The Silver Swan Read Online Free PDF Page B

small,insignificant chamber music groups? Alexander wanted the Silver Swan in the hands of a great cellist with a great career. That’s why it is now yours.”
    “It has a certain value, as you well know, and she might be in need of money.”
    “Well,” Francine sniffed, “it’s not as if he left her nothing. She has all his property and accounts, and she has those copies to sell if she chooses.” She paused and declared, “Really, Claude, this is not our business.”
    “Nonetheless,” he persisted, “I
am
concerned and I think I’ll try to contact her. Maybe I’ll invite her to my concert. I’d like very much to know her better.” He pierced the egg yolk and watched it spread. “I found her very attractive, beautiful, in fact. Didn’t you?”
    Francine looked at him sharply but said nothing. Claude took a bite of his egg and picked up the
New York Times
Arts section. His mother turned her attention to her cell phone, arranging her schedule for the day. Claude sensed that his mother was annoyed with him and he did not want to upset her. Recently, when he’d called or visited, he found her crying, her face puffy and red, her neck wet with escaped tears. He did not want to ask her why she wept. He thought he might not like to know. During these times, his father was always away. Perhaps his absence was the reason for her distress, Claude had first surmised — some quarrel between them. As time went on, however, he thought not.
    “I called Baum & Fernand yesterday and asked if I might come over and take a look at the Silver Swan — pay a visit and play a few notes. I have an appointment this morning at eleven. I wonder if you’d be willing to come with me. Please do, Maman. I’d so much like you to be there the first time Itake the instrument out of its case as its rightful owner.” He gave her his most fetching smile. “You were, should we say, ‘instrumental’ in my good fortune.”
    This mollified Francine. They went back to their rooms to collect what they’d need for the day. Departing the hotel, he carried his Tecchler with his left arm and held his mother’s arm with his right. The sunlight was brilliant, the city alive with warm signs of spring. On Fifty-seventh Street, they headed west toward Carnegie Hall. His mother walked daintily, in high heels, her short legs unable to keep up with Claude’s quick strides. He slowed his pace when she complained but found it difficult to contain his eagerness to hold the Silver Swan.

    After the loud bustle of the street, the shop was a refuge. Hushed and elegant, it smelled of wood and glue and varnish, belonging more to an older world, perhaps Cremona — that center of violin making — than to present-day Manhattan. The heavy glass doors creaked as Claude opened them. At this hour in the morning, the public showrooms were still quiet. Only a few customers had arrived to look at instruments. Antique wooden cabinets with glass fronts lined the walls of the two formal rooms. Warmly lit inside, they contained violins, violas, and cellos, all hung in the same direction, revealing many shades of glowing, polished wood that also caught the subdued light of the antique chandeliers. The floors were covered with frayed but splendid Persian carpets, and each room had a long antique French farm table at its center.
    The young woman he had spoken with the day before greeted them and went off to fetch her employer. Claudeand Francine unbuttoned their coats, and he stood his cello case against the wall. Many-paned floor-to-ceiling windows gave out over Fifty-seventh Street, but the traffic below was inaudible.
    Heinrich Baum, a short, bald powerhouse of a man, came to greet them and shook their hands energetically. In his early seventies, he wore a dark blue suit with white stripes and a shirt sporting cuff links in the shape of violins. “Ah, Mme Roselle. You I have met when you came with Maestro Feldmann, but your son has not yet visited our shop. I am happy to