“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Rossi.” Danny was sitting in the Park Avenue office of Dr. Brice Weisman, a world-renowned neurologist. Having taken enormous pains to ensure confidentiality, he had arranged a thorough examination. Though the doctor was about to put a name — and perhaps a fate — to it, Danny had known there was something physically wrong with him from that horrible moment in the studio when his left hand suddenly rebelled, refusing to obey the brain that bad been its absolute master for forty years.
The following day he bad returned to the television studio with the rehearsal tapes he had made at home. Then he, Maria, and a single engineer superimposed them at the crucial moment in the previous night’s taping when his hand had failed him.
Though Maria was his accomplice in this bit of deception so uncharacteristic of Danny, he had not confided in her completely. He had simply pleaded a busy schedule, impatience, and even television economy for this bit of electronic trickery.
“After all,” he had joked, “I’m dubbing myself. It’s not as if I had to sneak in Vladimir Horowitz.”
The only thing that made Maria suspect something more serious was Danny’s persistent questioning about whether the engineer was “a trustworthy guy.” Did he realize how many times he asked her? What was bothering him?
Indeed, that was what had brought Danny to Dr. Weisman’s office.
At first the neurologist merely listened impassively as Danny offered his own explanation as to why his left hand occasionally trembled. And that night, as well as in practice sessions thereafter, had seemed to be disobeying his mind.
“I mean, clearly it’s fatigue, Doctor. I suppose it could be nerves, too. I drive myself very hard. But obviously, as you can see from all those little movements you asked me to do — touching my fingers and all that — there’s nothing wrong with me physically.”
“I’m afraid there is, Mr. Rossi.”
“Oh.”
“I can detect a peripheral tremor in your left hand. There’s also some discernible bradykinesia — meaning it moves slightly slower than your right. All of this indicates basal ganglia dysfunction. In other words, some kind of damage to the motor area of your brain.”
“You mean a tumor?” Danny asked, his fear exacerbating the tremor in his hand.
“No,” the doctor said calmly, “your CT scan shows no evidence of one.”
“God, that’s a relief,” Danny sighed. “Then how can we fix this damn thing so I can get back to work?”
Weisman paused and then answered softly, “Mr. Rossi, I would be less than honest if I told you we could ‘fix’ your condition. In fact, we can only hope that it progresses very gently.”
“You mean it might spread to my other hand as well?”
“Theoretically, that’s possible. But when someone as young as you presents this sort of unilateral tremor, it usually remains on that one side. And, you may be relieved to know, the loss of function is very, very gradual.”
“But you’re a doctor, dammit. Why the hell can’t you cure this sort of thing?”
“Mr. Rossi, much of the working of the brain is still a mystery to us. At this stage of our knowledge, the best we can offer are medications that mask the symptoms. But I assure you, we can hide a tremor as small as yours for many years.”
“Will these drugs let me play the piano?” he asked.
Dr. Weisman took off his glasses and began wiping them with his tie. Not that they really needed cleaning. But this way Daniel Rossi’s face would be out of focus when he told him the worst.
And he began with a kind of verbal anesthetic.
“Mr. Rossi, may I tell you, I’ve always admired you as an artist. And what I find most remarkable about your talent — and what will help you in what I know is going to be a difficult situation — is your versatility.”
He paused and then consigned Danny Rossi to a living death.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to play concerts anymore, Mr. Rossi.”
“Not at all?”
“No. But your right hand is fine and very likely to remain so. You’ll be able to continue conducting with no problem.”
Danny did not reply.
“And the best consolation I can offer is something I learned from one of your own TV programs. Giants like Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven all started as performers, but are remembered today only because of what they wrote. You can throw the energy you once spent at the keyboard into composition.”
Danny hid his face with his hands and began to sob more intensely than he had at any time in his life.
Dr. Weisman could not offer any further comfort. For he had no inkling of what his words would elicit from his patient’s psyche.
Danny suddenly leapt to his feet and began to pace the room. Then he shouted from the depths of his grief, addressing the neurologist almost as if his diagnosis had been an act of hostility. “You don’t understand, Doctor. I’m a great pianist. I’m a truly great pianist.…”
“I’m aware of that,” Weisman replied softly.
“But you don’t get my point,” Danny retorted. “I’m not that brilliant a conductor. And at best my composing is second-rate, derivative. I know myself. I can’t do any better.”
“Mr. Rossi, I think you’re being much too harsh on yourself.”
“No, goddammit, I’m being honest. The only thing I’m any good at is playing the piano. You’re taking away from me the one thing in the world that I can really do well.”
“Please understand,” the doctor responded, “I’m not taking it away from you. You have a physical disorder.”
“But what the hell caused it?” Danny demanded furiously.
“It could be any one of a number of things. You could have been born with this condition, which has only now surfaced. It can also be the result of diseases like encephalitis. It’s even been known to be induced by certain medications.…”
“What sort of medications?”
“I don’t think that would apply in your case, Mr. Rossi. I’ve looked very carefully at the list of drugs you gave me.”
“But I lied, Dr. Weisman. I omitted a few. I mean, with my schedule I’ve come to rely on all sorts of stimulants to get me up for performances. Can they have caused this?
“Conceivably. Is there anything else that you ye neglected to mention?”
Danny now let out a feral roar. “Jesus — I’m going to murder that fucking Dr. Whitney!”
“Not the notorious Beverly Hills ‘Dr. Feelgood’?”
“You mean you know him?” Danny asked.
“Only from the damage I’ve seen in the patients his ‘cocktails’ have brought to my office. Tell me, did his ‘vitamins’ make it difficult for you to sleep?”
“Yes. But he prescribed —”
“Phenothiazine?”
Danny nodded mutely.
“And how long has this been going on?”
“Two-three years. Could that have —”
The neurologist shook his head in frustration. “That man should really have had his license revoked. But I’m afraid he’s got too many powerful patients protecting him.”
“Why did he do this to me?” Danny shouted again in frantic despair.
Dr. Weisman’s answer was somewhat sterner than his previous remarks.
“In honesty, I don’t think you can blame it all on the wretched Dr. Whitney. In my experience, his clients have been at least marginally aware of what they were getting into. And you are a highly intelligent man.”
Daniel Rossi walked the twenty blocks to the Hurok office in a kind of trance. He had not learned anything he hadn’t already known subconsciously. For long before he’d heard the dread pronouncement he had sensed the catastrophe the doctor had confirmed.