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Boston, Massachusetts / Torrington, Connecticut
Georg Kuznetsov was waiting for Clara in her dressing room after the concert. She had played three encores, all Franz Liszt pieces of the most popular type: the famous Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, the technically difficult La Campanella etude, and finished off the Sunday afternoon event with Liebestraum. The audience loved the show-off pieces and the finale sent them away with a happy memory of Liszt’s “Love Dream.”
Unfortunately, Clara’s love dream was sitting in her stomach like a lump of lead. There were tears in her eyes as she played the last encore, and she nearly ran into the dressing room. Georg was sitting erect in the side chair. He was a former Ukrainian military man of 63 years with a close-cropped thatch of gray hair. Clara’s majordomo was polishing his rimless glasses when Clara burst into the dressing room.
“Oh Georg!” Clara wasn’t a sobby, crying mess; she’d sobered up. Now she was angry. She was nearly calm, which Georg knew disguised her fear and displeasure. She was venting at Georg, but she was really upset at Antonin. “I just know something awful has happened. Where is he? How can he do this ... AGAIN?”
Georg took a beat and then methodically put his glasses back on. He did everything methodically. Then he looked at her.
Georg: “While I should not be upset myself, I can understand that upset you can be. Yet, he is only gone for a few days. We must remain calm.”
Clara: “No! I can NOT be calm. I can feel it. Something has happened.”
G: “Yet, there is little we can do. Come. Back to the hotel we should go.”
Clara was throwing her gowns into a suitcase, not being careful at all. Georg took it in with an unhappy grimace. There was several thousand dollars of dresses thrown into a jumble. They’d have to be carefully cleaned and pressed before Clara could wear them again if it continued. It upset his sense of organization.
C: “Can we just go back to Torrington? There must be some hint about what or WHERE he is.”
G: “Of course, we can go back. I’m sure the hotel can pack what we have in the room and ship it to us. We have no valuables in the suite, yes?”
She looked at him. He was the keeper of the valuables and important papers. “No, of course not.” She gestured at the ever-present briefcase that Georg carried.
G: “Good. Then we go to Torrington direct from here. Now, you change in the small room, while I repack your gowns.”
C: “Yes, sorry. I just want some jeans and boots. I didn’t mean to throw the clothes around like that, I’m just...”
G: “It is of no consequence ... I assume that I should let the concert organizer to cancel the ‘meet and greet’ with the patrons.”
C: “Uh ... I completely forgot...” She reversed direction and went out the door without changing, with her ‘meet the public’ face on.
Two hours later, they were on Interstate 90, headed for I-84 and Hartford, Connecticut, and Torrington beyond, just 190 km. and a few hours by car. Clara was sitting in the back seat – an indication that she didn’t want to talk. Georg set the CD player to some quiet jazz: he liked the older musicians, Herbie Mann, Stan Getz. Clara was immune to distractions. The car pounded over the miles and eventually they reached a farm complex outside the small town of Torrington.
Clara hadn’t slept, she’d just stared out the window and fretted. As soon as the car stopped, she opened the door and ran into the house, heading directly to Nin’s office. She was lifting papers, giving them a quick look, scattering them around the room and generally making a mess.
Georg paused at the doorway. “Are you having fun? Does throwing the household bills to the four winds bring him closer?”
Clara paused and looked up at him. “No, of course not. The electric bill doesn’t tell me anything. But there’s got to be SOME clue about where he is, and what he’s doing. I know it’s in this room somewhere.”
G: “You are strongly of the opinion that he is in trouble, then?”
She put the electric bill back into the In Box on the corner of the desk and nodded.
G: “Can you look through things without making a mess?”
Clara put a very contrite expression on her face. “Yes, Daddy. I will be a good girl. I pwomise...” Her expression changed. “NOW SHOW ME THE DAMN SECRET PAPERS!”
G: “I would suggest that you change from your concert attire. I will tidy up in here. Let us get some food. Whatever mess Mr. Antonin is in, it undoubtedly will not get worse if we take time to breathe ... and eat. Yes?”
C: “Since you insist on being rational...” [she smiled] “ ... Okay.”
She changed into jeans and athletic shoes before Georg was done in Nin’s office. She poked her head into the room. “I’m going to make a nice spring salad for when you’re done. Don’t worry ... I’ll put some turkey and bacon in it ... I know how you like your meats. I’ll be in my office, call me when you’re done.”
Georg turned from picking up some papers from the floor and waved briefly at her. She turned on a heel and went to her “office.” Her office contained a small desk, several file cabinets and a concert grand Steinway. She went immediately to the piano and paused. She launched into a solo piano version of Liszt’s “Totentanz” – his furious “Death Dance,” a pounding, untamed fifteen-minute explosion of emotion.
When she finished, and before the last chords stopped ringing, Georg asked from behind her, “Feeling better?”
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