He had articulated that thought to Vera in seeming jest. But he was concerned. Especially when serving someone such as Ridley C. Groendal. Ramon would never forget the specter of Rock Hudson, a sometime visitor to the Chop House, in the later stages of what seemed then a newly discovered disease, Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. That substantial, rugged, handsome man reduced to a skeletal shadow of himself. One look at the ravaged Hudson had convinced Ramon he must take every precaution against AIDS. This was not something amenable to the so-called miracle drugs. This was a fatal illness that weakened and ravaged the body unmercifully.
So, while he wore the surgical gloves as a matter of routine, it was specifically from one such as Groendal that Ramon felt he needed protection. None of the diners ever had complained about the gloves, or even seemed to notice them. Whether or not any of the diners had actually contracted this dread disease, all understood the nature of the illness and the need for self-protection for one in Ramon’s position.
“You’re not going to do that too!” Harison said as Groendal lit a cigar.
Groendal tilted his head back and blew a series of smoke rings. “Peter, either I am having an unaccustomed problem making myself clear or you simply refuse to believe me. The fact is, in what time I have left I intend to enjoy myself to the fullest . . . that can’t be so difficult to understand.”
“But Rid, enjoying yourself to the fullest is shortening the time you have left.” His voice held a hint of desperation.
Groendal swirled the cognac in his snifter and appeared to study its amber smoothness. “We must not forget, Peter, that God—or somebody—has decided to drop the final curtain on my life somewhat prematurely. So I am going for quality rather than quantity. Peter, the last thing in this world I want is to go out as a cripple. We’ve talked about this. Why is it so difficult for you to accept? After all, it’s my life, not yours.”
Harison had no response.
“Peter, let me live my life my way. And let me end my life my way.”
Harison winced inwardly, but tried not to show how deeply his friend’s words had distressed him.
Groendal finished the pie, the cigar, coffee, and cognac almost simultaneously. He signed the bill with a flourish, including a generous tip.
A valet brought the car. Harison, as was his role, climbed into the driver’s seat. They traveled up Woodward Avenue in silence. Harison was conscious of Groendal’s labored breathing. Several times, Harison stole a glance at his companion. Groendal’s complexion was sallow and his face seemed somewhat stretched. It was not actually elongated; the illusion was caused by his dramatic weight loss and the resulting sunken cheeks and recent lines in his face. Groendal should not be working tonight, Harison knew. He should be home resting. But then, neither should he have ingested the dinner he’d just eaten.
It came down to the fact that nobody told Ridley C. Groendal what to do. Not even the management at the New York Herald, from which publication Groendal had recently retired, had dictated to him. Certainly no one at the Suburban Reporter to whom Groendal contributed his regular column and periodic reviews, dared challenge an arts critic with his credentials. For Groendal, this was much more than a second career (which, financially, he did not need); it was more an outlet for criticism that he had to vent.
The expression of this criticism—which many claimed was harsh, persistently negative, self-serving, even cruel, vindictive, and unjust—earned Groendal many enemies. In his former vantage at the Herald, these enemies had been a cosmopolitan, international group of artists.
Since his retirement—a bit early and, as it turned out, forced—most of his more famous victims had been able to forget if not forgive him. It vexed Groendal that he was no longer in the power chair of the Herald. He tried to compensate by blasting away at hapless local talent as well as the headliners who passed through town.
It was early enough so that Harison was able to find a parking space on Woodward, across from Orchestra Hall, site of tonight’s concert.
Groendal strode through the lobby as if he owned the Hall. Harison, following closely in his wake, presented the tickets—two on the aisle—as had been the case these many years they had been attending first-nights.
The two men immediately became the center of attention of the few patrons who had arrived early.
Harison, of moderate height and build, was distinguishable by a nearly completely bald pate from which erupted two significant side tufts of hair, making him most resemble Clarabelle the Clown, of “Howdy-Doody” fame.
Groendal, still impressive and distinguished, despite his ominous weight loss that gave him a haggard appearance, was tall, with a heavy head of salt-and-pepper hair. A dark blue suit fit him rather well since it had been recently purchased. He slipped off his black overcoat and draped it over one arm as he advanced to his down-front seat.
Groendal was easily and readily recognized because, unlike most other critics, his self-promotion machine was always well-oiled. His flamboyance in word and deed, along with his photo, was (at his insistence) well-publicized.
As the two men settled in, Groendal began studying his program. “Look at this, will you?” He did not bother lowering his voice.
Harison paged through his program. He glanced at the offerings, but said nothing, waiting for Groendal’s inevitable comment.
“Octets by Schubert and Mendelssohn and a quintet by Beethoven,” Groendal noted quite loudly. “Can you imagine that? Schubert, Mendelssohn, and Beethoven! Romantics! Romantics! Romantics! It just goes to prove the point I’ve been making over and over: David Palmer has not yet entered the twentieth century!”
The thought crossed Harison’s mind that it was possible that the Schubert, Mendelssohn, and Beethoven would be well performed. But he did not bother saying so. He knew that his friend had selected his target for the evening and was already composing his review.
However, Harison knew he was expected to play a docile devil’s advocate. Over the years, the role he played opposite Groendal had become so defined as to be routine.
“Now, Rid, you know how difficult it is to get audiences to accept some of the modern composers. Maybe Palmer doesn’t think Detroit is ready for Schönberg and Ives. After all, he’s got to try to fill this place.”
“Nonsense! The way to do it is to tuck them in. All right, have your Mendelssohn and Beethoven, or your Schubert and Mendelssohn, but drop Bartók in there. The reason the expressionists, the atonals, the minimalists, haven’t caught on is that cowards like Palmer shy away from them. Detroit will never grow up until people like Palmer are driven out of positions of leadership!”
That was enough. Harison had played his part in this oft-repeated scenario. He knew he was right. This was the first century in which, with rare exception, the composers of that century were not performed. In Mozart’s day, they played Mozart. In Beethoven’s era, they played Beethoven. And of course the masters were still extremely popular. But avant-garde composers of varying degrees of daring-such as Schönberg, Cage, Bartók, and Ives—seemed to appeal mainly to other modern composers. It was as if today’s composers of serious music were writing for each other. Certainly not for the general public, which largely shunned them.
So it was a form of artistic suicide to schedule the moderns, particularly in a program of already limited appeal such as tonight’s chamber concert.