The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

Goldberg Variations

Lisabet Sarai

Harvey and Al stood in the chill drizzle beside the muddy grave.

“Damned inconsiderate of Richard, dropping dead without any warning,” Al commented.

“I’m sure that he didn’t do it deliberately. Certainly he would much rather have attended one of our funerals than vice versa,” observed Harvey.

“No doubt. He only cared about himself.”

“Well, to be fair, he put a lot of effort into the trio.”

“Right. His trio, he used to call it.”

“Whatever. It’s been our bread and butter for twenty-two years, so don’t knock it.”

“Sure, but what are we going to do now? There’s no work for a violin/viola duo.”

Harvey sighed. “Obviously, we’ve got to find another cello. I’ll put an ad in the Times next week. It shouldn’t be too difficult; there must be hundreds of starving musicians in New York.”

“Yeah, but can they play Bach? We don’t want someone whose repertoire is restricted to ‘Yesterday’ and ‘Endless Love’.”

Harvey had a pounding headache, and the rain was beginning to drip down underneath the collar of his topcoat. His brother’s negative attitude was all too familiar. “We’ll just have to see, Al. We’ve got a full schedule for the next few months. We’ll make do with what we can get.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the chauffeur, waiting under an umbrella beside the hired limo. “Let’s go. Everybody’s probably back at the house by now.”

The two-storey Brooklyn row house was packed with a boisterous, hungry crowd of relatives and friends. Harvey offered some obligatory greetings and accepted routine condolences. Finally, he managed to escape upstairs to the study.

It had been their father’s space, first, and then, since he had been the trio’s business manager, Richard’s. The walls were decorated with autographed pictures, their father shaking hands with Yehudi Menuhin and Pablo Casals. Then there were posters from some of their tours (“The Goldberg Trio, Live at Pittsburgh Symphony Hall”) and replica covers from their four recordings (The Goldberg Trio Plays Classical Favourites).

Dad would have been proud, mused Harvey. Wouldn’t he? It was hard to know.

On the bookshelf stood a picture of the three of them with Dad. It had been taken at Coney Island, not long after Al’s mother died. Everyone was trying valiantly to appear happy.

The three boys didn’t look much alike, but that was hardly surprising. Dad had divorced both Richard’s and Harvey’s mothers. Al’s mother, sweet, red-headed Emma, had been taken by cancer.

When Dad died of a heart attack only a few years afterwards, he left the row house to his three teenaged sons. The half-brothers had made it their home ever since.

Harvey realized Aunt Nelda was calling him. His father’s sister was frail but the years hadn’t diminished the piercing quality of her voice.

“Harvey? Where are you? Some of the guests are leaving, and Al seems to have disappeared. Harvey?”

Before he left the sanctuary of the office, he grabbed two aspirin from the bottle Richard kept in the desk. He chewed them without water, relishing the bitterness. Noticing Richard’s planning calendar in the drawer, he flipped through the pages to October. God, their next appearance was two weeks from tomorrow. A reception at the Mayor’s mansion, yet!

Harvey swallowed his panic and headed downstairs. Somehow it would work out. Things always worked out, one way or another.

Al was hiding out in the tool shed at back of the lot, smoking a joint. I’m some hip cat, he thought sourly, forty-nine years old and still getting high. When his rust-coloured hair had begun to thin, he had shaved it all off. Now he had the look of a bald scarecrow, long-limbed, skinny and awkward. Only when he tucked his violin under his chin and began to play did he achieve some kind of grace. Those were his happiest times, in fact, when he could lose himself in the music, in harmony for once with his brothers.

The rest of his life seemed empty and hollow, eaten away by envy, fouled with the nasty taste of decayed dreams. Richard had been the lucky one, the good-looking one, the one who had a solo career before the time of the trio. Richard had even had a lover, Al remembered, a pretty Barnard girl who used to come over and listen to him practise. Sherrie, Al dimly recalled.

What had happened to Sherrie? She had drifted away, it seemed, like all their hopes, leaving them marooned in this house full of ghosts, wandering through life as lonely and embittered as ghosts themselves.

The pot was making him maudlin. He dug a hole in the dirt floor with his toe and buried the roach. Now Richard was gone, a real ghost, leaving him and Harv behind. Al wasn’t sure whether he still envied Richard or not.

Harvey’s ad attracted a raft of responses. There was the jazz cellist who wanted to “broaden his horizons”, the spinster who had been teaching cello for forty years out of her home in Queens, the high-school kid who bragged about being “first cello” in the school orchestra. Harvey sighed as he reviewed the alternatives.

After all, the Goldberg Trio had a reputation. The Times’ Art and Culture columnist had speculated in Richard’s obituary on the future of “one of the city’s most persistent musical institutions”. Harvey had fumed briefly, then shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t afford to waste his energy on some catty member of the press.

The latest response, though, was intriguing. It had a formality of tone that reminded him of an Edith Wharton novel.

Dear Mr Goldberg,

I am writing in response to your advertisement of October 9 in the New York Times, seeking an experienced cellist to join your chamber music ensemble.

I would be honoured if you would consider engaging me for this position. Currently I am employed on the faculty of the Berklee College of Music in Boston. However, I have become quite frustrated with teaching, and had been seriously considering a return to performing even before I saw your advertisement.

I have attached a copy of my CV. If you are interested in auditioning me, would it be possible for you to come to Boston? I have a very heavy schedule during the next week, but after that I can disengage myself more easily. On a longer-term basis, I have no objection whatsoever to relocating to New York.

Thank you for your consideration.

Yours sincerely,

Deidre Rasinovsky-Corbatta

Ms Rasinovky-Corbatta’s resume was impressive. Training at the St Petersburg State Conservatory and the Conservatorio de Santa Cecilia in Rome, six years as a soloist with the Moscow Philharmonic and three touring on her own, then a Masters from Julliard and four years at Berklee, arguably the best music school in the country.

Harvey read her missive one more time. How had she known how to address him? Presumably she had heard about Richard’s demise and made a calculated guess. It sounded as though she was sharp, as well as qualified.

How would she interact with the two remaining Goldberg brothers, though? Harvey understood that the trio’s success over the years had been based on a delicate balance of personalities as much as on a shared dedication to music. Wouldn’t bringing in a stranger, and a woman at that, upset the balance?

There was no help for it, though. Richard was gone, and anyone they found to replace him would be a stranger. Harvey hated making phone calls, but he swallowed his nervousness and dialled Ms Rasinovsky-Corbatta’s number. With a gig in less than two weeks, he couldn’t afford to indulge his fears.

The Amtrak train chugged through the wilds of Connecticut. Al stared gloomily out the window at the yellowing vegetation, drooping damp under an overcast sky. Harvey sat snoring in the next seat, his round face slack and relaxed and his mouth open. His glasses had slipped down his nose. Gently, Al reached over and returned them to their proper place.

Al had a sense of foreboding about meeting this cellist. Sure, she had fabulous credentials, but he just couldn’t imagine having a woman join their trio. Women were trouble, irrational and demanding. Women made men behave irrationally.

Of course, Richard had been demanding, too, a real prima donna at times, but he and Harvey had known how to handle Richard. After all, they had years of practice.

Maybe he and Harvey should simply give up and dissolve the trio. With Brooklyn continuing to gentrify, they could sell the house for a tidy sum and start over.

Start over doing what, though? Al visualized himself on stage, in the spotlight, soaring through one of the solos from L’Estro Armonico. He knew it would never happen, though. He was too old, too tired, spoiled from playing too long with the same group. Too lazy to try, you mean, a mocking voice whispered in his head. You could have been great, but you’ve never been willing to make the effort.

Al shook his head. Why did all his musings these days degenerate into depression? He manoeuvred his way past Harvey’s knees, careful not to wake his slumbering sibling, and headed towards the cafe car. It was past three, surely not too early for a cocktail.

They got out of the taxi in Back Bay at ten to five. Their appointment was for five thirty.

“Ms Rasinovksy-Corbatta is in Practice Room 5 on the second floor,” the receptionist volunteered. “You can go on up, if you’d like.”

Harvey and Al bundled their instruments up the stairs to a long hallway that smelled of dust and rosin. Room 5 was at the end. The door was ajar. Light and music spilled through the opening.

Harvey grabbed Al, who was about to push the door wide. “Wait,” he whispered urgently. “Listen.”

The melody swirled around them like smoke, mysterious and difficult to apprehend, shifting form and mood in each moment. Harvey recognized Bach’s masterful D minor Partita, rendered with a purity and restraint that made Harvey ache. He closed his eyes and allowed the music to invade him, to overwhelm him. The notes soared heavenwards, until he felt breathless in the thin atmosphere, then sank into low, throaty tones that vibrated deep in his gut.

He knew the piece well — could remember Richard performing it, to enthusiastic crowds — but now it seemed as though he had never truly heard it before. The playing was formal and precise yet somehow the control only heightened the emotional intensity. Pensive, questing, triumphant then subdued, the music ebbed and flowed in the darkened corridor.

“She’s good,” Al whispered.

“Shh!” Harvey felt momentary rage at his brother’s interruption, then the emotion washed away in the tides of Bach’s creation. She was more than good. She was great, clearly a far more talented musician than any of the Goldberg brothers. Even Richard.

Why in the world would she want to be part of their group? What could they offer to induce her to join them? Harvey fretted briefly. Then the music raised him up again and carried him along, until the last mournful note trailed away into silence and set him free.

The two of them stood motionless for a long moment, looking at each other. Harvey gave a gentle knock.

“Come on in.” The voice was low and well tempered, with the faintest trace of an accent. Harvey led the way into the practice room.

“Ms Rasinovsky. .” he began. He was unable to continue.

He didn’t know what he had expected, but the woman facing him with the cello cradled between her thighs was a shock.

Her red-shading-to-magenta hair made a spiky halo around her head. Her plump lips were painted to match. Wedgewood-blue eyes blazed in her long, pale face. One ear was pierced by half a dozen silver hoops and every finger of the hand that clasped the bow was decorated with a silver ring.

She wore a tight black jersey that zipped at the neck. The zipper was pulled down low enough that Harvey could see the tiny rose tattooed on creamy skin of her throat and the shadowy chasm between her full breasts. Her matching skirt was slit up the front. Harvey was grateful that she was wearing opaque tights.

When she smiled, put down her bow and stood to greet them, Harvey noticed her pointy-toed, high-heeled, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West boots.

No, there was no way this woman could have created that music! He swallowed hard, and tried again. “Ms Rasinovsky,” he croaked. “I’m Harvey Goldberg, and this is my brother, Albert.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Thank you for coming all the way to Boston.”

Al’s eyes gleamed. He stepped forward and took the slender hand the cellist offered. “The pleasure is ours, Ms Rasinovsky. I haven’t heard that piece played so well for many years.”

The woman laughed, deep in her chest. “You flatter me. And please, call me Deidre.”

“Al is telling the truth — Deidre. Your performance was astonishing. Not only was it technically perfect, it was very moving.”

“I appreciate the praise all the more, coming from a musician of your reputation, Mr Goldberg — I mean, Harvey.”

She made his name sound like music. Harvey suddenly felt as though somebody had turned on a sunlamp. His wool suit was unbearably hot. His necktie was strangling him. He burned with embarrassment as he imagined how she must see him: a dumpy middle-aged man, balding and a bit dishevelled, blushing like a girl. He needed to take control of this interview, but somehow he couldn’t organize his thoughts enough to utter a coherent sentence.

To his surprise, Al stepped into the breach. “I can see why you’d want to get back on the stage, Deidre. Your talent is wasted on students. What I don’t understand is why you’re interested in joining us. Because, honestly, we’re not of your calibre.”

There was that laugh again, vibrating through Harvey’s body like a low G drawn from her bow.

“I’ve had a solo career, Albert. It is a lonely life. The spotlight isolates you from your fellow musicians. I am familiar with the fleeting fulfilment of applause and the acid of my colleagues’ envy. I don’t want that. I want to belong to a community of music, a collaboration where our creation is greater than what any of us could achieve on our own. A musical family, if you will. And I sense, from listening to your recordings, that you could be offering what I am missing. That sense of belonging.”

“Do you have a husband?” asked Harvey, struggling to gain a foothold in the conversation. “Children?”

“I was married once, briefly. It rapidly became clear to both of us that despite the intense sexual attraction we shared, no man could compete with music for my affections.”

Harvey blushed again. How could they possibly contemplate performing with this post-punk siren, when simply talking to her turned him back into an awkward, tongue-tied teenager?

Al, on the other hand, seemed to radiate poise. “After hearing your Bach, Deidre, I hardly think we need to give you an audition. However, it seems like we should try playing together. To test out the chemistry, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course. Why not now? I see you’ve brought your instruments. How about K563? One of my students has been working on it, so I have the music here.”

She extricated two scores from a pile on the table beside her, and handed one to Al. “I only have two copies, though. Do you and Harvey mind sharing?”

“I think we can manage,” Al reassured her. He adjusted the music stand so that he and his brother could both read the page.

Deidre settled back on to her stool and embraced her cello. Her long pale fingers caressed the flowing curves of the body, then danced lightly up the frets. Her gestures were so sensual that Harvey found himself becoming aroused.

This was unbearable. He fought an urge to stand and run out the door, back to Brooklyn, back to the dreary but familiar confines of his normal life. There was something dreamlike about this encounter, or perhaps nightmarish. He needed to escape, but this exotic, disturbing woman rooted him to the spot.

Al had busied himself tuning his violin and rosining his bow. Harvey tried to hide his nervousness by doing the same.

“Shall we try the Allegro first movement?” Deidre asked. “Or would you rather tackle one of the minuets?”

“The Allegro’s fine.” Al positioned the violin under his chin. “Ready?”

Harvey and Deidre prepared themselves. Al nodded the signal, and they launched into the piece.

The attack was perfect. Mozart’s sprightly melody filled the room, light as summer, free as running water. Harvey felt it flowing effortlessly from his instrument, entwining with the voices of the others. Laughter rose in his chest, bubbling and threatening to spill over. First one instrument and then another danced away from the ensemble, gambolling up and down the scales before rejoining the harmony. It was as wonderfully careless and playful as the composer had intended.

He glanced over at Deidre. Her painted lips were parted, her eyes sparkling. Al wore a smile for the first time in weeks. Harvey felt as if he were levitating six inches above the floor. He forgot to be embarrassed or self-conscious.

He knew that they still had a lot of work to do, reviewing the schedule, rehearsing, figuring out the money part. The most serious obstacle, though, seemed to have evaporated. It was clear that Deidre could become part of the trio. In fact, it felt as though she already was.

It had been Al’s idea to move Deidre into Richard’s room. They were spending six hours a day practising together, why waste time having her travel back and forth to a hotel? Of course, there were considerations of economy as well. Plus, Al admitted to himself, he enjoyed the thought of the glamorous cellist inhabiting Richard’s space, sleeping in his bed. If Richard were haunting the place, he’d be eating his heart out. After three days, though, Al was beginning to wonder whether he’d made a mistake. Rehearsals were going well for the most part, but when they weren’t playing, he was finding it difficult to concentrate.

Her sharp patchouli scent lingered in the hallway. Her lace brassiere hung in the shower. Yesterday morning he had pushed open the half-ajar bathroom door, thinking the room was empty. Instead, he found her clad in a screaming red satin kimono that clashed with her hair, with one foot perched on the toilet seat, shaving her legs.

She glanced up and smiled at him, obviously unfazed. He backed out of the room mumbling an apology. Later though, the scene haunted him. His momentary sensory impressions elaborated themselves into detailed images: the fine curve of her arch, the creamy skin of her thigh, the glimpses of rounded flesh where her robe fell open at the throat. The amused gleam in her sapphire eyes. The welcoming smile on her harlot-red lips.

Al cursed his imagination. He was becoming obsessed. Each time he lay on his bed stroking himself, the images became more vivid and intense. The release was fleeting. Before an hour was gone, he found himself wanting her again. He considered a quick visit to the girls at the Peacock Club, but he doubted that would help.

He hated himself for his weakness. His father wouldn’t approve. Richard would silently mock him. His inconvenient lust was starting to affect his music; during practice today, he had missed two cues in the Beethoven C minor. Deidre had given him a sympathetic look. He had simply wanted to drop dead. If he couldn’t even impress her with his playing, what was the point?

There was a soft knock at his door. Hurriedly, he replaced his cock in his trousers and sat up. “Come on in,” he called, expecting Harv. When the door swung open, though, he was face to face with the object of his fantasies.

She was dressed in her usual black. Rather than the form-fitting, Emma-Peel-like costumes she mostly favoured, tonight she wore something delicate and flowing, with a scooped neckline that showed off her exquisite shoulders. Her lipstick was softer, cherry instead of fire-engine red, and she was barefoot.

“Good evening, Albert.” He cringed. No one had called him by his full name since his mother died. “Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”

“Um, sure. Come on in, like I said. What’s up?”

She sat herself on his bed, her garment swirling gracefully around her. His nose twitched as the air filled with patchouli. “I know that I’m being nosy, but I’m concerned about you. You seem terribly tense. So tense that you’re making mistakes in your performance, mistakes that I know you wouldn’t normally make.”

“I’m really sorry about today. I don’t know what was wrong, but it won’t happen again.” Al felt as guilty and miserable as a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar.

“I’m not blaming you. I just want to help.” She gestured towards the entrance. “Why don’t you close the door, so that we don’t disturb Harvey? And then I have something here that I think might help you relax.”

Al recognized the earthy smell of marijuana before she even produced the joint. He hastened to follow her instructions. Harv didn’t approve of drugs.

He found a lighter in his bureau and applied it to the joint until the tip glowed red as Deidre’s hair. She inhaled a lungful of the sweetish smoke and held it for thirty seconds. At the same time, she held him with her gaze. Was she challenging or inviting him?

Al felt his cock swell uncomfortably inside his trousers. Deidre passed him the smouldering butt, her fingers brushing briefly against his in the process. It was only the slightest touch. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. It could be completely innocent.

Yeah, right. Here she was in his bedroom, sitting next to him on his bed, with the door closed, wearing something that looked more or less like a negligee. Innocent? Hardly. But she was the one in charge, that was clear. He didn’t dare to make the first move.

Trying to ignore his throbbing hard-on, he took a big hit of the pot. The harsh smoke seared his lungs. As he released it, he felt the drug rush through him, lifting him like a strong breeze. “Mmm. Good stuff. Thanks. But I wouldn’t have expected someone like you to — indulge.”

Deidre laughed, that low, sexy laugh that made his balls tighten to aching rocks. “There’s a lot that you don’t know about me, Albert. Here, take another toke.”

Al obeyed her. He figured that he would always obey her. The second lungful was more powerful than the first. He closed his eyes, floating on a cloud of lust and THC.

The next thing he knew, her hands were in his crotch. “What have we here?” She laughed again. “You seem to be already unzipped and ready for me.”

Oh God! He must have forgotten to zip up after he jerked off. Embarrassment welled up briefly, but the drug soothed it away. Her hands were precise and knowing. Her fingers danced along the length of his shaft with the same power and skill that he had noted when she fingered the neck of her cello. She plucked a pizzicato rhythm on the sensitive ridge underneath the head of his cock, then played him with long lingering strokes that arched up his spine. His groans were a new kind of music, as she brought him ever closer to crescendo.

Dimly, Al smelled scorched cloth, where the forgotten roach was burning itself out on the bed. He concentrated instead on the odours of his sweat and her musk. He could smell her true scent now, oceany and dark, overpowering her herbal perfume. She’s excited, too, he realized. She’s not just doing this out of charity, or for the benefit of the trio. His cock leaped in her hands at the thought.

Marijuana alters the experience of time. He could appreciate every detail, every sensation: the rough callouses on her fingertips, the soothing warmth of her palm, the rustling of her garments, the rush of her ever-quickening breathing. Blood pounded in his swollen penis. His heart pounded in his ears. Her fingers drummed against his flesh, a primitive jungle rhythm that drove him wild.

At any moment, he was sure, he would explode, and yet it went on and on, an endless rise and fall, eternal as a Beethoven sonata.

Suddenly, there were new sensations, wetness and heat, organic and irresistible. Al’s eyes flew open. Deidre’s head of tangled purple locks was buried in his lap. Her painted mouth engulfed his cock. She sucked at him as though to consume him.

Al had a raw, hyper-clear image of scarlet lipstick smeared all over his penis. A choked scream tore itself from his throat as he emptied himself into his colleague’s welcoming mouth.

As the vibrations died away, he smiled to himself, feeling both silly and self-satisfied. Perhaps having her on the premises had been a good idea after all.

Deidre brushed her sticky lips against his. “Now, Albert,” she purred, “why don’t you help me to relax?”

Harvey had never considered himself to be highly sexed. He would go weeks or even months without masturbating. He found images of half-naked nubile girls selling blue jeans embarrassing and in poor taste. He knew that Al visited “gentlemen’s clubs” occasionally, but personally he had no interest. Harvey’s diversions tended to be on a different plane: music, art, literature, the occasional movie.

Since Deidre had joined the trio, though, Harvey had been feeling like a randy eighteen-year-old. Her mere presence was enough to harden his cock to the point of pain. When she spoke to him, her sultry voice full of soft Russian vowels, he felt his own power to speak escaping him. Her always assertive gaze was a ray gun that froze him in his tracks, or perhaps more appropriately, melted him into a featureless lump of swollen, aching flesh.

It wasn’t just the aura of blatant sexuality that surrounded her. It had something to do with her music, her cool, controlled technique that contrasted so strongly with the passion flowing from her instrument. It was intense, visceral. Each vibrant note penetrated his flesh to settle in his groin.

Most of the time when they played together, Harvey managed to concentrate on the score and execute his part in a manner that was competent if not inspired. If he happened to glance over at her, though, he was lost. He saw the way she clasped the belly of her cello between her thighs, and imagined himself in its place. He watched her fingers travel over the sounding board and saw them dancing across his flesh.

This morning he had messed up the second movement of the Schubert B flat so badly that they had to start over.

Al hadn’t made any comment. Harvey had been surprised to find sympathy in his brother’s look, rather than the expected scorn. On the other hand, Al seemed to be playing exceptionally well today. His blunders of yesterday did not repeat themselves. His solo passages soared with a new lyricism. Harvey noticed that Deidre was smiling at Al, her face alive with pleasure and approval.

For the first time that he could remember, Harvey felt jealous of his brother.

Al was not generally the perceptive type. Still, he couldn’t miss the fact that Harv was turned on by Deidre. The moment Harvey walked into the practice room this morning, Al had noticed the swelling in the crotch of his brother’s baggy trousers.

When Harvey stumbled over one of his passages, Al could identify. Poor guy was probably having the devil’s time focusing on the music, with Deidre’s lush body and spicy scent so close by.

Al was aroused himself, but now that he was confident that he’d get relief, the erotic tension seemed to elevate his playing to a new level. The phrases flowed effortlessly from his violin, immaculate, sublime. In her presence, he felt possessed by genius.

Whenever his eyes met hers, electric sparks arced through the short distance that separated them. Everything about her demeanour was full of future promises.

Harvey went upstairs to get a glass of water. Deidre put aside her cello. “Come over here, Albert.” There was a clear invitation in her voice. Al ached to obey her, but he resisted.

“We’ve got to be careful, Deidre. We don’t want Harv to get suspicious.”

Deidre parted her legs more widely. A whiff of her scent rose in the basement practice room. Al grinned, realizing that she had probably omitted to put on panties this morning. In his honour, he assumed.

“Don’t worry about Harvey. He’ll be fine. I guarantee it.” The cellist stood and came to him, pulling him into a voluptuous kiss. Capturing his thigh between her own strong limbs, she began rubbing her crotch against his corduroy pants.

“Deidre, please! I can hear him on the stairs.”

They broke apart seconds before Harvey entered. He looked miserable, his round face pink and damp with sweat. “Do you mind if I open a window?” he asked. “It seems terribly hot in here.”

“Sure, Harvey, go ahead.” Al was feeling indulgent. “It is a bit close.”

Al figured that Harvey would get over his infatuation eventually. After all, his brother had never been that interested in sex. In the meantime, he didn’t want to cause Harvey any more pain than necessary. He and Deidre should try to be discreet.

Harvey found himself in the midst of a strange, vivid dream. He was dead, it seemed, lying on a satin-draped bier in a candlelit room. The air was heavy with the scent of roses.

No, thought Harvey, in confusion, it’s Richard who died, not me. He tried to sit up, but though he could breathe in the floral atmosphere and enjoy the smoothness of the satin against his skin, his limbs were cold and unresponsive. A seductive languor held him still. The room itself was pleasantly cool. He wondered vaguely if it was a crypt.

The only part of him that was warm and alive was his cock. It pointed straight up from his motionless body, straining towards the shadowy ceiling. Harvey didn’t wonder at this, or at the fact that he was naked. His cock had been a hot spear of swollen flesh for as long as he could remember.

He heard a rustling, of silk, or wings, or nameless creatures moving in the dark corners. Then he saw Deidre standing beside his couch. How he saw, through closed eyelids, was not clear. It didn’t matter. He sensed her presence, a concentration of heat vibrating near him.

She was naked as well. The candles painted gold motes on her alabaster skin. She held a scarlet rose in the hollow between her breasts. She brought it to her lips, which were painted the identical colour, then bent over him as though to place it in Harvey’s clasped hands.

Suddenly she drew a sharp breath. From some omniscient perspective that he couldn’t explain, he saw several drops of her blood, scattered over his mostly hairless chest.

“Oh, Harvey, I’m sorry,” she whispered. She sank to her knees, leaned over and gathered the ruby droplets with her tongue. The sensation was exquisite, her muscular warmth a shock to his passive coolness. His cock pulsed in time as she lapped at his skin, energetic as a mother cat cleaning her kitten.

The blood was gone, but she did not stop. She flicked at his nipples until the cold nubs woke into bright points of flame. She trailed her mouth wetly over his belly, leaving a path of fire in her wake. She took a mouthful of his grizzled pubic hair and gently pulled. His cock danced wildly, threatening to spray fire all over the immaculate bier.

“Harvey,” she murmured, her voice kindling him further. “Forgive me.” With the same economy of movement she used in handling her cello, she straddled him and sucked his rigid cock into her pussy.

Pleasure overwhelmed him, pleasure too acute to be endured. The dream world shattered into liquid fragments along with his cock, red as blood and roses, white as satin.

No, thought Harvey, panicked, fighting to wake. Please, I don’t want to have a wet dream. All the awkwardness and embarrassment of his youth came flooding back, pushing him up out of the well of sleep.

The chilly, rose-scented vault was gone. The candle glow was replaced by the wan light of dawn filtering through his old curtains. Yet the dream had not fled.

Deidre still rode him, clutching his plump hips between her long white thighs. She moved deliberately, giving him time to savour every inch of her slick heat sliding over the stretched skin of his cock. Blood surged into his swollen organ with every stroke, sending shudders of pleasure through his body.

Despite his fears, he hadn’t come. He was still hard, granite, steel, monumental, irresistible. He began to move with her, arching his back to drive his cock as deep into her as he could. He groaned as she tightened her cunt muscles around him.

Deidre smiled. “Good morning, Harvey,” she murmured, squeezing him again. He grunted and rammed his cock into her. She gave a little cry and stopped talking.

They rocked together, faster now, Deidre allowing him to set the pace. He grabbed her lush buttocks in both hands, seeking leverage to plunge still deeper. She moaned at the bite of his fingernails and ground her pelvis against him, lewd, abandoned, forgetting everything but her own pleasure.

Leaning forwards, she used her arms to brace herself against the bed. She slammed herself down on his cock, again and again. Her ripe breasts dangled inches from his face. Without his glasses, the world was fuzzy, but he could see that her mouth was a grimace of lust. Her eyes were squeezed closed. Her nipples were crinkled purple pebbles.

Straining his neck to reach, he took one of the tempting nuggets in his teeth. At the same time, he stabbed upwards, burying himself completely in the luxurious wetness of her flesh.

Deidre wailed like a cat. Fierce spasms shook her body. Her cunt contracted with terrific force. He yelped at the unexpected pressure, then yelled in triumph as her crisis infected him. Waves of come surged up his stalk, one after another, each one breaking into a froth of pleasure in the shallows of her still-shuddering cunt.

The explosion of his climax triggered a fresh round of spasms inside her. Harvey lay in helpless ecstasy as she twitched and trembled around his exhausted penis.

Gradually, the aftershocks died away. The delicious weight of Deidre’s body rested on his chest. His bedroom smelled of sex, mixed with essence of rose. Harvey buried his face in her neck, breathing in the remnants of perfume from her damp skin.

“Harvey,” said Deidre, turning her head to look him in the eye, “I hope you don’t mind. I don’t normally force myself on men.”

“Mind?” Harvey felt like giggling. “Do you know how much I’ve been wanting you?”

She grinned mischievously and gave his cock an affectionate squeeze. “Well, I had some idea. But you were so shy, I really didn’t think I could seduce you while you were conscious. So I decided to take advantage of you when your guard was down.”

She paused to kiss him, her tongue dancing playfully in his mouth. He returned her kiss with an ardour that transformed play into passion. He could feel the heat beginning to build again where his crotch was close to hers.

“So am I forgiven?” she asked after a time, blue flame flickering in her eyes.

Filled with new confidence, Harvey rolled her over on to her back. He let his hands wander for a while over her lovely, cello-shaped body. Leaning over, he brought the tip of his tongue to the rose tattooed in the hollow of her throat. “Well, that depends. .”

Two days to go. Al could tell they were ready. The timing, the phrasing, the harmonies, they were all perfect. Even the Borodin, so technically demanding, they had mastered. The music flowed from their instruments without any conscious effort. Their communication seemed instinctive. They could play for hours, without a word, without a mistake.

Al had never felt so inspired as when he played with Deidre. Somehow, even as they bowed and fingered their instruments, he felt that she was making love to him. With her beside me, he mused, I really could be great. For once the dream did not seem completely ridiculous to him.

He noticed gratefully that she was being especially kind to Harvey. His brother seemed more comfortable, too, less flustered and more serene. Probably he had grown out of his crush on Deidre, and could now relate to her as a colleague instead of an object of desire. The fact that their rehearsals were going so well had probably helped, too. Harv could be a worrier sometimes.

When the chips were down, though, you could always depend on him. After all, it was Harvey who had found Deidre. Al would have to remember to thank him someday, when the time came for Al and Deidre to share their secret with him.

Harvey couldn’t believe how good he felt. With Deidre’s morning visits, he should have been exhausted, but in fact he’d never had more energy. Not bad for an old geezer of fifty-two, he thought, as he tried on his tuxedo in preparation for the concert. The formal costume fitted him well. He looked taller, thinner, more distinguished than he remembered.

What will Deidre wear? he wondered. He could imagine her showing up in black leather or see-through lace. But she was a professional, as surely as he and Al were. He trusted her to understand what was appropriate for a gathering of politicos and international dignitaries.

Over the last few days, rehearsals had gone so well, he had suggested they all take a day off before the gig. They were going to lunch in SoHo and then to visit the Cloisters, one of Harvey’s favourite places. He couldn’t wait to see Deidre’s flaming hair and graceful form against the backdrop of medieval stone and stained glass.

They’d have to work hard to make sure that Al didn’t feel left out. Harvey understood that his brother thought of himself as something of a lady’s man. It would be a real blow to Al’s ego to discover that Deidre had chosen Harvey as her lover.

He’d have to figure out some way to break the news gently. After the concert, of course, nothing could interfere with the return of the Goldberg Trio to the musical scene. The New Goldberg Trio, he corrected himself mentally, imagining Deidre naked with her cello between her legs.

Wouldn’t Richard have been surprised?

The concert was a triumph.

In some sense, the trio was just sophisticated background music for the Mayor’s party. When Al led them into the first movement of the Beethoven C Minor, though, the murmur of voices and tinkling of glass died away. The guests, cultured, urbane, even jaded, stood enchanted by the trio’s magic.

Deidre, resplendent in a classic black velvet gown, laid bare the passion hidden under Beethoven’s intellectual facade. Al’s playing was so pure and perfect it literally brought tears to Harvey’s eyes. Meanwhile, his viola seemed unreal, unnecessary. Surely the music flowed from his heart, through his fingers, and out to the world, without the mediation of any physical mechanism.

At one point he caught Deidre’s eye, and felt the connection, as tangible as a physical caress. The intimacy of that look sent shivers up his spine. Al glanced at him, and then at Deidre, a beatific expression making his narrow features glow. The music swelled around them, moving them, changing them.

Harvey forgot about the audience. He was aware only of the music and of his fellow players. He could sense their heartbeats driving the melody, feel their breathing in his own lungs. The strands of music wound around them, binding them together, closer, and closer still.

During the interlude, Harvey wandered among the glitterati, sipping champagne. Deidre was surrounded by eager admirers. He couldn’t get near her. Their eyes met across the room, though, kindling a familiar fire in his belly.

The music critic from the Times, the one who had covered Richard’s funeral, strolled by. Harvey nodded to him amiably. No one could deny that tonight belonged to the New Goldberg Trio.

It was after two when the limousine deposited them back at the house. Still in their coats, the three of them collapsed into the overstuffed living room chairs.

After a moment, Deidre pulled a bottle out from under her cloak. “A toast!” she exclaimed. “ To the Goldbergs!”

“Deidre!” Harvey sounded shocked. “You didn’t filch that champagne from the Mayor, did you?”

“Consider it to be part of our compensation,” she said with mock dignity. “They can hardly claim to have paid us what we are worth.”

She shrugged off her cape and began to wrestle with the cork. Al brought glasses from the corner cupboard.

Although she had consumed at least two glasses of champagne at the reception, she didn’t feel even slightly tipsy. With the first sip from this bottle, though, the alcohol hit her full force. She giggled like a girl of seventeen.

“To us,” she intoned, raising her glass.

The two brothers were both staring at her. “To us,” Harvey repeated softly.

“To us,” echoed Al. “And to many more successes together.”

“Together, yes, definitely.” Deidre drank deeply before setting her glass down. “I want to thank you both for giving me the chance to experience what I felt tonight. Thank you for welcoming me into your midst. Thanks for putting up with my quirks.”

“Hey,” said Al, deliberately offhand. “You put up with us.”

Harvey was looking uncomfortable.

“No, seriously. I will always cherish tonight’s memory, our first performance together.” She reached across the table and took Harvey’s hand in her own. Al’s face darkened until she held out her other hand and he accepted it.

“I told you when I met you that I was looking for a special kind of community. A union that was more than the sum of its parts.”

She looked from one man to the other: lanky, angular Albert, sharp as the high C on his own violin, hiding his vulnerability under a veneer of cynicism; pudgy, self-effacing Harvey, the sensible worrywart with the soul of a passionate romantic.

“That is what we are, the three of us. A communion of music. A family.”

Her voice broke. For a moment she was on the verge of tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you both.” She bowed her head for a moment. Al and Harvey looked at each other, equally unprepared to handle a weeping woman.

When she looked up again, though, her face was bright. “Well, it has been quite a night. I think it’s time for bed. Don’t you agree, Albert?”

Before he could answer, she sealed his mouth with her own. His palms cupped her breasts; hers snaked down to cradle the growing bulk in his crotch.

She heard Harvey stand up, shuffling his feet. Afraid that he would flee, she broke away from Albert and hastened to erase the horror and pain on Harvey’s face with an equally passionate embrace.

“What the hell? Deidre, what’s going on?” Al sputtered in disbelief.

“I’m inviting you into my bed,” she responded, when she and Harvey finally came up for air. “Both of you.”

“Both of us?” Harvey looked shocked and incredulous. “You can’t. . we can’t. .”

“Why not?” She put her hands on her hips in mock exasperation. “Don’t you think I can handle you?”

“Yes, but. . he’s my brother,” said Al carefully, trying to work out the implications.

“Would you rather that Harvey and I just go off by ourselves, then?”

“No, of course not. .”

“Well, then, come along, Albert.”

“But, Deidre. .” Harvey began.

“Yes?”

“Well, I. . you know that I love you. .”

“And I love you, silly boy. But I also love Albert. So the two of you will just have to share me.”

She headed up the stairs, the velvet train of her gown trailing behind her. The two men remained where they were, each unable to take that first fateful step.

Halfway up, she turned to look over her shoulder. “Please,” she said, “don’t disappoint me. Remember our music. Remember what it’s like when we play together. And imagine the possibilities, the improvisations. The infinite variations.”

Al and Harvey stood there in the darkened living room, staring at the floor, for at least sixty seconds.

Harvey sighed, finally, and turned towards the stairway. “Last one up,” he said wryly, “is a rotten egg.”