Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

'As usual, my dear,' he answered, adding, 'Gwen you've met. And this is Oliver, a friend of Jo's.'

'Nice to meet you. How's our daughter?'

'Fine,' retorted Mr Stein, before I could respond.

'I didn't ask you, did I, Stein?' said Mrs Stein.

'Jo is fine,' I said, not quite in sync with all their badinage. 'And thank you for the seats.'

'Did you enjoy it?' Mrs Stein inquired.

'Of course. It was terrific!' said her husband.

'Who asked you?' said Mrs Stein.

'I'm answering for him because I'm a professional. And I can tell you Merritt was superb.'

Then back to me, 'Old Purcell could write music, huh? That finale — all those great chromatic changes in the downward tetrachord!'

'Perhaps he didn't notice, Stein,' said Mrs Stein.

'He had to. Merritt sang the thing four times!'

'Excuse him, Oliver,' said Mrs Stein to me. He's only crazy when it comes to music'

"What else is there?' Stein retorted, adding, 'Everyone's invited Sunday. Our place. Half past five. That's when we'll really play.'

'We can't,' said Gwen, at last returning to the conversation. 'It's Stephen's parents' anniversary.'

'Okay,' said Mr Stein. 'Then Oliver — '

'He may have other plans,' said Mrs Stein to help me off the hook.

'Who are you to talk for him?' said Stein to Mrs Stein with righteous indignation. And then to me, 'Show up around five-thirty. Bring your instrument.'

The only thing I play is hockey,' I replied, in hope that I would gross him out.

'Then bring your stick,' said Mr Stein. 'We'll put you by the ice cubes. See you Sunday, Oliver.'

'How'd it go?' said Steve, when I deposited his wife.

'Wonderful,' Gwen rhapsodized. 'You missed a great performance.'

'What did Barrett think?' he asked, though I was standing there. I wanted to refer him to my newfound spokesman, Mr Stein, but simply mumbled, 'It was good.'

'That's good,' said Steve.

But inwardly I paraphrased the late Queen Dido as I thought, Now I am screwed.

Sunday came. And naturally, I didn't want to go. But fate did not come through for me. I didn't get an urgent message on an urgent case. I didn't get a call from Phil. I didn't even get the flu. Thus, lacking an excuse — and carrying a large bouquet — I found myself on Riverside and Ninety-fourth. Outside the door of Louis Stein.

'Aha,' sang out the host when he espied my floral offering. 'You shouldn't have.' And then called out to Mrs Stein, 'It's Oliver — he brought me flowers!'

She came trotting up and kissed me on the cheek.

'Come in and meet the music mafiosi,' Mr Stein commanded. And he put his arm around my shoulder.

Ten or twelve musicians were installed at music stands around the room. Chattering and tuning up. Tuning up and chattering. The mood was upbeat and the volume loud. The only fancy piece of furniture was a large and brightly polished black piano. Through a massive window I could see the Hudson River and the Palisades.

I shook everybody's hand. Most were sort of grown-up hippies. Except the younger ones, who looked like younger hippies. Why the hell had I put on a tie?

'Where's Jo?' I asked to be polite.

'She's on till eight,' said Mr Stein, 'but meet her brothers. Marty plays the horn and David winds and flute. You notice they rebelled against their parents. Jo's the only one who even touched a string.'

Both were tall and shy. But brother David was so timid he just waved his clarinet in greeting.

Marty shook my hand. 'Welcome to the music zoo,' he said.

'I don't know anything about it, Marty,' I confessed uneasily. 'Say "pizzicato" and I'd tell you that it's veal with cheese.'

'It is, it is,' said Mr Stein. 'And stop apologizing. You're not the first who only came to listen.'

'No?' I asked.

'Of course not. My late father couldn't read a note.'

'Oliver, please tell him that we're waiting,' Mrs Stein called out, 'or else you come and play the cello.'

'Patience, darling,' said the host. 'I'm making sure he feels at home.'

'I feel at home,' I said obligingly. He stuffed me in a floppy chair, then hurried back to join the orchestra.

It was fascinating. I just sat there watching what my preppie buddies might describe as weirdos making lovely music. Now a Mozart, now Vivaldi, then a guy called Lully I had never heard of.

After Lully came a Monteverdi and the best pastrami I had ever tasted. In the food break, tall, shy brother David whispered to me in clandestine tones.

'Is it true that you're a hockey player?'

'Was,' I said.

'Then can I ask you something?'

'Sure.'

'How did the Rangers do today?'

'Gee, I forgot,' I said, and clearly disappointed him. How could I explain that Oliver the former hockey maniac was so immersed in legal research he forgot to watch the Rangers beat or lose to his once daily worshipped punching Boston Bruins?

Then Joanna came and kissed me. Actually, it must have been a ritual. She kissed everybody.

'Have they driven you insane?'

'No,' I said. 'I'm really having fun.'

And suddenly it struck me that I wasn't even lying. The harmony I had enjoyed that evening wasn't just the music. It was everywhere. The way they talked. The way they complimented one another on the execution of a tricky passage. All I'd ever known remotely like this was when Harvard hockey jocks would psych each other up to go and trample people.

Only here they were psyched up just playing music side by side. Everywhere I sensed so goddamn much … affection.

I had never visited a world like this.

Except with Jenny.

'Get your fiddle, Jo,' said Mr Stein.

'Are you crazy?' she retorted. 'I'm so out of shape — '

'You practice medicine too much,' he said. 'You should be giving music equal time. Besides, I've saved the Bach especially for you.'

'No,' Joanna answered firmly.

'Come on. Oliver's been waiting just to hear you." Now she blushed. I tried to signal, but to no avail.

Mr Stein then turned to me. 'Tell your friend my daughter to tune up her violin.' Before I could react, Joanna, now a maraschino, ceased protesting.

'Okay, Daddy, have it your way. But it won't sound good.'

'It will, it will,' he answered. Then as she went off, he turned to me again. 'You like the Brandenburgs?'

Inwardly I tightened. For these Bach concertos were among the few I did know. Had I not proposed to Jenny after she had played the Fifth and we were walking by the river back at Harvard?

Had that music not been something of a prelude to our marriage? The very thought of hearing it began an ache.

'Well?' asked Mr Stein. Then I realized I had not responded to his friendly query.

'Yes,' I said, 'I like the Brandenburgs. Which one are you doing?'

'All! Why should we show a favorite?'

'I'm just playing one,' his daughter called, affecting pique. She now was seated with the violins, engaged in dialogue with some old gentleman who shared her stand. The group was tuning up again. But as the intermission had been laced with booze, the volume was a good deal higher than before.

Mr Stein had now decided to conduct. 'What has Lenny Bernstein got on me? A better hairdo!'

He tapped his podium, a TV set.

'Now,' he said, Ms accent suddenly Germanic, 'I vant sharp attack. You hear me? Sharp.'

The orchestra was poised. He raised his pencil for the downbeat.

I held my breath and hoped I would survive.

Then suddenly the guns went off.

I mean a kind of fist artillery upon the door. Too loud and — if I may so judge — quite out of rhythm.

'Open up!' a semihuman voice bellowed.