Sleeping with Schubert -- Signed

Book by Marson Bonnie

CHAPTER ONE

The day I became a genius I locked the keys in the car with the motor running. This minor delay served its cosmic purpose, I suppose, delivering me right on time for my transformation at the spiritual launch site-women's shoes at Nordstrom.

Christmas in southern California satisfies about as well as chocolate mousse with Cool Whip. Holiday flourishes covered every Nordstrom surface that day, but the sun shone warmly, Santa's suit had sweat stains, and the perfect snow never melted.

Dad and I had a tradition of shopping for Mom together. Knowing her so well, we felt we could combine our instincts to pick a gift she might not loathe. Fat chance.

I found a rose-colored satin luxury that anyone would love. Dad looked at it skeptically, scratching his bushy gray hair.

"How much?"

"Hundred and eighty." I said it casually, like I always spend that much on bathrobes.

"Dollars? A hundred and eighty dollars? I could buy a house for that!" His face twisted with horror, which our poor saleslady took seriously. She flustered at us apologetically.

"Really, miss, it looks fine to me," he said. "Wrap it, please. Chanukah paper, if you have it."

The saleslady stared blankly back at him.

Ever since moving from New York to San Diego, my father's jokes zoomed over the heads of store clerks, waiters, and ticket takers. He ached for the verbal volleyball you could pick up on any street corner in the Bronx. I had moved away only as far as Brooklyn, and worked as a lawyer in Manhattan. In spare moments, I fantasized about more creative pursuits and a possible move to palm-tree country. But if ever I were tempted to live in California, that saleslady's blank stare would be a strong deterrent.

We headed toward the dresses, looking for I don't know what. Something for my sister, something for Aunt Frieda. One by one, commission-driven "sales associates" assaulted us with helpfulness. After a dozen May I help yous, I grabbed the first dress in reach and asked a saleslady for a dressing room. This made me safe. Nordstrom associates are connected by

hidden antennae and territorial threats that keep the shopper safe from other sales associates once an alliance is made. My boyfriend should be so monogamous.

Piano music had been drifting around in my head since we arrived. The volume rose and fell as we wandered around the store. When we drew close to the source, the melodies hardened and cracked like dried clay.

A highly polished baby grand sat on the highly polished marble floor and was played by a highly polished pianist. His honey-colored hair was swept away from his scarily perfect face. Turquoise-blue contacts looked down a surgically carved nose toward a beauty-queen smile with teeth as white as white.

He played the Christmas standards with showy finesse, dramatizing Rudolph and trivializing the Wise Men. His head swayed gracefully with the music, mimicking sincerity. Occasionally, he'd look up to bless us with a smirk and an eyebrow shrug, assuring us he was too good for this banal dreck the store made him play. If only he could show us his real stuff.

Normally, I'd accept it all as store atmosphere, but his music was getting on my nerves. Every time I got near him, my head throbbed and sweat slid down my neck. His know-it-all look enraged me and I fought not to scream when he Muzaked "Ave Maria."

I tried to walk away but his playing attracted me like a spectator to an Amtrak wreck. Occasional missed notes hit my body like flying glass. I outplayed him in my head, summoning the music's original beauty. When he left for his break, I calmly took his place on the piano bench and began to play.

Through all my grade-school piano lessons I'd only gotten good enough to recognize the skill in others. Suddenly I became an other.

I was not like a lifeless puppet, nor a remote-control robot. All the movement came from inside. Muscles flexed, fingers moved, and my mind was filled with a comprehension I had no right to possess. I vibrated like a tuning fork as the music flowed outward. Visions slid in and out of focus. My brain engaged in a psychic tug-of-war with an unseen opponent.

It was a lovely piece I played, one I'm sure I never heard before but which felt like an old friend. The melody started slowly and I marveled at the grace in my hands. My manicured fingertips roamed the keyboard at will, gathering up its secrets and pouring them out in exquisite form. The tempo picked up and my heart raced to meet it. I watched my fingers hurling, twisting, and dancing wildly, amazed they didn't pretzel up on me. Then came a light and lilting part pulling on strands of melody remembered from the beginning. The ending left me tear-drenched.

When I stopped, the world of Nordstrom fell in on me again. The response to my music was, like, totally Californian. Most of the shoppers shopped on, unscathed by a miracle.

Only a small crowd took notice. They gathered around with enthusiastic words and even requested autographs. An elegant woman in her forties, patrician to her toes, wept into a linen hanky. A gray-haired couple held tightly to each other and offered comments in a language I didn't recognize.

"Hey, lady, how'd you do that?" I turned to see an adolescent boy in trendy, cool-kid clothes. He stared at me, stunned, as if he'd just discovered fire.

"I don't know," I answered. Then the world grew dark, the ocean rushed through my ears, and I gratefully passed out.

µ

Do people normally dream when they faint? It was the first faint of my life, so I'm no expert. But when Dad's voice roused me a minute later, I had already had a life-changing experience.

My body housed two lives. To protect my sanity I denied it many times but, as I look back, it was obvious from the start. Someone else, some person who possessed more passion than I ever felt, had crawled into my soul with me. Like lovers sharing a bed, yanking at the covers, brushing up and pulling away, we were separate but together and utterly unready for each other.

"Liza, honey, are you okay?" My father helped me sit up as Nordstrom elves scurried to find help. The small throng around me asked one another the usual questions.

"I'm fine, Dad. I just want to go home."

My own sense of shock was augmented by strange responses to the ordinary details of the surroundings. Everything smelled wrong and glaring lights made me throw an arm across my eyes. I gasped at the sight of a woman in shorts.

"Someone's gone for a doctor, Liza. Let's just wait a minute." Then Dad's voice changed from concern to astonishment. "Honey, where on earth did you learn to play like that?"

A stylish store official in a dark business dress broke through the crowd with a medic in tow. Despite my protests, the brusque young man looked in my eyes, felt my pulse, and checked for signs of imminent demise. His quick, assured hands felt cool against my clammy skin. Much as he tried, he couldn't find anything horribly wrong and suggested I go home and take it easy for the rest of the day. If only he knew.

The curious bystanders were pretty much losing interest by then, except for an elderly, tweed-covered gent who chased after me and my father as we hurried toward the exit. He could barely catch his breath when he finally spoke: "Excuse me, miss, but that was remarkable. Really remarkable. Wherever have you been keeping yourself? Where may I hear you perform again?"

Perform a-gayne, was how he said it. He was American, but with that Continental accent you hear only in old movies.

"I don't perform anywhere." I was more frightened than flattered.

"Then where do you study? Can't I hear you again?" He looked hopeful, and actually removed his fedora as a show of respect.

"I'm sorry, sir, I really have to go." My response deflated him. "I'm glad you liked that number, though."

Dad held onto my elbow as we turned to go.

"That number?" The stranger was following us out the door. I wanted to disappear, but my Number One Fan would not be left behind. "Miss, don't you know what you've achieved? At least take my card and promise you'll call."

"I can't promise that"-I looked at the card-"Dr. Sturtz. I'm not from here, anyway. But I'll keep your card."

He seemed bereft, not ready to give up.

"Where do you live, my dear?"

"Brooklyn."

"May I at least know your name?"

"Liza. Liza Durbin."

Dad was kind while we drove home, allowing me to sit beside him without a word. He didn't ask his many questions, but I was asking myself the same ones anyway, plus some extras. Like why the sight of the parking lot startled me or how come I felt carsick for the first time since childhood. Just the feel of the synthetic seat covers made me squirm.

As we turned into the driveway of my parents' perfectly average suburban home, I realized how un-average I felt. (Hey, lady, how'd you do that? Sorry, kid, you must mean someone else. You must.) Only the familiarity of my parents' home kept me semi-sane and earthbound. I sank into an easy chair that was soft and overstuffed, like all their furniture. I scanned the family photos, the smiling faces on every wall and table. I recognized all of them. Would they still know me?

My mother greeted us in a black leotard and knee-length tights. She'd obviously just taught her yoga class. I marveled at her taut, sixty-year-old body, as if I hadn't seen it countless times before.

"What are you staring at?" she asked me.

"Nothing, Mom. You look good, that's all."

She eyed me suspiciously. "Twenty years of yoga will do that for you," she said. "I keep telling you that."

In response to my stubborn silence, Mom ...