The Silver Swan by Elena Delbanco Page B

endearing in the way he came toward her and kissed both her cheeks, called her Marushka as he held her head in his hands. Her father was beaming.
    “Ah,” Pietovsky cried, pressing her against his wrinkled Russian peasant shirt, “now I have met beautiful daughter about so much I have heard. I give her one more hug.” He did. “You must, Sashinka, pour her some vodka before is gone. Is my gift,” he explained to Mariana, “straight from steppes.” Alexander poured the viscous liquid into a small glass and handed it to her.
    “Now here is how is done,” Pietovsky explained, as he linked his arm with hers, holding his own glass, and threw the vodka down his throat. She smiled and tried to take a sip. “No, no sip,” he bellowed. “Whole thing.” She did it. Her eyes teared.
    “Now we do again,” he insisted. “This time we toast each other, our friendship.” Mariana didn’t want any more vodka, but her father poured another glass and handed it to her. So once again she linked arms and, attempting more enthusiasm, tossed the vodka down as did the eager Pietovsky. While heleaned against her side, he continued his conversation with Alexander about the great Russian cellist, Rostropovich. “Is amazing, Sasha, how he can remember every note first time he plays it. I test him a few times. He never fails. Is a great gift — such remembering. Do you have it?” he asked Mariana, turning to her.
    “Yes, yes she does,” Alexander said with pride. Mariana looked at him quizzically. She had no such gift or photographic memory but understood that her father wanted to promote her talent.
    “Good for you, darling,” the conductor said. “I like to test you too.” He smiled cheerfully and kissed her again. “You come play with my orchestra. After your papa.”
    “I would be very honored, Maestro,” she replied. “If you think I’m ready …”
    “No, I am not maestro — such nonsense. I am your Anton, your friend, your papa’s friend and your mama’s. We must drink to that.”
    Pilar, appearing from the kitchen, whispered to Mariana, “I think you’ve had enough. Throw the next one over your shoulder at the wall.”
    “Why don’t I just say no thank you?”
    “Your father doesn’t want to offend the maestro. He feels very flattered to have him here. We can wash the wall later.” Mariana, watching Pilar place candles on the table, couldn’t believe her mother was encouraging her to throw liquor on the charcoal walls.
    As they waited for other guests to arrive, the Russian drew her to the Steinway to expound on the piece she told him she was working on, Tchaikovsky’s Rococo Variations. An accomplished pianist, he played the accompaniment andsang the cello part from memory. He too had an extraordinary ability to retain music, so important to a conductor. Mariana felt charmed by his warmth and the eager attention he lavished upon her. Pilar was in the kitchen with the Russian cook they’d hired for the occasion, overseeing the menu. Alexander fussed at the bar, opening bottles and bringing ice. Mariana invited Pietovsky to sit with her on the couch while they talked about the cello repertoire and which pieces she felt she’d mastered. He leaned toward her and commented on the scent she was wearing. “Lilac,” she said, smiling, “my favorite.”
    “Ah, this I won’t forget, I shall bring you lilac when you play for me.” He took her hand and stroked it. “What instrument are you playing?”
    “A Vuillaume,” she answered, “a copy of my father’s cello.”
    “I must hear you play. Bring the Vuillaume to my hotel. I shall be here for some days more.”
    “If you telephone me, I’ll come,” she answered, arranging her dress and moving slightly farther away. She would ask her father if he thought it a good idea.
    The doorbell rang and she rose to answer it. The guests began to arrive, mostly Russians, in Pietovsky’s honor — old friends of his. The party grew louder, full of bonhomie