Leeway Cottage Read online

  Sydney had hoped to find a congenial group at this hotel with whom to go to the movies, or maybe out dancing. But she couldn’t seem to find her way into their lives. Whether she didn’t listen well, or she laughed too loud or at the wrong times, or something else, she never knew. She concluded that these girls were too frivolous for her. She was deadly serious about an image of a girl in an old-fashioned dress in Paris on her honeymoon, a girl who spun art out of her very body and made people stop and stare with her voice. None of the other girls at the hotel seemed to be fighting for their lives. So she thought it would be better to live alone in an artist’s garret if she could find one. She couldn’t, especially as she’d been misled as to what a garret should look like by the set design of the Met’s La Bohème. But she did find a one-bedroom apartment in a brownstone owned by a woman who was nearly deaf and didn’t mind her practicing.

  All through Sydney’s first breathtakingly hot summer in New York, Candace was up at The Elms, holding forth. There was a widower on the Point who was paying her attentions and who played excellent bridge. She had written to Sydney once, inviting her to come up for a weekend at least, but Sydney hadn’t answered. When old friends asked if she would appear at all that summer, Candace answered with a superior smile and a merry twinkle, “Anna’s terribly busy expressing herself.”

  Though herself was the last thing she was expressing. She felt like a worm caught out on a lawn when the early birds began arriving, lost and exposed, trying desperately to find her way out of danger in a world she could barely recognize. She had to work for hours a day at the piano. Not that she would ever play well enough to accompany herself, but (as her vocal teacher said) she had to train her ear. She gathered that if her ear had been a child it would be on its way to reform school. It needed discipline, it needed guidance, it needed years of remedial work to teach it to coordinate the notes on a page with a sound imagined in the brain. And the brain, ah! The brain, before she could sing a note, had to be taught to make an image of the sound she wished to produce, which would involve color, and timbre, and speaking of that, she had to learn all about the mechanics of making that sound, to learn to envision the vocal cords running from front to back, not up and down, to understand where the breath went, how the larynx moved, how the lips and the tongue and the opening of the mouth shaped the tones that she produced, she felt she might as well have signed up to learn how to build a pipe organ from scratch, it would have been easier. And then the physique, oh, well, to learn to support the sound from the soles of her feet upward, who knew how essential was the abdomen to the art? And then, languages! In addition to the hours a day of sight-reading Clementi at the piano and pieces that Mozart wrote when he was six, and the exercise of Hanon, she needed total immersion in German. (A private tutor was engaged, a fusspot named Frau Blucher, who was augmenting her income teaching in a girls’ school where fewer and fewer wanted to speak anything but French.) Sydney needed Italian and French as well, and as soon as possible, but she already had more hours of work scheduled in each day than she could actually do in a week.

  And where in all this was the music? When did the nightingale sing? When she had prepared her song, the way a painter prepares a house that hasn’t been painted in forty years. First there was patching and puttying, scraping and sanding, then a coat of primer, then more sanding, fifty hours of that before one hour of applying color. Her vocal teacher, a vast Romanian woman named Madame Dumitrescu, looked at her with scorn when she expressed disappointment. What did you think, little polliwog, we get to stand on a stage before discerning multitudes by having fun?

  When she was finally given her first song, it was not to sing it, it was to translate.

  “Yes? What did you think? You could sing a song you didn’t understand? Translate it. Yourself. And check the pronunciation of every syllable; Thursday you will recite it for me from memory in German and in English.”

  So, on Thursday did she sing? No. On Thursday she memorized the rhythm of the poem without words or notes. Laaa-lalala laahlalala laah laah. When she could say the words on one note perfectly in the rhythm of the music, with a metronome, she was allowed to learn the pitches. Over and over, with one finger, she played the notes in order. She was not allowed to sing along, no, no, no, what a stupid suggestion. Sing? No.

  She must play the notes, hearing the intervals until she could hear the notes without playing them and form a mental image of the sound she would produce for each one. (That again. An image of a sound. Yes, of course, did she not even speak English?) When she could do all that, and only then, might she stand with the music in her hand and with the metronome, very slowly, sing the notes in rhythm, lalalala. That of course was an appalling moment, after all that work and all that waiting, as the difference between the sounds she heard in her head and what came out of her mouth was so terrible. Next, she sang the words in rhythm but on one pitch. Then she had to put the song away for several hours. And after all that, she was allowed to think of it as a song, and try to sing it.

  Sydney worked and worked through October. The landlady downstairs slipped in the tub and broke her wrist. She took to waiting in the hall for Sydney to come down on her way out to class, with her list of necessities for the day. Sydney found herself trudging in cold wet weather from stationer to grocer to pharmacy in search of things she had never heard of. Cocomalt Powder. Saraka granules for constipation. One windy evening she delivered to the landlady her bag of oranges and the jar of Vicks VapoRub she had asked for; she stayed to listen to the new Stromberg-Carlson that had been delivered that morning. The first news out of it was that soldiers in Berlin had attacked the Jewish neighborhood and broken everyone’s windows. The news was all so awful all the time now. Sydney climbed the stairs to her apartment. Maybe she ought to get a cat. Or a boyfriend.

  Once at school she casually asked another student, a Danish flautist, “Is Laurus a common name in Denmark?”

  “Not at all,” said the girl. “Laurus Moss is the only one I know of. Have you met him?” Sydney, mortified, blushed and said it was only an idle question.

  “Oh. Well, Lauritz is the common name. Like Melchior, the tenor. Laurus is a family name.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “Of course,” said the girl. She was tall and lanky, with honey-colored hair and a beautiful accent.

  November passed. Sydney thought maybe her mother would want her to come home for Thanksgiving, but neither of them made the first move. She spent Thanksgiving Day with the Maitlands, who lived on Park Avenue in a duplex apartment as big as a house. It was like visiting a foreign country; she’d been in the land of starving students so long she was half surprised it could be done without a passport. At least when she asked the Maitlands to call her “Sydney” henceforth, they said, “Of course, dear,” and did it.

  In December she began work on An die Nachtigall. “Die Nachti-gall,” trilled Madame Dumitrescu, “that is the masterpiece. So simple, but profound, that last line, the way the piano melts into the inversion of the major chord, under the high G…”

  Sydney tried to look as if she had been just about to mention that very thing. Madame Dumitrescu pounced down at the piano and plunged in at the last line of the song, a strange event, like coming upon a severed limb that pranced, unaware it had no body. “‘Sing mir den Amor…’” She blared it out in her meaty mezzo as the piano demonstrated the melting business. Sydney struggled to appear to understand.

  Madame Dumitrescu looked at her with demented eyes, aswoon in Schubert. Sydney meanwhile was in the grip of terror. She had picked this song because it looked easy and was short. The last thing she wanted on earth was to be stepping up to a masterpiece, beloved of Madame.

  “Now, then,” cried Madame. She closed her eyes and played the lilting first measures of the song, swaying with the music. When Sydney began to sing, Madame’s eyes snapped open and the music stopped.

  “He lies sleeping upon my heart! He lies sleeping upon your heart, he didn’t hand y
ou a tub of lard! ‘He lies sleeping upon my heart…’” She sang the line her way. Sydney knew this was going to be a long hour.

  He lies sleeping upon my heart, my guardian spirit sang him to sleep.

  She sat at the piano while night fell and an east wind blew in from the river, turning their street into a rattling canyon. She realized she had nothing in the apartment for dinner but a can of hash. Ugh. She played the melody of the “Nightingale” over and over again. She pictured herself, outdoors in summer, with a beloved man asleep in her arms, asleep because he is so safe in her presence and protected by her love that he has let down his guard all the way to the ground. And she is safe from him too; a man asleep is a man one is free to love without defenses, unlikely in that state to find fault or turn satiric or even to say merely, “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  She stopped playing. She sat in her catless, plantless apartment and pictured a young woman, perhaps Berthe Hanenberger, with her heart full and her love asleep in her arms, somewhere in the world where there are nightingales. She felt what that would feel like. A young man, kind, handsome, asleep and in love…who? Laurus Moss? Were there nightingales where he came from?

  It had to be somebody. She closed her eyes and imagined herself, beloved, the guardian spirit of a dear sleeper, herself awake to the beauty of the world, and speaking the language of the nightingale. And what sound would you make to represent that feeling? She closed her eyes and sang the song.

  When Laurus arrived the next day to accompany her practice, a complicated thing had become simple. For the first time since she began her training, she could forget it and sing. Laurus played. She pictured the feeling. Her throat made the sounds. As she sang, her eyes turned to him. In fact, what she was seeing was inner entirely, but her eyes moved to Laurus’s face, and in surprise, when she hit the G, he turned to her and their eyes briefly locked.

  When the song was over they were both silent. Then slowly, both began to smile.

  “Well!” he said. “That was fun—let’s do it again.”

  But they didn’t begin again immediately. For a while both of them just smiled. She could sing. Sydney could sing. The girl could sing.

  And had he fallen in love with her when their eyes locked? Sydney always thought so. For the rest of their lives, though she never asked him, she believed that. The day she really sang, and he suddenly saw her.

  But actually, for Laurus, it happened differently. The “Nightingale” afternoon was for him only the moment he stopped feeling sorry for her and began to take a genuine interest. When they went out for coffee after their session he joked with her in a new way. She felt the difference and it made her looser, warmer, and easier to be with.

  He asked her what she was doing about Christmas. She said she had no plans, except to work. He said, as he never would have before this afternoon, that well then—perhaps she would like to come with him to a party on Christmas Eve. Some musicians, all far from home. They would have a real Scandinavian Yule celebration. Her eyes shone. She hoped more than ever that Candace would write or call, to know when she would be home. Maybe never, she could now say.

  There was another week and a half until the school closed for Christmas break. Laurus canceled one practice hour because it was the first night of Hanukkah. Sydney pretended she knew all about that, and wondered if he was Jewish. She rather hoped so, as she hadn’t found the nest of Christians she’d been raised in all that warm and cozy and was interested in exploring other options. But maybe he was just a citizen of the world, as so many musicians, and New Yorkers, seemed to be. She bought a balsam wreath for her door, and another for her landlady. She was invited to go caroling with some of the music students one Sunday evening and afterward they all ate cheese fondue at a restaurant called Chalet Suisse, and laughed and sang some more, and if you lost your bread in the stiffening melted cheese, someone kissed you.

  She was oddly happy. Having braced herself to be stunned with loneliness, she was instead luxuriating in an aloneness that had its own advantages. She enjoyed the crowds of shoppers on the streets of Midtown. She took herself to see the Christmas windows of the stores, and even went to watch the children sitting on Santa’s knee in the toy department at Macy’s. As she watched the children squirming with pleasure and whispering their desires into his big pink ear (and also the confident ones in velvet clothes who had memorized their lists and recited them as if placing an order), she thought about going as a child with her father to see Santa at the May Company. Afterward she was allowed to choose one toy right then, whatever she wanted, and her father bought it for her. She remembered the year she chose a little shaving kit, with a soap brush and shaving soap and little toy razor so she could cover her face with lather and then peel it back off in neat strips along with Daddy as he stood in the bathroom in his trousers and undershirt in the mornings. She remembered Candace’s scornful laughter when they got home. She was very little, and didn’t understand what was wrong with it. She remembered the year her father had made her what he called an Advent stocking—a stocking with twenty-four tiny presents, all wrapped, so she could open one every day until Christmas morning and that would help her wait for the great day. And of how livid Candace had been when she found that Annabee, who hadn’t really understood the Advent concept either, had opened all the little packages the first morning.

  On Christmas Eve day, in the early dusk, Laurus arrived to take her to the party. It was just cold enough for snow and big soft perfect flakes had started around noon. They were going to Greenwich Village, and though Sydney could easily afford a taxi, Laurus led her as a matter of course to the subway, although it took three different trains and at that, they didn’t get very close. It was fun to make their way through the throngs at Grand Central as they ran for the shuttle to the West Side, and then again in the dirty and cavernous catacomb under Times Square, full of buskers making Christmas music and passing hats.

  The apartment on Downing Street was up a narrow flight of stairs, uneven and sporting a carpet runner that was already soaked with slush. On the landing before the door of the party was a pile of wet galoshes. Inside people crowded together, drinking punch, talking and laughing. Laurus led Sydney in her stocking feet to meet their hostess. Gudrun was slim and blond with bright cheeks and eyes, perhaps the most beautiful flesh-and-blood woman Sydney had ever seen. She was assembling a large platter of gravlax, scattered with dill and capers. She kissed Laurus, wished Sydney a happy Christmas, and handed her the platter. “Here, you can pass this. Laurus, take the toasts.”

  The two of them made their way through the party with the platter. Imre Benko greeted Sydney warmly and took her by the elbow, explaining that it was the Swedish custom to shake hands and introduce yourself to every person in the room, and though neither he nor she was Swedish, he wanted to be sure she behaved herself.

  There was a small tree in one corner with ribbons and carved and painted decorations. There were candles everywhere; The Messiah was playing on the record player, and something very warming and delightful was in the punch. This was Sydney’s dream of a party, with everyone jammed together, and no servants passing things or washing up in the kitchen. There were many small presents under the tree and pinned to the tree itself. Someone arrived with a homemade bûche de Noël, and someone else with caviar. Someone put out a Stilton cheese and Gudrun’s husband, Eric, appeared from the kitchen with a huge pot of meatballs he had been cooking since morning. Soon a cloud of dishes emerged from the tiny kitchen and spread out to cover the dining table, like a swarm of bees that looks so much bigger than the hive it came from as it fans out against the sky. People circled the table, filling their plates, and then sat, if they could find a seat, and if not stood eating with their bottles and glasses balanced on a mantelpiece or bookshelf nearby. An immensely tall redheaded Scotsman began to flirt with Sydney, especially after the bûche de Noël had been served, and champagne poured, and someone called for Christmas carols. A plump girl named Myrna played the piano
; everyone sang. Often during the evening, Sydney felt Laurus watching her, happy that she was enjoying herself. He himself, easy and merry, was in his element.

  A few couples said their good-nights, as they were going on to other parties. One or two had to get home to relieve a babysitter and one had a toddler with them who had fallen asleep on top of the coats. When the group was of a size to fit into the dining room, Gudrun emerged from the kitchen with a charlotte mold upside down on a plate. When she lifted the mold, she revealed a tightly packed cake made of dry flour. As everyone crowded around the dining room table, Gudrun carefully set her wedding ring on the center of the cake. The attentive Scotsman took a seat beside Sydney and explained the game to her.

  “It’s like musical chairs,” said the Scotsman. “We go in turn around the table, cutting away the flour. You can take as much or as little as you like, but the person who makes the ring fall has to pick it up with his lips.”

  Myrna began with a bold slice. The flour cake stood firm, revealing only a slightly crumbled surface like a wall of shale. Imre cut a whisper of flour. Then Gudrun, and so on, with much teasing and calling to each other. Sydney was terrified she’d destroy the thing when it came to her, but she didn’t. The Scotsman, showing off, took rather a large cut. Myrna declared she was going to make Eric go into the flour but Eric survived. People began to undercut the remaining pillar holding up the ring, and Laurus teased the Scotsman that he was going to have flour all through his beard. When it was Sydney’s turn she took the tiniest sliver and for a trembling moment it seemed sure that Laurus was right—the Scotsman was done for. Then, as a cry went up from the table, the pillar collapsed. Sydney’s eyes widened, and her cheeks turned red. But after only a second’s hesitation she put her hands behind her back and went snout down into the plate of flour. When she came up laughing with the ring between her lips, with flour all over her face, even in her eyebrows, Laurus looked across the table at her elated and comical face, and saw something he thought he recognized, that filled him with delight. And he fell in love.