An Excerpt from Bitter Cradle

In a frantic rush, Peter dashed through the hallways of the Manhattan School of Music, passing a girl without noticing her. She stopped, looked offended and hollered down the hall, "Peter! I have the place to myself tomorrow night." He turned around, still running. "Count me out, Ginny. I need a practice-room. I've entered the competition."
   "But we are counting on you. Marsha too..." She sounded panicky.
   "Tell her to grab another guy. It's happened before." He waved and was gone.
   Ginny stamped her foot.
   Sure enough. It happens all the time. Peter goes through girls like pearls on a string, tossing them by the wayside.
   She had often wished to be one of his pearls and would give a lot for a single romp with him.
   Peter is the kind of guy we girls create in our dreams, so good-looking, so full of charm and music. A party without him is a bust. The other musicians will go lame. Blast it all!
   She stamped her foot again.
   Peter's charm and charisma carried him further than his looks, although he was tall, fair and healthy looking with a great reserve of energy. But, there was a hidden restraint in him. Cold and inaccessible, he played with situations like a juggler with three balls in the air.
   "You have a good chance of winning the clarinet competition," Peter's teacher had said encouragingly, and Peter had already decided how to use the prize money. He wanted to go to Europe, see the world, but with Pop dead-set on having him graduate from Barnard College, he wouldn't foot the bill. But why the hell not? He was already a moneymaking musician and had no need for a college degree. He could get a scholarship to the Sorbonne regardless.
   A cacophony of sounds filled the corridor. After a long search Peter found an empty practice room, dropped his coat, took his clarinet out and warmed up with some scales and thorny passages. He improvised and the wistful melody sounded like the quivering voice of a girl drawing her last breath.
   Romance, passion, that's what we live for. Who said that? Oh yeah, good old Whitman.
   Having spent most of his life at the school, Peter was in good standing with the administration. He had grown up at the school and they treated him attentively and cordially. Since he knew how to charm a woman, any age, the female faculty was always on his side.
   I could get a masters degree in music if I had the time, but I'd have to cut out the partying, the frolicking with jazz combos and the horsing around with girls at wee hours.
   Although he favored the instrument, Peter was not exclusively a clarinet player. He also played the piano, did Art Tatum imitations, plunked his guitar and sang a bit, but ever since childhood, Benny Goodman, the King of Swing, who could swing from his own band to classical concerts with the New York Philharmonic, had been his hero. Like Goodman, Peter also wanted a foot in each camp and dreamt about composing, mixing jazz and classical inventions. In Paris he could study the clarinet for real and some day be a regular Goodman, making a hit with Mozart's clarinet concerto.
   He could have been further along by now if not for his first wind-instrument teacher, Mr. Rogers, who bore a grudge against him. They were not on good terms. In the past, Peter's flamboyant behavior, quitting Mr. Rogers' class for other courses, repeatedly returning but then finally signing up permanently with another teacher, had made Mr. Rogers see red. When Peter's name appeared on the list of contestants Mr.Rogers tried to get him eliminated, claiming that Peter was not a clarinet player fit to enter.

The day of the competition, when Peter sat down next to the accompanist and briefly glanced at the judges he saw Mr. Rogers, his face rigid and ashen, and it was Peter's turn to see red. Goddamn bad luck! He shuddered, made a firm decision to ignore the fox, but remained angry and high key through the whole performance. Regardless of having played well, he walked away with no hopes of winning.
   Unbeknown to Peter, after the competition a lot of arguing went on in the juror's room. When he arrived at the school the next day his name was listed as the winner. Stunned by surprise, he pledged to find his way to Paris and do serious studies.

Nina's thoughts circled around Dr. Seroff like eddies in a turbulent stream. Deep within her the cold despair remained, and her uneasiness grew with her desire to see him again. It was as if through him she might return to her own self, the way she was before Vera's murder. She wanted to live and he was her only hope. She wanted to go on, but without Vera she had no one. No one who cared for her. Diane was a good friend, but she had done too much already, and to live with her and the irate husband depressed Nina further. For their sake and her own, she was desperate to get away. Filled with hope and trepidation, she called his office
   and got word that in spite of being completely booked that day, Dr. Seroff would see her for a few minutes. The excitement of seeing him again practically choked her, and she fussed endlessly over what to wear. Her scant wardrobe offered few choices. She ended up wearing a dirndl skirt, a white blouse and one of Diane's sweaters.
   When she entered the reception room, Mira Joy looked up sarcastically and took in all of Nina's awkwardness with glee.
   She looks like a schoolgirl called to the principle's office.
   "The doctor is with a patient. Very busy today."
   The wait increased Nina's edginess. When she finally entered Dr. Seroff's office she went directly to the same chair as before, without looking at him.
   Mikhail studied her.
   She has slept better but her pale cheeks are still without luster.
   His eyes fastened on the sheen in her dark red hair and he asked softly, "How do you feel today?"
   "I feel so lonely, Dr. Seroff."
  Oh Lord! How many of my patients haven't said that?
   "I think I understand loneliness better than anyone."
   "Oh?" Her eyes expressed disbelief.
   "My wife died several years ago. I have been lonely ever since. But it doesn't prevent me from achieving and setting goals for myself."
   "I'm so sorry." She looked genuinely ashamed and he chided himself for making such a personal remark. Was he losing his facility?
   "Are you sorry you left your homeland?"
   " Grand-papa. I loved him so. I will never see him again." Her eyes filled with tears, but she kept on talking. "He knew stories about composers and musicians. He used to teach at the Conservatory for years. Was so full of music and helped me with lessons in piano and voice. I hated to leave him but he wanted us to go to a better life." She sounded bitter all of a sudden
   "Tell me more about your grandfather."
   "He loved Russian music so much. He cried about how Stalin forced all the great composers and musicians out. He loved Rachmaninoff the most and taught me his songs. Had heard Rachmaninoff play and had some of his recordings. I fell in love with his music too. Grand-papa said that all the pain and longing the Russian people suffered was in his music."
   God in heaven! Not Rachmaninoff!
   "I think I understand that, Nina. Why don't you tell me about your plans for the future?" Mikhail felt uncomfortable.
   "It is no use talking about it. I'm helpless without Vera." Her eyes were full of tears, her lips trembling.
   "Maybe so, but tell me anyway... what you had in mind." He looked at her, his eyes warming her tortured soul, and she slowly relaxed.
   "Vera wanted me to go to Juilliard. Said I could apply as soon as she got her teaching job. I might get a scholarship if they heard me sing, she said, but now I don't feel like singing ever again. My dream died with Vera."
   "No, no..." He leaned forward, his voice gentle, "your dream is not dead. You need time to mourn your sister's death. Cry for her and for yourself."
   Mikhail had a hard time looking at her as he felt something pulling him out on dangerously thin ice, tugging at his heart, throwing him off balance. He wanted to help her, but even more, he wanted to see her again.
   "Do you have a photo of Vera?"
   She nodded and pulled one from her billfold, no larger than a passport photo. He studied it closely and saw a woman with hair pulled straight back in a bun, looking as prim and determined as any schoolmarm.
   "She looks completely different from you."
   "Yes. We thought we were half-sisters. That mother took a lover after our father went with the KGB."
   "But you never knew for sure?"
   "No. Vera believed it. She was close to our father. I think she loved him."
   "And you? Did you love him?"
   "I never saw anything to love."
   "Was Vera musical?"
   "No, but she liked to listen."
   "She was much older than you?" Mikhail studied the picture once more before handing it back.
   "Yes. Fourteen years older."
   "She had plans for you... I think you ought to audition at one of the music schools. Surely something will develop."
   He stood up abruptly and shook her hand. He needed time to think. He was way behind schedule and disliked keeping patients waiting.
   Nina left with a heavy heart.

She longed for her homeland, the music and her grandfather who had made her life beautiful. They sang songs together and he said, "Listen, Ninochka, this is real Russian music." He played records on his victrola and she buried the melodies deep in her soul.
   "Do you know my dear, how much Rachmaninoff's music meant to the Russian people?" he asked repeatedly.
   "No, Grand-papa."
   "I want to teach you, my child. I heard him play long ago...before the revolution."
   "His music is so sad." She longed to hear happy music.
   "You see, little one, he loved this land and his home and was heartbroken when he had to leave. He carried the pain with him in his music."
   "Why did he leave then?"
   "You will understand that when you are older, Ninochka."
   Nina sighed deeply at the memory. She missed hearing music, she missed singing. Grand-papa would never know what happened to them * to Vera. She couldn't write to him, either, without getting him in trouble, but perhaps she could go to the Russian Consulate and try to get a letter through to her father? She didn't have an address, but surely they must have a list of all KGB agents. Her letter wouldn't endanger him.
   She was never allowed to pry and was often sent away to Grand-papa's when Vera had special meetings and things to do.
   Why did she and Vera have to leave? Did Vera carry secrets for father?
 

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