Night Film(57)

Hopper emerged from a door in the very back with a middle-aged wisp of a man sporting brown corduroys and a black turtleneck, a weedy patch of gray hair sprouting off his balding head. He looked like a classical music man-child. You could spot these Mahler-loving men within a ten-block radius of Carnegie Hall. They tended to wear earth tones, have on DVD all of public television’s Great Performances series, live alone in apartments on the Upper West Side, and have potted plants they spoke to daily.

“This is Peter Schmid,” Hopper said.

“The manager of Klavierhaus,” Peter added with pride.

Nora and I introduced ourselves. “I understand Ashley Cordova came in here a few weeks ago,” I said.

“I had no idea who she was at the time,” Peter said eagerly, clasping his hands together. “But based on Mr. Cole’s description, yes, I believe she came to Klavierhaus.”

He was one of those people you initially believed had a foreign accent, though it turned out he was American, only spoke delicately, as if every word were something to be carefully dusted off and held up to the light.

“Did the police come here to ask about her?”

“No, no. We’ve had no police. I had no inkling of who she was until Mr. Cole came in this afternoon. He gave me her description, and I recognized her immediately.” Peter glanced at Hopper. “The dark hair. The red coat with the black detailing along the sleeves. The beauty.”

“When exactly did she come in?” I asked.

“You need the precise date?”

“It’d be helpful.”

Peter hurried into the administrative alcove along the opposite wall. After fumbling down behind the counter, he produced a large leather calendar stuffed with papers.

“It was almost certainly a Tuesday, because we’d just had our weekly concert salon,” he mumbled, flipping open the cover. “Usually it’s over by ten-thirty. On this night, around eleven, I was in the back cleaning up when suddenly I heard the most exciting interpretation of Ravel’s Valses nobles et sentimentales. I’m sure you know it?”

We shook our heads, which seemed to concern him.

“Well. I’d forgotten to lock the door.” Scrutinizing the calendar, he frowned, thoughtfully pressing a finger to his lips. “It was October fourth. Yes. That has to be it.”

Smiling, he slid the calendar around for us to take a look, tapping the day in question with his index finger.

“I hurried into the showroom, and I saw her at the piano.”

“Which one and where?” I asked.

He pointed toward the front. “The Fazioli. There in the window.”

I strolled over to it, Nora following me.

“Is it a good one?” I asked.

Peter chuckled as if I’d made a joke, heading after us. “Faziolis are the best in the world. Many professionals find them superior to Steinways.”

I studied it. Even by my amateur eyes, it was a gorgeous, intimidating instrument.

“Pianos are like people,” Peter noted softly. “Every one has a different personality. They take time to get to know. And they can get lonely.”

“What personality does this one have?” Nora asked.

“Her? Oh. She’s a bit of a diva. If she were in high school, she’d be the prom queen. She can be moody, imperious. Take over if you’re not careful. But if you show her a firm hand, she’ll dazzle you. All piano soundboards are made of spruce. Well, Fazioli uses spruce from the Val di Fiemme forest in Northern Italy.”

He awaited our amazed reaction, but we could only stare back blankly.

“It’s the same timber the Stradivari family used to craft their legendary violins in the seventeenth century. It produced an opulent velvet sound that can’t be replicated by any other manufacturer today. It’s why Stradivarius violins today sell in the millions.”

“What did you do when you heard her?” I asked.

“I intended to tell her she’d have to come back tomorrow. We were closed, after all. But her playing was”—he shut his eyes and shook his head—“electrifying. I could tell she’d been trained by a European, due to her take-no-prisoners, blustery articulation perfectly balanced with profound intimacy, which brought to mind some of the greatest pianists of all time. Argerich. Pascal Rogé. I couldn’t bear to interrupt. Genius doesn’t keep to business hours, n’est-ce pas? I didn’t speak to her until she was finished.”

“How long was that?” I asked.

“Approximately a minute and a half. She looked so familiar, in a very distant way. Like a tune you suddenly recall from childhood and yet you can’t remember the lyrics or really anything beyond a handful of mysterious notes.” He sighed. “Now I realize it was Ash DeRouin. All grown up. I’d heard from one of our owners, Gabor, that she used to come in here and play years ago, as a teenager. But I didn’t make the connection.” He paused, his face pensive. “When she finished, she asked me politely if she could play the entire suite, the Assez Lent through the Epilogue. The performance takes about fifteen minutes. Naturally I said yes.” He smiled. “If she’d have asked to play every one of Beethoven’s sonatas, I’d have agreed. When she finished, she raised her head, gazing at me. She had a very piercing stare.”

“Did she say anything?”