Niccola and the Conductor The Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt to Nice looped abruptly lower into an elliptical

trajectory above the Cote d'Azur airport runway, which the authorities had extended onto a landfill, thumbing diagonally into the gleaming bay. The late morning, early October sun splattered the spider-veined Plexiglas cabin window with a burst of sunflower brilliance, as the plane banked, bathing the pull-down tray on the seat in front of me. I lowered the plastic window visor somewhat to cut the glare, gently nudged my dozing wife Dora so that she could begin her pre-landing preparations. She awoke, stretching and rubbing her eyes, straightening her seat as the first steward announced over the PA system to prepare for landing. We were on our way to visit Maestro Ruprecht Wiede, who had a villa in Cagne-surMer. The Maestro had recently conducted Doras under-30 festival orchestra, a financially struggling but professionally exalted way station for classical musicians on the rise. This was to be the first leg of our vacation to Piedmont in Italy. "What's the weather like," Dora asked, crossing her fingers, toes, hands, and feet in totemic fashion. I always kidded her about these silly rituals but had enough regard for the vagaries of flying to never actually attempt to prevent her from indulging in it. For my part, though, I put my trust in the pilot, ground mechanics, Boeing engineers, and the laws of probability to get me to the earth safely. And so we did, Mediterranean humidity and an air current from Africa answering Dora's question about the temperature as we dragged our luggage across the steamy asphalt parking lot where our rental car was waiting. As I reminded Dora several times during our flight and while in transit at the Lufthansa business lounge in Frankfurt, Wiede had not actually asked us to be his guest at his Riviera villa. Dora was insistent we were welcome. This fact she repeated impatiently now, while I studied the roadmap and Mapblast directions and she fiddled with the radio of our Renault, still parked in the shade of the palm trees in the Nice airport rental car lot. "I told Ruprecht during the farewell dinner after my orchestra's final concert in January that we had plans to travel to Piedmont in September," she said cheerfully, finding a local golden oldies station that played Charles Aznavour, Edith Piaf and George Brassens chansons. Our itinerary called for us to spend several days in the south of France, then motor up to Alba in Italy for a week of wine tastings in Barolo and Barbaresco. "Just last month I called to inquire if he knew what his plans were for two seasons from now. I thought it was a good time to ask if he was going to be in Cagne-sur-Mer because we wanted to stop by before heading onto Italy and he said he had no plans." That doesn't sound like an invitation, I mumbled, starting the car. "Sixty-six year-old Germans are usually more formal, even a bona fide sentimental Bohemian conductor type," I chided. I pulled the car out of the driveway and we left the airport, looking for signs leading to Route N 7 that would take us westwards along the coast. "Not that I would describe Wiede as sentimental. You told me more than once that even after concerts, when he had a few bottles of wine and opened up to the young musicians in your orchestra, he could be devastatingly rude and sarcastic. Not to mention outright bigoted. The oboists are faggots. All those Korean and Chinese violinists play like

robots, they don't have a soul. What about the time you had a male harpist? His name was Mark, if I remember correctly, and Wiede used to address him as Mary during rehearsals." "Ruprecht was very fond of my orchestra, very dedicated to the young musicians, despite some of his antiquated prejudices" Dora protested. "He cleared his schedule for three years running each Christmas and New Years so that he could come to Israel to be part of the program. He was set to take them on tour in Europe, China had the funding been available. Ruprecht didn't even deal with us through an agent -- and his fee was quite reasonable. He practically worked for free." "I'm not questioning his dedication, just his character," I replied, shifting gears as we accessed the N7 and flowed with the traffic. There was something about the tawdry shopping plazas and monotonous strip malls bordering the highway that reminded me of Route 22 in New Jersey, despite the pink and green oleander bushes draping the asphalt driveways. "Agreeing to play with hormone-charged twenty-somethings during the Holidays strikes me as the Hobson's choice of an older man who has no family and no friends. Besides, I don't think he was in any position to turn down a gig," I said . "Ruprecht Wiede is not exactly in the same league as Simon Rattle, Lorin Maazel or Kurt Masur. Heck he isn't even in that fat Hungarian's league, you know the ancient relic with emphysema who conducted sitting down." "Sandor Vegh. Poor man died two years after he appeared with us," Dora replied. "Ruprecht keeps busy. The Chinese are wild about him. The Shanghai Opera calls him in every June and he's now music director of the Braunschweig symphony. For a while, I believe, he was on contract with the Nice orchestra here," she exclaimed pointing to the Provence-Alpes hills to our northeast, where the city lay a couple of miles behind us. "They cut him loose?", I asked, maneuvering the wheel of the Renault through a number of roundabouts, keeping my eyes peeled for D36, which according to my MapBlast printout was about 5 kilometers up the road. Now more than ever I regretted not splurging on the GPS device. "He had a run in with the music director. I believe it involved a woman, or so Zevik told me," Dora said yawning, fanning herself with a folded piece of paper. The air away from the coast was unseasonably warm and dry, the way it could get in Napa Valley in the fall. Needless to say, the car didnt have air-conditioning either; the French being notorious for their aversion to crass American conveniences. Dora cracked her window slightly, letting in a rush of dust particles spiced by fragrances of thyme and lavender. Zevik was the founder of "Zimra," the cultural association for which Dora worked as administrative director and which served as the umbrella organization that ran the now defunct Tel Aviv International Symphony Orchestra. Zevik enjoyed trading in scraps of real, imagined or manufactured information about people but this was common currency in the Impresario business. Despite these shortcomings, he was in Dora's mind a genius in a serpentine way. He had single-handedly convinced Wiede to take the mantle of music director of the young people's symphony project for a

fraction of his standard fee during a five-hour drive-a-thon along this self-same strip of Cote d'Azur ten years earlier. "You know Zevik stayed with Ruprecht for a weekend and raved about his hospitality," Dora stated, to the strains of Mike Brandt on the radio, a French pop star of the 70s who of all things was born and bred in Haifa, Israel. "Both of them are rabid homophobes and you know what that means," I quipped. "I've always suspected that Zevik was in the closet," Dora agreed with me. "All of his close friends are gay and yet every time he would part company with them after a meeting in our offices he couldn't shut up about how queer the man is and how he can't stand faggots. But Ruprecht is different. He's an oddball, no doubt about it. There was nothing he enjoyed more after the Christmas Eve or New Year's Eve concerts in Jerusalem than to hold court back at the hotel with the brass and woodwind sections over a case of wine and talk music or speculate about who was sleeping with whom. You're not scared of him are you?" she asked poking me. "Me? Hardly. What do I care who he sleeps with. But what about this eight-year old boy he is raising." "Zevik said the child belonged to Ruprecht's girlfriend, a Bulgarian opera singer living in Nice. I never asked him about it and he never volunteered to mention the boy while in Israel. I suppose we will find out soon enough." Wiede we learned, after exiting the N7 and stopping for directions several times, did not live inside the old town of Cagnes-sur-Mer, an impractical warren of narrow arched passageways girdled by arcaded Renaissance houses and dominated by the Grimaldi-built medieval fortress, but had a villa in the formerly bandit-infested interior highlands beyond. The cinched town streets soon yielded to a slender ribbon of asphalt that shimmied and undulated through steep hills hugging the Vallee du Loup past a familiar, but more verdant burnt-sienna and verdure Near Eastern landscape of olive trees pregnant with ripe black fruit, dust-sprinkled orange trees, and thick Mediterranean gorse and shrub, interspersed by chromatic plantings of roses, mimosa and carnations. "Beautiful scenery," Dora commented, revived somewhat from the lethargy that had gripped her as a result of the heat and lack of sleep. I nodded my approval, gripping the steering wheel tightly, lest an unexpected confrontation with a wide-bodied delivery truck should send us lurching into the arroyo below. The address that Wiede gave us was that of an avenue named after a famous French aviation hero, a contemporary of the Wright Brothers, who had successfully crossed the English Channel in a makeshift plane. Appropriately enough, Wiede's villa, once we made our way in, revealed itself to be haphazardly built, with rectangular quarters added on to the original manse, and, clutching the eastern slope of a steep, dry riverbed had all the appearances of being ready to lurch headfirst into the gully beneath. But first we had to breach the azure blue metal gate, which barred our way into his property. Cases of empty wine bottles and construction materials were stacked against stone walls on the newly pitched macadam driveway. Dora got out of the car and

pressed the buzzer. We waited a minute or two and then a handyman in overalls appeared with a key and unlocked the gate to let us in. Three cars were parked in the gravel driveway. Pride of place belonged to a silver Mercedes convertible. Next to it was a smiley-yellow Smart, which was blocked by a khaki green contraption that looked like a cross between a dune buggy and an-all terrain vehicle. We pulled up to the Mercedes. The villa was split into two-levels, with the main entrance on the upper one. Dora rang the doorbell. A voice called from below in a barely discernible language that we took as a greeting in English, beckoning us to enter, which we did. "Let's not take the suitcases out just yet," I said, as we crossed the threshold into a hallway that connected a number of guestrooms and a large bathroom. I was still convinced that Wiede's invitation was an unreciprocated figment of Dora's own Middle Eastern hospitality. The air inside the house was quite warm and still. Nothing moved but some horseflies that were agitated by our entry. "Down here, down here," a man's voice called out in gruff German-accented English. We descended a brief flight of stone steps that led straight to a patio and a swimming pool enclosed by high ochre walls. A proper Mediterranean villa, I thought, as cinemascopic reruns of James Bond flicks fluttered through my mind. The pool looked unused and was in need of repair and cleaning. Pine trees guarded the perimeter of the walls, which were perched on the ledge of the "oued". "Maestro," Dora called out, and Ruprecht Wiede turned to greet us, stopping the conversation he was having with the workman in overhauls who had unlatched the gate to let us in and two other locals. Wiede had porcelain blue eyes, a mat of shaggy gray hair that youthfully cascaded across his forehead, a strong jaw and chin, and an elegantly straight nose. He was wearing white tennis shorts from the Bjorn Borg, Jimmy Connors era, brown sandals and a black Lacoste polo shirt. From my observations, conducting is as much an athletic vocation as it is an intellectual one. The footwork and bobs and weaves on the podium call to mind the physical exertions of shadow boxing. Indeed, Wiede carried himself like a mid-20th Century European welterweight champion, angular and austere in the flesh and very mechanical in his movements. Like boxing, music as interpreted by Wiede, had to be conducted within the ropes of the composers score. Reminiscent of those pugilists, a Marcel Cerdan of the orchestral hall, Wiede could be plodding with his baton, attacking the orchestra with disciplined persistence, punching away at the music for all he was worth. Older musicians, professional orchestras, found his technique wearying, and their sound retreated from his onslaught. But youth orchestras, with no pre-conceived notions, counter-punched above their weight with vigor and creativity. The match-up in the end was always satisfying, the sound never dull if not brilliant. "Dora, so nice to see you," he said approaching us. He gave Dora a peck on the cheeks and shook my hand, not quite certain of my name. "You've come just in time. These fellows have finished repairing my driveway and to celebrate the occasion have brought some homemade Calvados from their farm."

Two of the workmen looked Italian while the third had a Gallic face. I wasn't sure who had brought the alcohol. They all spoke French, including Wiede, who explained that we were guests from Israel. This disclosure evoked some nods and puffing of the lips, gestures I took to be one of sympathy, considering that the European news was filled with graphic footage of the never ending violence in the region. My French is virtually non-existent so I accepted the chilled glass of the bitter-sweet amber liquid and sat back in the deckchair and listened to the animated conversation going on around me. The air was still and very warm for October and the light was sharp. Dora translated now and then. From her words and the few phrases I managed to pick up, the men had come to get their pay for paving the driveway and repairing one of the outer walls. Wiede told us afterwards that he had thrown in a case of wine as a gesture of goodwill since handymen in these parts were known to be finicky about whom they worked for. My glass was refilled several times and I had to fight off the fatigue that was overwhelming me. Finally, the liquor bottle was finished and the workmen bade their farewells, chucking their unfiltered cigarettes into the sandy garden. Wiede now realized he had two guests for the night. We followed him upstairs. "This is a big house," he said without enthusiasm, "and I am usually on the road touring. When I am here, I rarely entertain." His living quarters were down below and included his bedroom, kitchen and practice studio. The upper level had three bedrooms and a large bathroom with a sunken bath. Wiede led us into a room overlooking the wadi, with its thick shrubbery. I brought in our suitcases. "The place is filthy," Dora said, as soon as I lugged our heavy bags into the guest room. One didnt need a magnifying glass to see that Wiede invested little effort in housecleaning. Dust was visible in the layers of sunlight filtering through the Venetian blinds. But to prove her point she dragged me into the bathroom. The sunken bath was littered with dead moths and the carcasses of house flies. A closer look at the splotches on the carpeting and the odd hairs in the bedding were overwhelming evidence that the Maestro eschewed bourgeois niceties of cleanliness. "We have two choices," I said waspishly. "We can overlook matters of personal hygiene for one night and leave early tomorrow morning for Italy or we can beat a retreat and find a cheap hotel in Nice. But right now I'm going to take a nap." Maybe it was the bootleg liquor or Dora's queer insistence that we stay with her misanthropic conductor, but I dreamt that Dora was having an affair with the German and that's why she dragged me to this Riviera villa in the first place. In my dream, however, I rationalized that the whole notion was preposterous I wasn't sure that Wiede even liked women and woke up to what I thought was my own laughter, only to discover that it was coming from downstairs. I dressed and descended the steps to the patio, where I found Dora conversing in high school French with a young boy who I realized was the source of the high pitched giggling that had infiltrated my sleep. "Alon," Dora said in English, "meet Niccola, Ruprecht's ward. His mother just dropped him off before returning to Nice. Niccola is in the second grade." I nodded

hello from afar. The air in the patio was perfumed by the scent of pine needles and dry brush. Niccolas English is good, Wiede remarked, stepping out of his ground floor studio. He wore a black Lacoste golf shirt, black chino pants and black loafers with no socks. Where do you want to eat Niccola? asked Wiede. I want to eat at Le Trois Mousquetaires, squealed Niccola in measured cadence, stamping his sandaled feet with excitement and raising a clenched fist as if it were grasping a sword. The Maestro joined in the exuberance.The Trois Mousquetaires it is though now we are four, he said the Maestro, uttering the last four words with metronymic precision. Lets be off. Niccola marched up the steps like a tin wind up soldier and bounded out to where the cars were parked. Wiede carefully locked the doors. Three times I have been robbed, he said as we were standing by the fleet of vehicles parked inside the entrance roundabout. They took my computer and some moneys but did not touch my Bluethner grand. Now I have an alarm system with a direct line to the local gendarmerie. He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially as if the direct line was recording his words. They are all Italians you know. Greemaldi. Then he rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. The conductor clambered into his dune buggy and Niccola dragged out a bicycle. Dora and I squeezed into our rented car. Wiede opened the gate and Niccola scooted out onto the narrow lane. We followed suit, waiting for the Maestro to lead the way. It was a not so merry chase as the boy meandered to and fro on the macadam, occasionally veering across the white dividing line, quickly jerking his handlebars in the other direction as he regained control. Wiede pressed on the gas pedal, his bumper nearly touching the boys heels, as if daring him to be even more rambunctious than normal for such an outing. We inched forward up an incline until the road suddenly dipped and curved. Niccola took off and we lost sight of him behind the bushes at the bend. I wonder how long it takes an ambulance to reach these parts, I said dryly, speeding up so as not to lose sight of Wiedes own careening contraption. I had no idea where we were going and the conductor wasnt forgoing his usual mad dash through the bois for our sake. A delivery van chugged up the road, its bulky girth heaving sideways biting into a slice of our bit of asphalt. I swerved slightly onto the loose shoulder, cursing the French for paving what was obviously a goat path and labeling it a Route National. Wiede was waiting at the bottom of the curve, next to a clump of gum trees, engaging in a tug of war with Niccola, who did not want to surrender the bicycle and get into the back seat of the dune buggy. Niccola and the conductor appear to have a swell relationship, I said aloud, glancing nervously into my rear view mirror, calculating the few options available to us should a truck appear out of nowhere and barrel downhill. This is a playful side of Wiede I didnt know existed. Could he be the boys father? I cant say for sure, Dora answered. Wiede had grabbed the bicycle from Niccolas hands and dumped it loudly in the back of his vehicle, its handlebars and steering

shaft protruding below the roll bar like the horns of a slain metallic steer. He pushed the 8-year old into the front seat and slammed the door hard. Then came around to the drivers side and jumped in. Zevik claims that Wiede is convinced of his paternity but is reluctant to prove it for all sorts of reasons, most of them having to do with money. The hotel and restaurant Les Trois Mousquetaires was located near the village of La Gaude. We sat outside on simple wooden chairs within a fieldstone walled garden of olive trees, gushing yellow rose bushes, a faux well planted with autumn flowers shaded violet, white, red, and taupe. A white tablecloth with geometric needlework covered the table. A heavy set middle-aged woman, sporting dark down above her lips, brought us our menus. Wiede bantered with her while Niccola wandered off to peer inside the main building, whose faade was covered with the same fieldstone as the garden walls. The sun was beginning to fade in the cloudless sky and the dusty air around us began to grow cooler. Wiede pursed his lips. Shall we order? he asked. Madame Valerie tells me they have a oh what do you call it in English, before the marriage, when they agree to marry but are not married yet. Pre-nuptial, I said. Wiede waved his hands. Engagement party, Dora came to the rescue. Yes engagement, Wiede seconded, pronouncing it with a French accent engahgement. We will have to eat quickly. The menu was typical Nicois fare. For starters we were offered ravioli, scampis a la Provencal, chevre chaud salad or cuisses de Grenouilles a la Provencal. The main course included gigot dAgneu Roti, Magret de Canard au Miel, filet de Rouget a la Provencale or filet de Bouef au poivre vert. I had the duck, Dora ordered the fish and Wiede asked for the beef. Wiede also called for a bottle of Cahors wine. A young waitress, perhaps Madame Valeries daughter judging by the girth and the incipient mustache, brought us a wicker bread basket filled with sliced dry baguette. Shortly thereafter a slim young man, wearing a white shirt and narrow black tie arrived with the wine and a carafe of water. Wiede quickly performed the tasting ceremony, nodded gravely that it was satisfactory and after all our glasses were filled we toasted. To your health, Maestro, exclaimed Dora. It is so kind of you to go out of your way like this. Wiede raised his eyebrows defensively, as if to repulse the compliments. I am rarely in Cagnes and when I am I almost never entertain. My work you know forces me to travel so much. In two weeks I am off to Shanghai where I am the guest conductor for the first half of the season. In between my appearances there I have to return to Germany to lead the WDR radio orchestra in Cologne for a pre-holiday recording program. If Niccolas mother had not left for her performances this week, you would have had to stay in a hotel in Nice. There are many cheap ones there, but they are clean so it would not have been too bad. The conductor poured himself another glass and poured me one as well. Dora sipped at her wine. At the mention of the Maestros young charge, I suddenly heard high-pitched laughter pealing from inside the restaurant. It occurred to me that Niccola had not ordered any food. Wiede must have been reading my thoughts because after he quickly downed

his wine he groused. The boy has no manners you know, Wiede said, his face clouding over. His Bulgarian mother is to blame. She spoils him and then disappears for days to be with her lovers and he gets no discipline. Madame Valerie trudged into the courtyard, escorting Niccola to our table. He was in high spirits and was reluctant to take a seat. Wiede grabbed tightly onto the boys wrist and began to cajole him in French. Dora and I found ourselves observing as if we were seated in an auditorium and watching two characters on a stage. A proscenium barrier of cultural equivocalness separated us from the gray haired German and his young charge. Perhaps Wiede noticed our quizzical glances because he calmed down somewhat as the food arrived. The first course was brought along with the main course and accompanied by apologies from the wait staff that they had to hurry because of the engagement party. In the meantime, Wiede almost singlehandedly consumed the bottle of wine and called for another one. I should make a fuss, Wiede said at the lapse in culinary protocol, but the food is not bad and besides they arent really French but are Sardinian, you know. We began our meal. Niccola took a bite and a half of his pizza, and then stood up, pushing his plate away. He was not hungry, he announced playfully in French. Wiede was even less amused by the boys willfulness this time. He shoved the chair so that Niccolas knees buckled under him and fell backwards into the wooden slatted backrest. The slender child stopped smiling. He clenched his fists and clamped his jaws shut, looking away from Wiede and the food on his plate. Unfamiliar with the script, neither Dora nor I could anticipate the next scene in this domestic melodrama and had we been forewarned, Im not sure we would have been able to bridge the divide between passivity and intervention. Wiedes alabaster Pomeranian countenance was flooded with a surge of crimson, his forehead fissured with veins emerging like fat purple earthworms after a heavy shower. The conductor raised his right fist as if to signal the crescendo, while utterly indifferent to his onlookers chagrin at the impending strike, smote Niccola with the force that Abraham might have used on the bound Isaac had not an angel appeared at the last moment and commanded him to divert his hand. Unfortunately for the young ward, there was no sacrificial ram trapped in the garden shrubbery. Dora swallowed a gasp. Poor unprepared Niccola bore the blow by himself. For a moment the air was sucked out of Niccolas lungs as oxygen is consumed in a firestorm and then he erupted in an explosion of tears. Heads jutted out from the restaurant doorway. Wiede was oblivious to them and to us. He hit Niccola again, using less force this time but with his fist still balled, the veins still writhing in agitation on his forehead. Wiede scolded Niccola in French; Eat when I tell you to eat, do you understand? The boy sobbed violently. The Sardinians retreated to their kitchen. Dora and I looked on blankly. With the abruptness of a ceasefire on a barren Eastern front, the barrage of anger halted and chalkiness returned to the Maestros cheeks and forehead. The rictus of a forced smile appeared around his lips. Wiedes tone became soothing, avuncular.

Niccola likes French fries, he asserted, pushing his own unfinished plate in front of the boy. Niccola did not get up from his chair, the machinery of sobs grinding at a slower pace. His chest heaved. Trembling he picked up a French fry and ate it and then had a few more. Whether by design or accident the pizza remained untouched. Wiede drank some more wine, making no apologies, offering no explanation. What do you think about doing the complete cycle of Beethovens symphonies for my next appearance with the Tel Aviv International Symphony Orchestra? he proposed earnestly, the combat lines of his face showing no vestiges of his surfeit of rage. We could call it Mad About Beethoven. You know that not only was he deaf but he was going insane. There were rumors he had contracted syphilis but in reality he had Here Wiede struggled for the right English word bleivergiftung. Lead poisoning, I volunteered, shooting a side glance at Niccola who was subdued but hungry after the one-sided skirmish. Wiede rambled on, Dora a cooperative audience. Lead poisoning, precisely. Some scientists bought a cut of his hair at auction several years ago. They tested it. It was in the newspapers. Bleivergiftung would explain his deafness and Reizbarkeit. Irritability. No, I remember. His doctor killed him. Yes, he opened up his ach.. bauchstomach and gave him antibiotika with lead to treat the lung infection. Doctors are still killing people 200 years later. Saying that, Wiede clapped his hands together then nudged Niccola on the shoulders somewhat gently. The boy had finished the fries and slouched in his chair, his eyes fixed on the ground. He was very still. The black-tied waiter appeared with our bill. Car doors slamming and laughter indicated that the pre-nuptial party guests had begun to arrive. Dora urged me to pay but Wiede would have none of it. I was in no mood to argue. Wiede gathered up Niccola who followed sullenly to the car. The ride back to the villa through the dark and feral Alpes-Maritime countryside was devoid of any mention of the Grand Guignol theatrics we had witnessed earlier. The Maestros wand appeared to have struck us dumb. About thirty minutes later we were back inside the walls of his compound, sitting on the patio by the pool. I shall put Niccola to bed and then we will have some wine, muttered the conductor. Dora had wrapped herself in a shawl and I put on a sweater, warding off the subtle chill that began to pervade the still warm October air. Wiede reappeared, donning a black sweater, which he hung over his shoulders. Niccola was in tow, smiling coyly, some of the impishness returning to his lips. He wore pajamas bearing the likeness of a TV mouse unrelated to the Disney family of characters. Niccola saw me staring at the colorful decal. Whos that, I asked. Topo Gigio, he giggled. Now to bed, commanded Wiede. Niccola understood from the asseverating tone that his guardian would brook no resistance. He pecked Dora on the cheek and gave

me a wave. Thereupon the conductor lifted him on his shoulders, eliciting a shriek of happiness from the boy. Together, the 66 year old German and Niccola high stepped off to the boys bedroom. Im trying to picture the nature of this relationship, I whispered in Hebrew to Dora, after they had left the patio. But the images that come to my mind are drawn from a police blotter. The boy is bright, sensitive and being raised by a misanthrope with a mean streak that is borderline certifiable. The perfect foundation to grow up to be a novelist, a martinet or a recidivist, I said. Dora shrugged her shoulders. She had spent many hours with Ruprecht and was privy to his inexplicable mood swings. Hes an old man who has never had any children, rationalized Dora, who was always determined to find the positive in a situation. If Niccola is indeed his son, he has every right to discipline him. The boy appears not to be the worse for it. Its not our style I know. Ruprecht segued from behind the glass doors of his studio, holding a bottle of wine and three glasses, which he poured for all of us. We clinked our glasses together politely. Maestro, I want to thank you for your hospitality, intoned Dora, a bit too unctuously for my tastes. It has made our first day in France pleasant and special, she proclaimed without irony. Yes, well, replied Wiede. I am rarely here and hardly ever entertain. But you are here and that is that. Tomorrow you are on your way to where? We are going to Alba, I said, inwardly praising my prescience for staying only one night in Cagnes-sur-Mer. Ach, yes, truffles, Barolo wine, and salami dAsino, donkey meat salami, a specialty of Piedmont. But you will not be able to eat it. I know that Donkey is not kosher. We dont keep kosher, I said. If it is tasty, Im sure well try it. Wiede either pretended not to hear what I had said or ignored me. I dont understand this kosher business, he continued, refilling his glass. Perhaps, at a time when there were no refrigerators but today. It does not make sense. So what is kosher and what isnt? Dora explained the basic rules, or at least as much as she remembered from her mothers home. So wild boar and venison are not kosher, continued Wiede, finishing the bottle of wine nearly all by himself. He uncorked another one that was on the table and fell silent for a second, appearing to drift in thought. I would have starved to death as a child if I were kosher, he said. My father hunted all the time and we always had meat. Even when people were starving in Berlin we had enough to eat.

My stomach began to churn, whether because I tried to keep pace with the conductors capacious appetite for red wine or because of the precipice I sensed we were approaching. Dora, who was stone sober, pried innocently: Where did you live? Wiede looked straight at her with his clear blue eyes that were unclouded by the alcohol. I was born in Pommern but my father served in the German Forest Service in the Schorfheide, northeast of Berlin, and I grew up in a village near the forest. The forest belonged to Goering or the Luftwaffe and Goering had a large castle there. It was named Carinhall after his first wife. Goering liked to hunt and my father would accompany Goering on his hunting trips in the forest. I was a young boy and dont remember anything other than the rough hide of my fathers leather boots, the oily residue of his hunting rifle and the bronze German Forest Service medal that he said Goering had awarded him personally. He finished his glass and poured himself another round. I helped myself as well, aware that we had begun to descend from the heights of mannered pretenses. Dora yawned, unconcerned by the slope we were stumbling down. Later she confessed that the man possessed no persona for her beyond his musical one, and that without his music there was only a carapace with no inner substance. Wiede leaned over conspiratorially, mischieviously, his shoulders practically touching mine. Goering was also a Jew, he rasped. Well practically. His mothers lover was Hermann Ritter von Eppenstein, a wealthy Jewish businessman. He was a close family friend. They say that Goerings brother was this Eppensteins son. After the war, Schorfheide forest belonged to the SED, the East German ruling party. Ordinary people couldnt hunt there only party bigwigs like Honecker and Stasi chief Mielcke. My father continued to work in the DDR forest service. He wasnt really political. He had his trees and paths and game. Thats all he cared for. How did you become a classical musician, a conductor, Dora asked, instinctively sensing my disdain for the swampland of Wiedes Heimat nostalgia. Music was the only hard ground available. I originally wanted to be a jazz musician like a Negro. I was what was called a Halbstarke, he said, looking to me for translation assistance. Halbstark is half strong, I said, not making sense of the word combination or the context. Tja, exclaimed Wiede, impatiently. Halbstarken were what the young rebels were called in Germany in the 1950s. Like the boys in Leonard Bernsteins West Side Story or James Dean. JDs, I blurted out. Juvenile Delinquents.

Wiede nodded, not familiar with the term, but accepting it nonetheless. I had run away from home at the age of 14 because my father liked to drink and when he drank he beat me. I went to live with mothers family in Leipzig. While in Leipzig, I joined the FDJ, the Freie Deutsche Jugend, at the age of 14. It was voluntary but everyone joined at the age of 14. We knew that if you wanted to get your Abitur you would need to show membership. In those years, in the 50s, most young people went willingly. It was a good place to meet girls. The DDR gave money for cultural activities and the FDJ organized discos, although they werent called that then. I started to play the piano. Suddenly Wiedes mouth softened and as if remembering a pleasant tune in a far away place, he smiled, pouring more wine into my glass. My mother stayed in the village, afterwards my father died. I didnt want to go back to the village so I left for East Berlin where I lived in a Waisenhaus until I was 18. Orphanage, I intoned. Yes, orphanage. Your German is good Zimmerman, Wiede complimented me, biting off the Z in my last name as if he had gnawed into a piece of dry salami.. You told Zevik and me once that you had played piano with Ella Fitzgerald, Dora piped up as both Wiede and I resumed drinking. At the Quasimodo Club in West Berlin. That must have been around 1967 or 1968, Wiede gestured with his long slender forefinger. How did you avoid the VoPos and make it to West Berlin? I asked, picturing a wiry young Wiede, a halbstarke, leaping across the barbed wire barrier that separated East from West Germany, VoPo bullets whistling by his ears. I moved to West Berlin before they erected the barrier when you could still go back and forth. I was playing in jazz clubs in both parts of the city. But then the DDR authorities decided that modern jazz was too dangerous, because it might turn all the young people into Halbstarken. Even the Russians werent so foolish. The Stasi began to arrest known jazz musicians and jazz promoters like Reginald Rudorf, Siegfried Schmidt, Alphons Zschockelt, Henckel. These names mean nothing to you but they were our Thelonius Monk, John Coltrane, Miles Davis. Rudorf was released from prison in1959. Thats when I decided to move permanently to West Berlin. Willy Brandt was the mayor and a big jazz fan. There is a famous picture of Brandt eating bratwurst with Louis Armstrong. I played in the Jazz Saloon. We rarely played cool jazz there but it was funded by the government so I earned some money. There were also many smaller clubs whose names I forget. American soldiers came to drink and listen to the music and meet German girls. Especially the Negro soldiers. One of them sold me his bebop records before he went back to the States. But I really intended to be a classical musician. I started as a singers accompanist . But I kept playing jazz to make money, even when I became an assistant conductor. Ella Fitzgerald toured Berlin in the mid1960s. We had a jam session at the Quasimodo Club. She stayed on to sing and I

accompanied her. It was natural for me -- most German conductors start out by being accompanists Wiede lapsed into a reverie, perhaps as a result of the wine, but not from exhaustion. The man never seemed to tire. The bottle is empty, he announced standing up. I must get another one. He disappeared into the cellar. Dora was dozing off. I touched her shoulder. It startled her. The Maestro must have a stainless steel liver, I said quite inebriated by now. He just went to the cellar to get another bottle. This is the pace he keeps during the festival, Dora said, trying to rouse her self. Hell rehearse and conduct all day and in the evening, even after a concert, hell drink and talk with the young musicians all night. Then hes up at 6 am and in the gym as if he slept the whole night through. Wiede returned with an uncorked bottle. Well have another glass or two, apologized Wiede. I must get up early and take Niccola to school in Nice. It is a very expensive private school but one has to pay a price to get a good education here in France. Arent there any public schools nearby? I asked. There are but they are filled with Arabs who are not interested in the French language or culture, he answered. Soon France will face the same problem that we have in Israel; you will be a minority in your own land. It is not the same, argued Wiede. You came and occupied their land; they have come to occupy ours. Thats a lot of crap Maestro, I said, rising unsteadily to my feet. The wine and the Euro bien-pensant political philosophy had gotten the best of me. Next thing youll be telling me that the Poles are occupying Silesia and the Czechs the Sudetenland. Wiede shook his head in agreement, ignoring my belligerence. Those are German lands and have been for centuries but politics doesnt concern me as long as the borders are open to musicians. I am a world citizen. This year alone I traveled 8 months out of the year to conduct in Halle, Kiel, Hamburg, Dortmund, Bern, Sevilla, Las Vegas, Shanghai, Nice, and even to your Jerusalem. Do you miss Niccola when you are away? Dora inquired, deftly changing the subject, like a referee breaking a clinch.

Wiede looked away and for the first time this evening appeared to be weary. He is a good boy but he needs a father a full-time father. You saw how he behaved at dinner this evening. I saw how you behaved, I said under my breath. Dora poked me with her foot. The Maestro was unperturbed and unapologetic. His carapace was thick indeed. I am angry with his mother for not setting boundaries for him. Children need boundaries or they stray and lose themselves. Imagine sheet music without staff lines. What sort of noise would arise from it as a result? You said your father beat you so much that you ran away and became a halbstarke. Boundaries were set for you and you escaped them. Niccola will do the same. Wiede emitted a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a grunt. Had my father not beaten me I would have remained in the Schorfheide, a forest service ranger, kissing the ass of Communist bigwigs and then later on the ass of Stuttgart capitalists. Niccola will excel because he will have learned how painful boundaries can be when set by others, just as I did. Then he will have the will to set his own. The conductor stood up. Please excuse me but now I must retire for the evening. Niccolas mother is coming tomorrow afternoon and you folks must be off early in the morning. Sonofabitch, I muttered as Dora and I crowded together on the narrow bed. Your Maestro friend is an arrogant bully. Alon, Dora replied. Ruprecht is not my friend but he is our host. I was up early the next morning as Wiede had predicted. The sun crested through the trees above the dry ravine, dust motes suspended opposite the bedroom window like incandescent pinheads. From downstairs I heard high-pitched laughter and Doras voice enunciating in high school French. I dressed mechanically and joined her on the patio. Niccola was still in his pajamas, conversing quite animatedly with Dora. He held several sheets of Manila paper in his hand, each one covered with arching and circular lines on them. One of the drawings appeared to show a woman with large ears and a Picasso-esque, cycloptic eye. I Love You was marked in English smeared by a bright vermillion crayon. The other paper had three bloated stick figures and some rectangles that could have been chairs or tables. The largest of the stick figures held a thick black line. The smallest one had a little round head with large black drops descending from it. The middle figure had lots of black squiggles cascading from the top. At the top of this drawing appeared the title 3 Mousquteers. The third piece of paper had the word Kisses scrawled over it. These were gifts from Niccola, given in exchange for the red plastic dump truck Dora had brought the boy. Ruprecht was standing in the kitchen, fussing over the range, shirtless wearing only black briefs, from which extended muscular thighs and wooly gray haired calves.

How do you like your eggs, he called out. Do you eat bacon? No. I forgot. It is not kosher. The conductor brought out a tray, bearing cheeses, jam, sliced baguette, a ceramic teapot, and spouted pewter coffee pourer. Then he went back to the kitchen to finish the eggs. When he was done, he joined us, sliding the greasy omelet into my plate. Papa, called out Niccola, practicing his English. Mommy coming or we go to Nice? Ill take you to your mother soon, said Wiede in French. Niccolas head slumped to his chest. I want to stay with Dora. He replied, his eyes bright and pleading. Perhaps the next time Papa comes to lead my orchestra you can join him, said Dora in French. Niccola looked in Wiedes direction for an indication of assent but the conductor had already begun to clean up. Ill pack our bags, I said. Ten minutes later we were waving goodbye, heading out of the driveway on the road that would take us back towards Cagnes-sur-Mer and the main highway to Italy. Epilog Back home after the vacation, Dora dug Niccolas drawings out of the suitcase and hung them on the refrigerator with magnets. She had promised to mail a photograph of them to the boy but never quite got around to it. Then we moved apartments and the bright, childish expressions of Love and Kisses were tossed away. About the same time Doras orchestra dissolved for lack of funding. The Maestro never returned but continues to travel the orchestral byways, shaking his black baton at those who need to be herded into the confines of his interpretative boundaries. And Niccola? Dora and I sometimes watch videos of the trip that we took and speculate. I say hes growing up to be a halbstarke. Dora is convinced hell turn up one day waving his own baton. The End