Elements of Chance

The familiar sounds of cellos and violins tuning up filled the halls as Valerie walked into the London Conservatory of Music for the first time.

Her own classes this first semester were in music history, music theory, and whatever repertory her piano teacher, the celebrated Leon Stern, decided.

Leon Stern was tall and imperious, with thick white hair and rimless glasses. His students, among them Maria Obolensko, were among the world’s top classical pianists. Stern wore a white carnation in his buttonhole and, old as he was, was quite a romantic figure.

“Your tapes are good, very good,” he said in his heavily accented voice as they sat in a studio containing a grand piano and a few chairs. “It’s quite astonishing that you play with so much power. You are very small and delicate to be able to do that.”

“Thank you,” Valerie murmured, flushing at his praise.

“I’ll hear you now,” he said, gesturing toward the piano.

Valerie played part of a Mozart concerto she had been practicing for the past week. When she finished, she kept her eyes on the keys waiting for his judgment.

“Excellent, excellent,” he said, and from the back of the room she heard applause. Looking up, she saw a boy who was perhaps a couple of years older than she was. He was tall and slender, with brown curls that fell to the shoulders of his old suede coat. On a chair next to him was a violin case.

“Bravo,” he said, his eyes meeting hers.

“Oh, here’s Julian Unwin,” said her teacher, looking around. “He’s one of our stars here. She’s good, eh?”

“She’s marvelous,” the boy said, and as her teacher introduced the two of them, she felt his hand closing around her own.

“Yes,” said Leon Stern, “if we work hard, this young lady will be ready for the Van Cliburn Competition in Paris next spring.” He counted the months on his long, slender fingers. “We’re going to be very, very busy.”

The Van Cliburn Competition, Valerie thought with alarm. Competing with pianists from all over the world. Along with the Tchaikovsky Competition, it was the toughest in the world. When she’d asked Max when she’d be ready for either of them, he’d just shrugged.

It seemed to Valerie that her schedule at the conservatory was going to take all of her time, but Lady Anne wasn’t impressed.

“Your classes are over at noon,” she pointed out. “And, the car will be there to bring you home. There’s no reason why you can’t work with tutors in the afternoon in French, philosophy, English literature, history. And, my dear, you should have at least a smattering of the sciences.”

“But when will I practice?”

“Let’s give it a try,” Lady Anne said in a soothing voice. “A well-brought-up young lady needs to know about more than just one subject.”

Valerie was up at dawn each morning to practice. When she got to the conservatory, Julian was usually waiting to walk her to class; often he met her to chat in the hall during the five-minute break before the bell rang for the next one. Julian had been performing since he was five years old. He had been preparing all summer for his upcoming appearance with the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Valerie would often find herself remembering Julian’s handsome pale face, his brown eyes, the brown hair curling on his shoulders just before she drifted off to sleep.

Every couple of weeks there would be a letter from Vicki telling her all about what she and Al had been doing, and how they couldn’t wait for her to come home because the apartment was so empty without her. Once she sent a color snapshot of the two of them. Al was smiling, and he had his arm around Vicki, who was holding Muffin in her arms. Janet found a little silver frame, and Valerie kept the picture on the nightstand next to her bed. Once in a while, there was a letter from Max, along with the current Doonesbury and Peanuts strips, and news about movies he was scoring. A couple of the girls she knew from junior high school wrote occasionally, too. Valerie sighed, reading the letters. She was so busy she didn’t even have time to think about Los Angeles.

One afternoon as Valerie and Lady Anne sat comfortably in front of the crackling fire in the sitting room after tea, Lady Anne remarked that none of Valerie’s clothes fit her anymore. Time was found for a flurry of shopping for new dresses, sweaters, skirts, a beautiful rabbit fur coat, and, finally, a stop in a fashionable boutique for lacy panties, brassieres.

Valerie’s pale hair was trimmed and shaped by Lady Anne’s hairdresser. A makeup artist showed her how to subtly accent her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. Looking into the mirror at the salon, Valerie realized suddenly that she was really pretty, even at fourteen. She thought of Cini for the first time in weeks.

Julian noticed the difference at once. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, looking at her admiringly as he took her arm and drew her aside.

Valerie’s stomach fluttered. Her cheeks felt hot.

“I thought maybe we could get together,” he said, “maybe work on a duet. Just for fun, really.”

Valerie nodded as she realized he was asking her for a date. A little shiver of excitement shot up her spine.

“I don’t know,” she hesitated. “I have so much work to do for the Van Cliburn Competition. It’s only a few months away.”

“Hey, you’re looking at a chap who’s going to solo with the London Philharmonic,” he said, “and that’s only a few weeks away.” He met her gaze, his dark eyes imploring. “Oh, do say yes,” he insisted. “Let’s have a spot of lunch tomorrow and talk about it. Pick out what we want to play and all. We could wander over to Carnaby Street and look at all the crazies. Or we could go to Soho.”

The next morning, when Bernard opened the door of the car for her in front of the conservatory, Valerie said to him, “You don’t have to fetch me today, Bernard. I’m having lunch with friends. And I remembered to tell Janet.”

“Very good, miss,” Bernard replied, looking perplexed.

“What’s the matter?” Valerie asked.

“Well, miss,” he said, “Her Ladyship specifically mentioned to me last night that I was to be quick about getting you directly home today. She said that she was expecting you for lunch with someone she is anxious for you to meet.”

“Her Ladyship didn’t say anything about it to me,” she said.

“Maybe it was something she arranged when she was at the theater last night, miss,” Bernard suggested. “You always come straight home, so she wouldn’t have any reason to think you’d made other plans.”

“That must be it,” Valerie said slowly. “Well, okay, I’ll see you here at noon, Bernard. As usual.”

Valerie had never felt so disappointed as she plodded glumly up the steps of the conservatory. She had imagined every detail of her date with Julian. She had almost been able to see the two of them milling along Carnaby Street with the rest of the kids, maybe even holding hands. When Valerie told Julian she had to be home for lunch, she could see the disappointment in his face.

“Maybe I can work it out for Monday,” she said.

“Will you telephone me when you know?” he asked.

“Well, sure,” she said bashfully. “Okay.”

Julian tore a piece of paper out of his notebook and scribbled down his telephone number.

During her next class, she looked surreptitiously at Julian’s name and phone number on the paper. He had the most beautiful handwriting, thought Valerie. Valerie Unwin. Mrs. Julian Unwin. Julian and Valerie Unwin. The most famous piano and violin duo in the world.

If I were in Los Angeles, Valerie thought, I might have written our initials on my notebook, and enclosed them in a heart.

10 (#ulink_4800cf85-e6d1-5427-98bb-a84937c4ae22)

Pedestrians hurrying down Park Lane in the driving rain fought the wind for their umbrellas. The denuded trees reached spidery black branches toward the gray sky. Tourists bundled up in furs and overcoats huddled in the entrances of all the grand hotels as doormen frantically whistled for taxis that never came.

Valerie felt chilled to the bone as she ran up the steps of the house in Green Street; her teeth chattered as she fumbled with her key in the door. Upstairs in her room, she took off her wet shoes and her stockings. After she had changed, she ran a comb through her hair and applied some pink lipstick, ready to join Lady Anne and her guest in the drawing room for a sherry before lunch. A man’s hearty laugh echoed along the winding staircase as Valerie walked down the stairs.

In the drawing room, Lady Anne sat across from her guest in front of the fireplace, a glass in her hand. The man who rose was tall, with intent brown eyes. His face was tanned, and he wore a well-cut dark suit. There was something familiar about him, something soft and mean, around his mouth. The Hollywood Bowl, a glowing half shell of light, flashed into Valerie’s mind. She recalled handing programs to a couple hurrying to their seats for the concert that night, and the tall man sauntering after them who had stopped to speak to her in a low insinuating voice.

“Valerie,” Lady Anne was saying, “may I present Monsieur Claude Vilgran. He’s just back from Palm Beach, the lucky man. And this is my niece from America, Claude. Valerie Hemion.”

“How do you do,” Valerie stuttered, almost recoiling as she felt his dry hand engulfing hers, his appraising eyes fastened on her own.

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he said, and as she snatched her hand away, Valerie wondered if he remembered saying that to her before. “I understand you’re a brilliant pianist,” he continued. “Your aunt tells me you’ve won a scholarship to the conservatory.”

“Let’s all sit down and finish our sherry,” suggested Lady Anne. “I’ll ring for Janet to bring you something warm to drink, dear.”

“Yes,” said Valerie, averting her eyes from his gaze, which seemed locked on her face. “I’m preparing for the Van Cliburn Competition. It’s in Paris this year. In March.”