The Ocean Liner

New York

Arturo Toscanini said goodbye to his wife, Carla, at the door of their apartment. It was a chilly New York day, the wind whistling down the canyons of Broadway, bringing with it the cold smell of the Hudson River. She fussed over him with wifely solicitude, tucking his scarf around his throat, making sure his fur-trimmed coat was properly buttoned, adjusting his kid-leather gloves.

‘Don’t get yourself into a temper today,’ she admonished him, ‘and start screaming like a madman. You know what the American doctor said about your blood pressure.’

‘I know what the doctor said,’ he agreed, patting her cheek fondly. ‘Don’t worry about me, carissima.’

‘And don’t be late for supper. I’m making one of your favourites.’

‘Mozzarella in carozza?’

‘Something else.’

‘Cozze e vongole?’

‘Stop guessing. Just come early.’

‘Tell me,’ he implored. ‘It will give me something to look forward to while I deal with those idiots.’

Carla relented. ‘Zitoni toscani.’

His eyes gleamed. The long pasta tubes garnished with spicy Tuscan sausage and biting, salty pecorino were indeed among his favourite dishes. ‘You are an angel. I love you with my whole heart and stomach.’

She beamed at him. He kissed her hand, put on his fedora hat and hurried down the stairs. Her gaze followed him fondly.

In the street outside, the Cadillac was waiting to take him to the afternoon rehearsal of the New York Philharmonic. There was also a little group of admirers who had braved the cold in the hopes of seeing the maestro emerge. A ragged cheer rose up as he appeared. The bolder members of the group rushed forward now, holding out autograph albums and record covers for him to sign. Since appearing on the cover of LIFE magazine (he had been on the cover of Time twice) his adoring public had been even more enraptured with him. The series of photographs of him playing with his little granddaughter had done much to counteract his professional reputation as a foul-mouthed and filthy-tempered old tyrant dreaded by orchestras and soloists alike.

He paused to scribble his autograph a few times, nodding and smiling, then hurried to the waiting limousine. He hopped in briskly. It pulled away from the kerb. He looked up out of the window at the building he had just left, his whiskers and dark eyes giving him something of the appearance of a raccoon peering from its burrow. He had always been happy in New York, but now he had an added reason to love the city where he had enjoyed so much success.

A few blocks from his apartment, he leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Let me out here.’

The driver, who was familiar with the maestro’s habits by now, pulled over. ‘Pick you up in an hour?’ he asked.

Toscanini checked his watch. The rehearsal was not due to start until four. ‘One hour and a quarter.’

‘Hold on to your hat, maestro. It’s breezy.’

He got out of the limousine and trotted down West 69th Street. His nimble gait defied his approaching eightieth birthday; he was almost skipping. Separation from Ada had been cruel, but now there was Elsa. Little Elsa Kurzbauer, sweet and tempting as a Viennese pastry, right on his doorstep! If only his declining virility would support him this afternoon. It was touch and go sometimes, for all her tender ministrations. What was it Shakespeare said? How desire doth outrun performance. Something of the sort. If God took away the little that was left him, what misery! What despair!

Thinking of her naked body in the bed, tipped with pink, lined with pink, waiting for him, he felt his heart leap up in his breast. His blood was rushing hotly along his hardening arteries; the old light of battle was burning in his weakening eyes. He could hardly wait to bury his muzzle between her plump, blonde thighs, grasp her full bosoms in his hands. And the stirring in his loins promised that he would be able to discharge his fervour satisfactorily today.

He reached her apartment and pressed the buzzer with a trembling finger.

Her voice reached him through the speaker.

‘Who is it?’

‘Your lover,’ he hissed into the grille.

He heard her mischievous laugh. The door clicked open. Checking swiftly up and down the street for observers, and seeing none, he darted into the marble lobby and made for the golden portal of the elevator.