“None of this adds up,” Kyle said suddenly, as if he had been thinking about it for a long time. “Maybe Raymond engineered it, or maybe it was Victor. Or maybe it was both of them, and Raymond double-crossed Victor. But whatever, I’ve got to tell you, I agree with Valerie. Victor is alive.”
“What about the dental records?” John reminded him.
“With Raymond’s money and power, you think he couldn’t come up with some phony dental records?” Kyle asked incredulously.
“Oh, look,” John said. “Victor has been going to the same dentist in London for years. His dental chart checked out. What do you think happened, Kyle? Do you think Raymond got down to Acapulco and bribed somebody in the coroner’s office?”
“Come on,” said Kyle. “Raymond and Victor are two of a kind when it comes to money and power. Both of them know it can buy anything and anyone.”
Except for me, Valerie thought, feeling battered and miserable as she sat huddled in her chair. I’m the one who’s here for love.
Valerie was grateful when Dr. Feldman stopped by that evening to give her a shot. She lay in her bed in the silent room, her thoughts jumbled, as the doctor’s face loomed above her. She felt the almost imperceptible sting of a needle in her arm. Elliott’s face gradually drifted away, and she heard the soft click of her bedroom door as he closed it behind him.
How strange life is, Valerie thought, feeling herself slipping into a drugged sleep. Penn International is in ruins, and marshals will be in this house. And where will I be? How will I take care of myself? How will I take care of my children? Why has Raymond done this? It had always seemed impossible to her that Raymond could be Victor’s brother. Suddenly, everything seemed impossible, even her relationship with Victor. How could a seventeen-year-old music student from Los Angeles ever have met and married one of the world’s richest, most attractive men?
An image of herself at fourteen flickered through Valerie’s fogged mind. It was the summer of 1968, and she was an usher at the Hollywood Bowl. She stood in the aisles handing out programs while in the boxes, picnic baskets were opened and bottles of wine and champagne were pulled from ice coolers. Concertgoers draped white tablecloths over folding tables, and candles burned steadily in the still night. She glanced at the stage, where the orchestra was already tuning up for that night’s program of Debussy, Chopin and Rachmaninoff. Zubin Mehta was conducting, and the guest artist was Maria Obolensko, the pianist, making her first appearance in southern California.
Valerie, working at the Bowl for the second summer season in a row, handed programs to a couple hurrying to their seats, and to the tall man who sauntered along after them.
“Thank you,” he said, his English perfect but still with something faintly European in his voice. “You’re a very pretty girl. Your hair is extraordinary.”
Valerie felt the blood rush to her face, and she averted her eyes. A line, Valerie thought, handing programs to the next couple. She felt she was too skinny, with barely formed breasts. But she had always been secretly vain about her hazel eyes, sometimes green with flecks of yellow. She liked her shiny blond hair that was almost white, pulled back-tonight in a ponytail.
“I understand all the ushers are music students,” the man said.
“Yes, most of us, anyway,” she replied, looking up at him. His intent brown eyes scrutinized her almost as if he recognized her from somewhere. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the couple he had come with waiting impatiently for him. The Talbots. They were a handsome middle-aged pair, very social and very rich, whose pictures were always in the society pages.
“What do you play?” he asked.
“The piano.”
“Like Maria Obolensko?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“Well, no,” Valerie said, unconsciously taking a step back. “Not yet.”
“I can introduce you to her,” the man said. “I’m Claude Vilgran, and I’ve known her for years. Perhaps you can play for her, my dear.”
“Claude, come along,” the woman called.
“What is your name?” said the man called Claude, his voice low, insinuating, as he leaned toward her.
“I don’t know you,” Valerie replied, as she felt her heart beating faster, her face flushing.
“You think about it,” he said, giving her shoulder a little pat as he turned to join his friends. Valerie looked after his well-tailored back as he strolled away, wondering why she felt so confused, so frightened. After all, he was a friend of the Talbots. Everybody knew them. But she had the oddest feeling that he had recognized her. Did she remind him of somebody else?
She put it out of her mind at the scattered applause that swelled in volume as Zubin Mehta, dark and handsome, dressed in white tie and tails, strode to the podium. Turning, he made a deep bow to the audience, his black curls cascading dramatically over his forehead. Straightening, he shot out a hand, smiling broadly. Maria Obolensko appeared out of the wings, wearing a low-cut red gown that was like a blaze of fire against her pale skin. Her black hair was pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck, and her mouth was a bright slash of scarlet. Diamonds glittered in her ears, at her throat.
Valerie caught her breath. Someday, she thought, her eyes sparkling. Someday I’ll be standing there.
The crowd was quiet as the maestro raised his baton, and Maria Obolensko bent over the keys of the Steinway. Usually, Valerie would close her eyes and let the music sweep over her. Tonight, though, she found herself surreptitiously searching the boxes for Claude Vilgran.
As the lights came up for intermission, Valerie felt her body tense. Any minute now, she thought, there would be a tap on her shoulder, a card slipped into her hand. Claude Vilgran. It took her a few minutes to spot him in the crowd drifting toward the bar. He was deep in conversation with one of the other ushers, a tall girl of sixteen or so with flowing curly dark hair. Even from the distance that separated them, Valerie saw the same insinuating stance, the intimacy with which he leaned toward her.
Just some lecher with a taste for young girls, she thought, feeling like a fool. How did anybody ever learn what was real and what wasn’t?
The concert was a triumph for Maria Obolensko. A standing ovation, the beautiful sheaf of long-stemmed roses cradled in her arms. Two encores, and then, impossibly, a third. When the applause subsided, and Valerie was making her way up the aisle, she saw Claude Vilgran again. He was standing with the older couple in their box. Their eyes met as Valerie was caught up in the milling crowd.
She joined the passengers pushing onto one of the buses waiting in front of the Hollywood Bowl, keenly aware of her disappointment. It would have been wonderful to play for Maria Obolensko, really wonderful to meet such a great artist. It had only been a line, she reminded herself. Next time she would recognize a line for what it was.
At Sunset Boulevard, she transferred onto another bus, that took her west to Crescent Heights, in the middle of the Sunset Strip. Looming over the strip as far as her eye could see were huge painted billboards advertising Smirnoff vodka, Marlboros, movies. A new Beatles album. The Rolling Stones.
As Valerie stepped into the crosswalk, a boy sitting on the back of a convertible, his hair to his shoulders, his fingers spread in the sign of peace shouted, “Make love, not war.” Umm, he’s cute, she thought, smiling.
I wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have my music? I’d probably be marching against the war in Vietnam, listening to the Beatles and the Stones, going out on dates. But there’s no time for that. She sighed as she walked past Schwab’s Drugstore. There isn’t time for anything, really, except my lessons, my practicing, getting ready for competitions.
Valerie saw that the lights in her family’s apartment were still burning. Even before she put her key in the door, Valerie