The symphony was approaching its thunderous, explosive climax. Antonia snuggled closer to him. “Beautiful, isn’t it,” she murmured dreamily. “So ecstatic, so full of life and celebration.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But not as beautiful as you.”
As their lips touched and he lost himself in their kiss, the music seemed to fade for a moment, replaced by another melody—a powerful, triumphant, martial tune in C major. The one the man in Beethoven’s apartment had tapped out on the pianoforte in the kitchen. Robbins wished the man had told him where it was from.
Antonia whispered softly in his ear, “Don’t be too disappointed you didn’t get your ‘new’ music. Remember, ‘Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.’ ” Then, her breasts barely grazing his chest, she looked shyly up at him. He had last seen that look in her eyes far too long ago, and knew she wasn’t planning to go back to her own apartment tonight. Over her shoulder he glimpsed the bust of Beethoven on the Steinway. The ghost of an approving smile seemed to play on its plaster lips.
In the background, endlessly repeated booming notes by the full orchestra were followed by a skyrocketing upward glissando and the last fortissimo chords of Beethoven’s final symphony.
The D minor.
The joyous Ninth.