The two of them stood motionless for a long moment, looking at each other. Harvey gave a gentle knock.
“Come on in.” The voice was low and well tempered, with the faintest trace of an accent. Harvey led the way into the practice room.
“Ms Rasinovsky. .” he began. He was unable to continue.
He didn’t know what he had expected, but the woman facing him with the cello cradled between her thighs was a shock.
Her red-shading-to-magenta hair made a spiky halo around her head. Her plump lips were painted to match. Wedgewood-blue eyes blazed in her long, pale face. One ear was pierced by half a dozen silver hoops and every finger of the hand that clasped the bow was decorated with a silver ring.
She wore a tight black jersey that zipped at the neck. The zipper was pulled down low enough that Harvey could see the tiny rose tattooed on creamy skin of her throat and the shadowy chasm between her full breasts. Her matching skirt was slit up the front. Harvey was grateful that she was wearing opaque tights.
When she smiled, put down her bow and stood to greet them, Harvey noticed her pointy-toed, high-heeled, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West boots.
No, there was no way this woman could have created that music! He swallowed hard, and tried again. “Ms Rasinovsky,” he croaked. “I’m Harvey Goldberg, and this is my brother, Albert.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Thank you for coming all the way to Boston.”
Al’s eyes gleamed. He stepped forward and took the slender hand the cellist offered. “The pleasure is ours, Ms Rasinovsky. I haven’t heard that piece played so well for many years.”
The woman laughed, deep in her chest. “You flatter me. And please, call me Deidre.”
“Al is telling the truth — Deidre. Your performance was astonishing. Not only was it technically perfect, it was very moving.”
“I appreciate the praise all the more, coming from a musician of your reputation, Mr Goldberg — I mean, Harvey.”
She made his name sound like music. Harvey suddenly felt as though somebody had turned on a sunlamp. His wool suit was unbearably hot. His necktie was strangling him. He burned with embarrassment as he imagined how she must see him: a dumpy middle-aged man, balding and a bit dishevelled, blushing like a girl. He needed to take control of this interview, but somehow he couldn’t organize his thoughts enough to utter a coherent sentence.
To his surprise, Al stepped into the breach. “I can see why you’d want to get back on the stage, Deidre. Your talent is wasted on students. What I don’t understand is why you’re interested in joining us. Because, honestly, we’re not of your calibre.”
There was that laugh again, vibrating through Harvey’s body like a low G drawn from her bow.
“I’ve had a solo career, Albert. It is a lonely life. The spotlight isolates you from your fellow musicians. I am familiar with the fleeting fulfilment of applause and the acid of my colleagues’ envy. I don’t want that. I want to belong to a community of music, a collaboration where our creation is greater than what any of us could achieve on our own. A musical family, if you will. And I sense, from listening to your recordings, that you could be offering what I am missing. That sense of belonging.”
“Do you have a husband?” asked Harvey, struggling to gain a foothold in the conversation. “Children?”
“I was married once, briefly. It rapidly became clear to both of us that despite the intense sexual attraction we shared, no man could compete with music for my affections.”
Harvey blushed again. How could they possibly contemplate performing with this post-punk siren, when simply talking to her turned him back into an awkward, tongue-tied teenager?
Al, on the other hand, seemed to radiate poise. “After hearing your Bach, Deidre, I hardly think we need to give you an audition. However, it seems like we should try playing together. To test out the chemistry, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course. Why not now? I see you’ve brought your instruments. How about K563? One of my students has been working on it, so I have the music here.”
She extricated two scores from a pile on the table beside her, and handed one to Al. “I only have two copies, though. Do you and Harvey mind sharing?”
“I think we can manage,” Al reassured her. He adjusted the music stand so that he and his brother could both read the page.
Deidre settled back on to her stool and embraced her cello. Her long pale fingers caressed the flowing curves of the body, then danced lightly up the frets. Her gestures were so sensual that Harvey found himself becoming aroused.
This was unbearable. He fought an urge to stand and run out the door, back to Brooklyn, back to the dreary but familiar confines of his normal life. There was something dreamlike about this encounter, or perhaps nightmarish. He needed to escape, but this exotic, disturbing woman rooted him to the spot.
Al had busied himself tuning his violin and rosining his bow. Harvey tried to hide his nervousness by doing the same.
“Shall we try the Allegro first movement?” Deidre asked. “Or would you rather tackle one of the minuets?”
“The Allegro’s fine.” Al positioned the violin under his chin. “Ready?”
Harvey and Deidre prepared themselves. Al nodded the signal, and they launched into the piece.
The attack was perfect. Mozart’s sprightly melody filled the room, light as summer, free as running water. Harvey felt it flowing effortlessly from his instrument, entwining with the voices of the others. Laughter rose in his chest, bubbling and threatening to spill over. First one instrument and then another danced away from the ensemble, gambolling up and down the scales before rejoining the harmony. It was as wonderfully careless and playful as the composer had intended.
He glanced over at Deidre. Her painted lips were parted, her eyes sparkling. Al wore a smile for the first time in weeks. Harvey felt as if he were levitating six inches above the floor. He forgot to be embarrassed or self-conscious.
He knew that they still had a lot of work to do, reviewing the schedule, rehearsing, figuring out the money part. The most serious obstacle, though, seemed to have evaporated. It was clear that Deidre could become part of the trio. In fact, it felt as though she already was.
It had been Al’s idea to move Deidre into Richard’s room. They were spending six hours a day practising together, why waste time having her travel back and forth to a hotel? Of course, there were considerations of economy as well. Plus, Al admitted to himself, he enjoyed the thought of the glamorous cellist inhabiting Richard’s space, sleeping in his bed. If Richard were haunting the place, he’d be eating his heart out. After three days, though, Al was beginning to wonder whether he’d made a mistake. Rehearsals were going well for the most part, but when they weren’t playing, he was finding it difficult to concentrate.
Her sharp patchouli scent lingered in the hallway. Her lace brassiere hung in the shower. Yesterday morning he had pushed open the half-ajar bathroom door, thinking the room was empty. Instead, he found her clad in a screaming red satin kimono that clashed with her hair, with one foot perched on the toilet seat, shaving her legs.
She glanced up and smiled at him, obviously unfazed. He backed out of the room mumbling an apology. Later though, the scene haunted him. His momentary sensory impressions elaborated themselves into detailed images: the fine curve of her arch, the creamy skin of her thigh, the glimpses of rounded flesh where her robe fell open at the throat. The amused gleam in her sapphire eyes. The welcoming smile on her harlot-red lips.
Al cursed his imagination. He was becoming obsessed. Each time he lay on his bed stroking himself, the images became more vivid and intense. The release was fleeting. Before an hour was gone, he found himself wanting her again. He considered a quick visit to the girls at the Peacock Club, but he doubted that would help.