Or‘. The two seated themselves. Michael tuned his cello, then looked at Or’. At her nod they began to play.
Max was right. The concerto bore no resemblance to the atonal cacophony of Or’s chamber music. The composer had returned to the folk music of Jewish Eastern Europe to find her themes. The music, forgotten for five decades, came to life in fits and starts as cello and oboe made tentative passes at each other. For a few poignant minutes they seemed to find each other in a measured antiphon. The harmony shattered abruptly as antiphon turned to antagonism. The instruments fought so fiercely that I could feel sweat on my temples.
They built to a frantic climax and broke off. Even this nonmusical audience could hold its breath when they paused at that peak. Then the cello chased the oboe from terror to peace, but a horrible peace, for it was the repose of death. I gripped Lotty’s hand, not making any pretense of dashing away my tears. Neither of us could join in the applause.
Michael and Or‘ bowed briefly and disappeared from the stage. Although the clapping continued for some minutes, with more enthusiasm than had greeted the Don Quixote Variations, the response lacked the vital spark that would have shown they’d got the point. The musicians didn’t return, but sent out the children’s choir for the set that concluded the concert.
Like Lotty, Max had been shaken by his son’s recital. I offered to get the car at once, but they felt they had to stay for the reception.
“Since it’s in Theresz’s honor, it would look strange if Max wasn’t there, especially as Michael is his son,” Lotty said. “If you want to leave, though, Vic, we can take a cab home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I’ll keep an eye out for you—you give me a signal when you’re ready to go.”
“But you might see Dick again—could you stand the excitement?” Lotty strove to steady herself with sarcasm.
I kissed her cheek. “I’ll manage.”
That was the last I saw of her for some time. The minute the concert ended a crush of people poured into the stairwells. When Max, Lotty, and I finally struggled into the upper foyer, we were immediately separated by the throng. Instead of fighting my way through the mob to rejoin them I went to the balustrade and tried following their progress. It was hopeless: Max tops Lotty’s five feet by only a few inches. I lost sight of them .within seconds of their reaching the main floor.
During the second half, caterers had set up shop in the lobby. Four tables, formed into an enormous rectangle, were covered with staggering amounts of food: shrimp molded into mountains, giant bowls of strawberries, cakes, rolls, salads, platters of raw oysters. The shorter sides of the rectangle held hot dishes. From my perch I couldn’t make out the contents very clearly, but thought egg rolls and chicken livers jostled next to fried mushrooms and crab cakes. In the middle of the two long sides, white-capped men poised carving knives over giant haunches of beef and ham.
People were stampeding to get at the spread before it vanished. I noticed Teri’s bronze breastplate in the first surge toward the shrimp mountain. She was riding in Dick’s wake as he snatched shrimps with the frenzy of a man who feared his just share would be lost if he didn’t grab it fast. While stuffing shrimp into his mouth he talked earnestly to two other men in evening garb, who were plunging into the oysters. As .they slowly moved toward the roast beef in the middle they punctuated their conversation by stabbing at olives, crab cakes, endives, whatever lay in their path. Ten bobbed behind, apparently talking to a woman in a blue gown whose surface was tightly covered with seed pearls.
“I feel like Pharaoh watching the locusts descend,” a familiar voice said behind me.
I turned to see Freeman Carter—Crawford, Mead’s token criminal lawyer. I grinned and laid a hand on the superfine broadcloth of his jacket. Our relationship went back to those days when I used to bob along behind Dick myself at the firm’s social functions. Freeman was the only partner who ever talked to the womenfolk without showing what a big favor he was doing us, so I’d started turning to him for my own legal needs those times the system looked like mangling me.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I know.”
“Love of music.” Freeman smiled sardonically. “What about you? You’re the last person I’d look for at a hundred-and-fifty-buck function.”
“Love of music,” I mimicked solemnly. “The cellist is the son of a friend—I’m sorry to say I’m freeloading, not supporting the cause.”
“Well, Crawford, Mead seems to have adopted Chicago Settlement as a pet. All partners were encouraged to buy five tickets each. I thought it would be collegial of me to join in—make it my last gesture of goodwill to the firm.”