Kathleen Spivack - Unspeakable Things

Adeline! Herbert closed his eyes, vanishing instantly in his mind from the Automat. He was somewhere else, in his own home. All was in readiness. The rented chairs were set in proper rows for the concert, and his friends were slowly coming up the stairs into the house and handing their coats to the old maid, then walking into the main salon, where Adeline, radiant in mauve silk, greeted them. At the front of the room, under the curved bay windows that looked out into the garden, the grand piano waited, dark and mysterious, like a lover looking into the moonlight. Outside, the roses preened their last as dusk tinged them and their scent unfolded like the open arms of women toward the windows.

There was a rustling in the room, hushed as the Tolstoi Quartet entered, carrying their instruments aloft. They smiled at Adeline, who seated herself at the grand piano. Herbert’s heart swelled; he would ache with pride and pleasure. As the first notes of the Schubert piano quintet laid themselves on the waiting air, Herbert felt the tears startle forth from his eyes. There was not a sound during the playing, not a sound afterward.

Adeline came up to him and took his hand. She led Herbert to the front of the salon, where, held in the loving gaze of his wife and his friends, he watched as the Tolstoi Quartet led the room in applause for his presence.

“My dear Herbert,” Adeline said, holding out her arms to him for all the world to see. “Thank you, Herr Professor,” whispered the Tolstoi Quartet. The instruments shone under the soft light in Herbert’s house. His friends had never looked so beautiful. The dinner, the white drapery, the silver, his guests — all gleamed with a beauty of a still life now held in his memory.

“Your dear wife…,” murmured the leader of the Tolstoi Quartet reverently. “Tonight, she played like…like an angel….” Yes, that had been true….Herbert’s gift to himself. To her…That she should play one piece with the Tolstoi Quartet in his home. His birthday gift to her. And she had thanked him for that night. Yes.

Herbert thought of Adeline now, a strange feral creature, crazed with what she had and had not been forced to witness, stretched out in bed, in an asylum, a stranger almost even to him. And the Quartet, how sad they looked. Where was their music now? Their mutilated hands?

Herbert gathered his scratchy coat about him. “My friends,” he said softly. “Do not grieve any longer. We will find your fingers.” As he said this, Herbert, who had not the slightest idea of whether this was possible, felt a lightening, a resolve. “With God’s help, gentlemen, we shall find those fingers. And the Tolstoi Quartet will play again together.” Giddy inspiration entered Herbert. He wanted to be done with the whole thing. “I promise you. You shall play again together. In New York. Our new home.” Herbert’s ears stuck out from his gilded head. He poked his chin forward. “You shall play again. In Carnegie Hall.”

The four men looked at one another as if confirming their faith in Herbert’s magical powers. One last swoop of daring and hope entered Herbert’s heart. “And you shall play once more the Schubert piano quintet. With my dear Adeline,” he added.

“With the gracious Frau Professor Doktor?” the men exclaimed. “In Carnegie Hall?” The Quartet sprang to its feet, almost alarmed at such presumption. “We shall play again with Frau Professor Doktor? The Schubert? In Carnegie Hall?” They peered intently into Herbert’s face. “You will find our fingers?” they queried anxiously, as if not believing that their mad request would so foolhardily be met. “You are sure? You are sure, Herr Doktor?”

Now Herbert was in a hurry. He was flying through the air, rising up on the tails of his oversized tweed overcoat, bounding over the poisonous streets in a great whoosh of dark intention. Automobiles stopped, and passersby gaped, their mouths open, making large gray O’s of wonder as he flew over their heads, pursued by the beast of the night. Propelled by relief, a desire to escape his own recklessness, he gulped the cold air and hailed a taxi. He would make it to the hospital before the end of visiting hours.

The hospital doors flapped open and shut behind him. Herbert dropped his shoulders, forcing himself to appear relaxed as he entered the ladies’ ward. “My darling.”

Adeline lay in bed, unmoving, but she pushed herself to a half-sitting position when he entered. Her face was dirty with tears, her unkempt hair tangled. Thin strands of it lay upon the pillow, where the invalid had pulled it out.

“My little flower!” Herbert cried when he saw her. “But what has happened?” Seeing her, even like this, made his heart dance, and he floated past his own dread and put himself gently next to her. “Tell me.”

“Oh, Herbert!” Adeline cried suddenly. Throwing her arms around his neck, a gesture unusual for her, Adeline clutched him to her. Her breast heaved. Herbert felt her racked body as if it were his own. He patted her ineffectually, pushing back her tangled hair from her hot forehead.

“Herbert,” Adeline cried, “they took him. My Michael.” She could not speak further; her hands twisted around him, clutching first her hair, then his neck.

Herbert cradled his wife. “Our children.”

The wraith of Michael stood in the corner of the ward and watched them both. He tried to suck some breath of life from their wheezing presences. There were ashes in the air. White-boned, Michael stood, glowing as he watched his parents’ grief, then faded into a small, thin ash of himself.

“And what of David, who saw his brother taken?” Herbert did not permit himself to think about it. David was married now, and had the children. His precious grandchildren. Herbert was weary.

“Adeline, listen to me.” Herbert wanted to get away, but he took her face in his. Fearful, his wife regarded him. “Listen,” said Herbert. “I have seen the Tolstoi Quartet.”

“The Tolstoi?” Adeline suddenly stopped crying.

“Yes, my darling,” said Herbert. “They are here in New York.”

“Can it be true? Here?” Adeline made a convulsive movement, as if to throw Herbert off.

“They asked for you,” added Herbert.

“Ah, I am nothing!” she hissed. “Herbert, look at me,” She indicated her ravaged face. “I used to be something. Now I am nothing.” Her voice rose.

“Shh.” Herbert held her thrashing body. “Listen to me. You must, my dearest.” Adeline twitched, but less strongly now. Herbert continued to talk, although she twisted her face away from him. “They want you to play with them.” Adeline gestured angrily with her head, her mouth curling. “Yes,” said Herbert, not knowing whether he was lying. “In Carnegie Hall.” He sounded desperate, even to himself.

“Carnegie Hall?” Adeline’s mouth gaped.

Herbert continued more bravely now. The inspiration of a liar was oiling his tongue. “They want you to play the Schubert. Yes, my darling, the Schubert. In Carnegie Hall. They wait for you.”

“When?” asked Adeline.

“When you are ready,” replied Herbert, stroking her hair. Adeline started to sob again. As she continued to cry, Herbert tried not to laugh, so relieved was he at finding something to placate her. Boldly, he added, “The concert is planned for the end of the year.” Planned —he heard the word echoing after he said it. Casting a quick glance into the corner of the large room, where he assumed the spirit of Michael still watched, he tightened his arms around Adeline. “Planned already,” he repeated defiantly.

“But darling, you are mad. I am sure of it.” Adeline said.

“No, my little flower,” her husband answered. “Hurry and get better now. The Tolstoi Quartet is waiting for you.”