green eyes met mine, I felt a mild, delphic shock. “Mr. Kaar.”
Fausto whirled on his old friend. “You sly bastard, Ben.”
Bendix took my hand. I was struck by his quiet yet arrogant possession of my flesh. “You’re looking a bit happier today,”
he said.
“Happier than what?” Fausto asked.
“A few nights ago at the White House,” Bendix replied.
“You went to that tacky affair? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask.” Bendix had not let go of my hand. “How nice to see you again.”
I took a step backward, breaking contact. “We’ll be done in an hour, Fausto.”
When I returned to the music room, Duncan was leafing through the house copy of the Brahms sonatas. “What stupid fingerings,”
he huffed, tossing aside the score. “No wonder no one ever heard of him.” After Brahms, he insisted that we practice Messiaen.
Since I hadn’t yet told him about our cancellations, I had no choice but to humor him. But I wanted this rehearsal over now
that Bendix was listening.
Finally Duncan glanced at his watch. “My God! Look at the time!” The wife of some cultural attaché had invited him to dinner.
“Will you step on it!? I can’t keep foreign dignitaries waiting!”
“Give me ten seconds to say good-bye.”
The breakfast room was empty. Duncan snatched a note from a silver platter in the hall. “‘
I’m in the bath. Feel free to join me.’
Gad! Where do you find these people?”
I unlocked the front door. “Come on.”
Rush hour: red lights, redder tempers. Cabs, horses, and prams choked Connecticut Avenue. Duncan was accustomed to Berlin,
where jaywalkers at least had the courtesy to step a little faster while they blocked traffic. After a few minutes, realizing
that nothing was to be gained but a robust case of laryngitis, he stopped shouting insults out the window and sank into a
pout. As we passed the long boundary of the zoo, he suddenly perked up. “You met Fausto at a play?” he asked in an oddly conversational
tone.
“Ford’s Theatre. Justine didn’t tell you she sat next to me?”
Duncan frowned. “Was there a good crowd?”
“Packed. Bobby and Paula were there, too.”
He waited three seconds. “How’d you
get
a ticket?”
My accompanist had about as much finesse as a trash compactor. “Why does Justine want to know?”
“What a stupid question! Will you stop picking on her!”
“Someone sent it to me,” I sighed. “I don’t know who.” Duncan would pass along the fib.
“And you
went?
”
“Why not? I love Schnitzler.”
“Maybe it’s the same guy who sent the orchids. Could be a stalker.”
I zoomed through a yellow light. “Any more questions I can answer for your girlfriend?”
“She asked about your love life,” he whimpered finally.
“What’d you tell her?”
“That after Hugo you only had one serious fling. But with two men.” Thanks a mil, Duncan. Very elegant. “She wondered if you
were seeing anyone in Washington.”
“For Christ’s sake! I just got here!”
“That’s what I said.” Duncan was sinking into a funk. “Now that I think about it, every other question was about you. Justine’s
not interested in me at all.”
“Come on. She was just trying to break the ice.” Against my better judgment, I extolled her virtues until we arrived back
at the hotel. Duncan ran smiling to his room and I spent an hour in the gym converting guilt to sweat. Although women were
much more invidious adversaries than men, I knew I could handle Justine Cortot. She was nothing but a feisty amateur with
an ability to see one step ahead of her enemies. To survive in this town, however, she’d need to see ten steps ahead—twenty
behind—and Justine was a little too smug to pull that off. Sooner or later she’d go down. I didn’t want Duncan dragged down
with her.
My room reeked of wilting orchids. I threw them out. Last thing I needed tonight was a musical exhibition by Aurilla Perle’s
Fausto whirled on his old friend. “You sly bastard, Ben.”
Bendix took my hand. I was struck by his quiet yet arrogant possession of my flesh. “You’re looking a bit happier today,”
he said.
“Happier than what?” Fausto asked.
“A few nights ago at the White House,” Bendix replied.
“You went to that tacky affair? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask.” Bendix had not let go of my hand. “How nice to see you again.”
I took a step backward, breaking contact. “We’ll be done in an hour, Fausto.”
When I returned to the music room, Duncan was leafing through the house copy of the Brahms sonatas. “What stupid fingerings,”
he huffed, tossing aside the score. “No wonder no one ever heard of him.” After Brahms, he insisted that we practice Messiaen.
Since I hadn’t yet told him about our cancellations, I had no choice but to humor him. But I wanted this rehearsal over now
that Bendix was listening.
Finally Duncan glanced at his watch. “My God! Look at the time!” The wife of some cultural attaché had invited him to dinner.
“Will you step on it!? I can’t keep foreign dignitaries waiting!”
“Give me ten seconds to say good-bye.”
The breakfast room was empty. Duncan snatched a note from a silver platter in the hall. “‘
I’m in the bath. Feel free to join me.’
Gad! Where do you find these people?”
I unlocked the front door. “Come on.”
Rush hour: red lights, redder tempers. Cabs, horses, and prams choked Connecticut Avenue. Duncan was accustomed to Berlin,
where jaywalkers at least had the courtesy to step a little faster while they blocked traffic. After a few minutes, realizing
that nothing was to be gained but a robust case of laryngitis, he stopped shouting insults out the window and sank into a
pout. As we passed the long boundary of the zoo, he suddenly perked up. “You met Fausto at a play?” he asked in an oddly conversational
tone.
“Ford’s Theatre. Justine didn’t tell you she sat next to me?”
Duncan frowned. “Was there a good crowd?”
“Packed. Bobby and Paula were there, too.”
He waited three seconds. “How’d you
get
a ticket?”
My accompanist had about as much finesse as a trash compactor. “Why does Justine want to know?”
“What a stupid question! Will you stop picking on her!”
“Someone sent it to me,” I sighed. “I don’t know who.” Duncan would pass along the fib.
“And you
went?
”
“Why not? I love Schnitzler.”
“Maybe it’s the same guy who sent the orchids. Could be a stalker.”
I zoomed through a yellow light. “Any more questions I can answer for your girlfriend?”
“She asked about your love life,” he whimpered finally.
“What’d you tell her?”
“That after Hugo you only had one serious fling. But with two men.” Thanks a mil, Duncan. Very elegant. “She wondered if you
were seeing anyone in Washington.”
“For Christ’s sake! I just got here!”
“That’s what I said.” Duncan was sinking into a funk. “Now that I think about it, every other question was about you. Justine’s
not interested in me at all.”
“Come on. She was just trying to break the ice.” Against my better judgment, I extolled her virtues until we arrived back
at the hotel. Duncan ran smiling to his room and I spent an hour in the gym converting guilt to sweat. Although women were
much more invidious adversaries than men, I knew I could handle Justine Cortot. She was nothing but a feisty amateur with
an ability to see one step ahead of her enemies. To survive in this town, however, she’d need to see ten steps ahead—twenty
behind—and Justine was a little too smug to pull that off. Sooner or later she’d go down. I didn’t want Duncan dragged down
with her.
My room reeked of wilting orchids. I threw them out. Last thing I needed tonight was a musical exhibition by Aurilla Perle’s
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