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Chapter 1: Voyant
Sylvia has read about him in the Chronicle. He seems to be something
of a sensationalist. A white lawyer working on behalf of the Negroes,
a favorite of the liberal columnists.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” the usher says, “the man has
no feeling for music, even though his father played in the symphony for years.”
“His father played?” Sylvia asks.
“His father was the first concertmaster under Monteux. He was Inez’s
teacher. But you never see the husband here. Maybe he’ll come next month
when Inez plays her solo. If we’re so lucky.”
“What will she be playing?”
The usher puts her hands on her hips. “My, you ask a lot of questions.
You ought to be a reporter.”
“I am a reporter,” Sylvia says, tasting the words as she speaks them.
“What do you know?” The matron’s eyes brighten—everything
seems to make sense to her now.
“But you haven’t answered my last question,” Sylvia says.
“Your last question?”
“What will Mrs. Roseman be playing?”
“Oh, yes, the Goldmark Concerto.”
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with Goldmark.”
“Karl Goldmark.”
“And when did he live?”
The usher looks flustered. “When did he . . .? He was . . .” Her
hands go up to her hair and flutter in their crooked, arthritic way around the
loose knot of her chignon. “He was a Romantic.”
“Of course.”
Now the old woman, a flirt at heart, narrows her eyes and offers a gamine smile.
She holds out her hand to Sylvia. “Elizabeth Mier. That’s Mier, M
I E R.”
Does Elizabeth Mier expect her to jot down the correct spelling of her name?
Sylvia takes her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she says without offering
her own name. The power of the press.
By the time the voyeur-turned-reporter is back in her box, the curious constellation
of the Roseman family has woven itself around her. The French have another word,
a first cousin of voyeur that hasn’t really crossed over into English.
Voyant. We do have clairvoyant, but how much more elegant to be a voyant, a simple
seer.
Back in her seat, Sylvia Bran’s career as a voyant is about to begin. As
the lovely violinist walks back onstage and drops her square of silk onto her
shoulder, Sylvia holds her breath.
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