Or he might run away, disappear across the border into Canada.
The Conservatory had not yet notified the organizers of the competition, that Zacharias Jones had decided to drop out. And now he was reconsidering his decision. And there was Gallagher to speak reasonably saying that nobody expected him to win, the honor was in qualifying. “Look, you’ve been playing the Beethoven sonata here for months, so play it out there. What’s the difference, essentially? There is no difference. Except Beethoven composed his music to be heard, right? He kept the ”Appassionata‘ from being published prematurely because he didn’t believe that the world was ready for it yet, but we’re ready for it, kid. So play your heart out. And for Christ’s sake stop moping.“
Taken by surprise, Zack laughed. As usual, Dad was right.
2
In San Francisco the streets shone wetly. So steep, as in an ancient cataclysm. The air was harshly pure, blown inland from the fog-obscured ocean.
And the fog! Outside the windows of their twentieth-floor suite in the San Francisco Pacific Hotel the world had collapsed to a few feet.
The world had collapsed to a gleaming piano keyboard.
“The breath of God.”
It was so. There could be no other explanation. That he’d become at the age of seventeen a young pianist named Zacharias Jones, his thumbnail-sized photograph in the glossy program of the 1974 San Francisco International Piano Competition. And she’d become Hazel Gallagher.
In their hotel suite, a dozen red roses awaited. A cellophane-wrapped wicker basket stuffed with gourmet foods, bottles of white and red wine. They would have laughed wildly together like conspirators except they’d grown wary of each other in recent months. The son had aimed at the mother’s heart, he’d struck a deep stunning blow.
Unknowing, Gallagher had become the mediator between them. He had not the slightest awareness of the tension between mother and son. Nudging Hazel, when they heard Zack whistling in his adjoining hotel room, “Listen! That’s a good sign.”
Hazel did not know if it was a good sign. She, too, had become strangely happy in San Francisco, in the fog. It was a city of wetly gleaming near-vertical streets and quaintly clamorous “trams.” It was a city utterly new to her and Zack. It had a posthumous feel to it, a sense of calm. The breath of God had blown them here, as whimsically as elsewhere.
Downstairs in the hotel gift shop, Hazel bought a deck of cards.
Alone in the suite she tore the cellophane from the deck and rapidly shuffled the cards and slapped them out onto a glass-topped table facing a window, for a game of solitaire.
So happy, to be alone! Gallagher had badly wanted her to come with him and Zack, to the luncheon honoring the pianists. But Hazel remained behind. On the plane, she’d seen two teenaged girls, sisters, playing double solitaire.
So happy. Not to be Hazel Jones.
“Hazel? Why the hell are you wearing black?”
It was a new dress of softly clinging jersey, graceful folds of cloth at the bodice. Long-sleeved, long-waisted. The skirt fell to mid-calf. She would wear black satin pumps with it. The October night was cool, she would wrap herself in an elegant black wool shawl.
“Shouldn’t I? I thought…”
“No, Hazel. It’s a gorgeous dress but too damned funereal for the occasion. You know how Zack interprets things. Especially coming from you. A little more color, Hazel. Please!”
Gallagher seemed so serious, Hazel gave in. She would wear a cream-colored suit in light wool, with a crimson silk scarf, one of Thaddeus Gallagher’s more practical gifts, tied around her neck. It was all a masquerade.
Outside the tall windows, the fog had cleared. San Francisco emerged at dusk, a city of stalagmites glittering with lights to the horizon. So beautiful! Hazel wondered if she might be forgiven, remaining in the room. Her heart clenched in terror at the prospect of what lay ahead.
“Hey Dad? Come help.”
Zack was having trouble with his black tie. He’d been in and out of his own room, lingering in their bedroom. He had not been very comfortable that day, Gallagher had said. At the luncheon, and afterward. The other pianists were older, more experienced. Several exuded “personality.” Zack had a tendency to withdraw, to appear sullen. He had showered now for the second time that day and he had combed his hair with compulsive neatness. His blemished forehead was mostly hidden by wings of fawn-colored hair. His angular young face shone with a kind of panicked merriment.
The men were required to wear black tie. Starched white cotton dress shirts with studs, elaborate French cuffs. Gallagher helped Zack with both the necktie and the French cuffs.
“Chin up, kid. A tux is a ridiculous invention but we do look good. Dames fall for us.” Gallagher snorted with laughter at his feeble joke.
Through a mirror Hazel observed. She could not help but feel that the little family was headed for an execution and yet: which one of them was to be executed?
Gallagher fussed with Zack’s tie, undoing it entirely and trying again. Almost, you would see that the two were related: middle-aged father with a high bald dome of head, adolescent son nearly his height, frowning as the damned tie was being adjusted for him. Hazel guessed that Gallagher had to restrain himself from wetly kissing the tip of Zack’s nose in a clown’s blessing.
The more edgy Gallagher was, the more jocular, antic. At least he wasn’t doubling up with gastric pains, vomiting into a toilet as he’d done at his father’s house. In semi-secrecy (Hazel knew, without having seen) he’d unlocked the minibar in the parlor and taken a swig or two of Johnnie Walker Black Label Whiskey.
It was believed to be contrary to nature, that a man might love another man’s son as if he were his own son. Yet Gallagher loved Zack in this way, Gallagher had triumphed.
Of five pianists scheduled to perform that evening in the concert hall of the San Francisco Arts Center, Zacharias Jones was the third. Next day the remaining eight pianists would perform. The announcement of the first, second, third prize winners would be made after the last pianist played that evening. The Gallaghers were relieved that Zack would play so soon, the ordeal for him would be more quickly over. But Gallagher worried that the judges would be more inclined to favor pianists who played last.
“Still, it doesn’t matter,” Gallagher told Hazel, stroking his chin distractedly, “how Zack does. We’ve said this.”
Their seats were in the third row, on the aisle. They had a clear, unimpeded view of the keyboard and the pianists’ flying hands. As they listened to the first two pianists perform, Gallagher gripped Hazel’s hand tightly, leaning heavily against her. He was breathing quickly and shallowly and his breath smelled of a lurid mixture of whiskey and Listerine mouthwash.
After each of the performances, Gallagher applauded with enthusiasm. He’d been a performer himself. Hazel’s arms were leaden, her mouth dry. She’d heard hardly a note of music, she had not wanted to realize how talented her son’s rivals were.
Abruptly then Zack’s name was announced. He moved onto the stage with surprising readiness, even managing to smile toward the audience. He could see nothing but blinding lights and these lights made him appear even younger than he was, contrasting with the preceding pianist who’d been in his early thirties. At the piano, Zack seated himself and leaned forward and began playing the familiar opening notes of the Beethoven sonata without preamble. Though Hazel had seen Zack perform in numerous recitals it was always something of a shock to her, how abruptly these performances began. And, once begun, they must be executed in their entirety.