    After the meeting in Boston, Claude and his mother went their separate ways. While she paid a visit to friends in Cambridge, he flew directly to New York to prepare for his American debut. On his way to the airport, Claude thought about Mariana and her evident distress. It disturbed him to have stayed in Beecher’s office while she fled in tears. He had wanted to go after her, to catch and comfort her. He imagined holding her and gently dabbing the tears off her beautiful face with his handkerchief, stroking her astonishing hair. But why did he want to? He had always been distressed by turbulent emotions, especially in women and especially if he felt that he might in any way have caused them. Casual relationships, those that came without demands or requests for commitment, suited him best. And yet women always seemed to want more than he intended to give, if not at first, then eventually.
    Arriving in New York, Claude checked into the Regency Hotel on Park Avenue, his mother’s choice. He tried several times to call his girlfriend, Sophie von Auer, in Lugano, wanting to tell her about the Stradivarius and his great goodluck, but Sophie was away on a two-day retreat with personnel from the museum where she worked and could not be reached. He left only guarded messages on her mobile, not wanting to spoil the surprise. Then he ate a light room-service supper and fell into jet-lagged sleep.
    When he awoke, he called the offices of Baum & Fernand. Christopher Beecher had told him the Stradivarius was in New York, consigned by Alexander just before his death, for safekeeping and restoration, to the shop of the instrument dealer, Heinrich Baum, and his partner, the luthier Pierre Fernand. Claude was told by the receptionist that neither man would be available that day. Both were traveling, she said, but would return tomorrow, and then he could certainly have an appointment. He informed her that his errand concerned the Stradivarius, and she said Mr. Beecher had indeed called. Mr. Baum was aware of the reason for his visit and had left instructions to make Mr. Roselle welcome the next morning at eleven, if that would be suitable. Claude said, “Tomorrow at eleven, by all means.”
    Therefore he had a day to practice, and did so in his hotel room, using a mute and playing his David Tecchler, the cello he’d bought for himself ten years earlier. He worked on the Brahms sonatas that he was to play at Alice Tully Hall, going over the difficult passages, experimenting with new phrasing and fingerings, but always returning to those Feldmann had taught him. Next he worked for a while on the Schumann concerto he would play on his national tour. When his hands grew tired, he went out for lunch and then walked until he found his way to Lincoln Center. There, outside Alice Tully Hall, he saw a poster with his name and photograph: Claude Roselle and — without a picture — William Rossen. “Theacclaimed Swiss violoncellist,” Claude read, “is making his New York debut on Saturday, April 10, at 8 p.m. This will be the first appearance of his American tour.” For the publicity photo, his hair had been carefully gelled and tousled, and his eyes were wide. He looked, he thought with amusement, very Euro.
    As he walked, he continued thinking about Mariana and wondered if she lived alone or if he were anywhere near her neighborhood. In a city the size of New York, he would have to make a concerted effort to find her, unless he asked someone directly. “Concerted,” he thought, and smiled — he was making a pun in English. He must find her and invite her to his debut. They had so much in common, so much to share, he believed — above all, their devotion to her father.
    That night he went to dinner with his manager’s American affiliate and