There was a time when it was not unusual and in fact, common practice to have ones entire life completely mapped out for you down to the smallest detail. When my mother’s marriage failed her it was to be the last time that she would tolerate any unforeseen circumstances in the lives of her family. From that point forward she took control of the future and held it in a vise grip of such fierce determination that it was actually unsettling to casual observers. The world would henceforth spin on an axis around my mother’s spine and my brother Allen and I grew up naturally assuming that everyone’s destiny was similarly laid out for them the way a butler lays out a suit with all it’s accessories. We unquestioningly accepted her position at the conductor’s podium of the symphony our lives.

Lillian Diehl was the first American soprano to earn the title "diva" overseas and was the only stateside rival to the great European opera stars of the early 20th century. Her career soared to incredible heights and eventually the constant travel, publicity and the fact that she made more money than my father became too much for his masculine ego and he left her just a few weeks before she became aware of the presence of my brother and I inside her. When I was very young I remember asking her if she had cried when papa left to which her response was "Well of course you silly boy. I cried for almost 20 minutes dear, but then I had a rehearsal to attend." Emotions became just another accessory to my mother. They were to be chosen carefully and worn always in the best of taste like any exquisite piece of jewelry from her vast collection.

My fraternal twin brother Michael-Allen Diehl followed my entrance into this world (appropriately enough right around curtain time, April 28th, 1905) by only 3 minutes but it might as well have been three years. From the nipple to academia to sex, I was always there first whether consciously or not. Outsiders were hard pressed to discern any major differences between us but from the crib onwards it was always I that got the first smile, the first tickle, the first handshake, and the first caress. As young children I would often make it a point to allow Allen to go first through the doorway or to put him in front of me when introductions were being made but my brother could never bring himself to accept or allow my handing him any opportunities to be noticed by others.

Mother never failed to return from any trip without bearing gifts and I remember that during one such return from Venice she presented us each with a beautiful hand crafted carnival mask as our souvenir. While I am certain that she put great thought into their selection, mine was clearly the more ornate and beautiful of the two. Allen smiled and thanked her every bit as enthusiastically as I, but I knew his smile hid a disappointment he might not yet be able to articulate. In our room that evening I pretended to like his mask better than my own and suggested that we trade. He refused at first but I insisted until he grudgingly obliged me and we set our respective treasures on our nightstands before going off to sleep. Somewhere in the middle of the night, his pride awoke us both and I found Allen at my bedside, about to place my original mask back on my nightstand.

All night long the rain continues to politely tap against the windowsill, never daring to develop into the storm that had been expected.

A lifetime of being noticed second will instill in one a sense of place whose conscious knowledge of grows like a cancer until it is hopelessly incurable. Allen would indeed come to move through life like the terminally ill, resigned to his fate and determined to live his remaining days as soberly cheerful and conflict free as possible. He developed and honed it into a charming sense of ennui normally sported by the offspring of the extremely wealthy. This world-weary, eternally bored, slightly sorrowful exterior was a huge success with the opposite sex for it appealed to those women (and even a few men) who possessed the natural instinct to want to "fix" or "save" him. Allen learned in no time how to use this to his advantage and his legend with regards to women preceded him before he was even old enough to shave. In this one field of play he did indeed come to surpass me, and Allen not only found this one inequality vastly amusing but also took great joy in exploiting it at every possible opportunity. During our young adulthood Allen will gleefully subject me (much to my own mortification) to an endless parade of double dates, blind dates and seemingly innocent "accidental" meetings by a constant parade of either his cast offs or their friends.

Once Allen and I began school, mother limited her European engagements to the summers when we could accompany her during school vacations. My brother and I both possessed a keen sense of direction and by about age 10 we knew we could get lost in almost any major European city and still find our way home. (Not that such a thing could conceivably happen under Nanny Lucci’s vigilant watch.) We found it ironic that the places we dreamed of seeing were all back home on American soil. The Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, Yellowstone, The Old West, even Boston and New York seemed exotic to us as we had traveled very little of the Unites States outside of our home in the Lincoln Park area of Chicago, Illinois.

Mother allowed us to share in the glory and grandeur that was her existence during those summers of our youth and for three months out of the year we lived like absolute royalty. Once we were old enough to read and understand the European newspapers for ourselves we discovered just how close to the truth this really was. We knew she was loved as a performer for that much was obvious from the rapturous ovations we witnessed from our private boxes with Nanny at every opening night performance. The endless press appearances and interviews, the photographers, the constant crowds we drew as we walked the streets and plazas, the endless stream of telegrams, flowers and gifts all attested to the enormous talent and celebrity that for the other nine months of the year to us was just simply "mother".

With the arrival of fall we went back to our modest home, to our regular school, (a private school yes, but no boarding school for the likes of us, thank you) our regular circles of friends and our normal life. Mother was absolutely adamant that we should be brought up free from the pretensions and attitudes that wealth tended to cultivate. This was a woman who performed for Kings for a living and yet still went to the markets and shopped for our dinners herself. The letter in her hand may be addressed to the Prince of Denmark but she wasn’t about to place it on some servant’s silver tray to be anonymously dispatched when she was more than capable of walking to the post office and purchasing a stamp herself. (It was certainly no surprise for me to discover many years later that the women’s suffrage movement owed a large debt to my mother who made their efforts to get the 19th amendment passed financially possible.)

My brother and I of course could not wait for each school year to end but I can assure you that we were not afforded the luxury of just sitting around and waiting for the month of June arrive. Mother held the blueprint to our futures and there was much work to be done if we were to avoid a lifetime of just being another paying member of the audience, which would never do in her eyes. I gradually came to understand just how little regard she had for the masses that worshipped her. Audiences were nothing but fools who were blinded by her superior wizardry on the stage. She accepted each compliment in the most humble manner, signed each autograph with the most dazzling smile, but underneath it all her devotees were little more than cattle from which she was more than happy to put a steak on her plate from. The chasm that she placed between herself and the business of being herself was her secret weapon to remaining focused and in charge. Mother’s ultimate goal for us was to create for ourselves the same balance of success, adoration and sanity rarely found by others in the business. There was never any doubt that she had great love for what she did and her absolute passion for music (and all the arts) was completely genuine. She firmly believed that you could either worship, or be worshipped and she instilled in us daily how much better it was to be the conjurer, the creator, the adored.

Being her children, Mother naturally assumed we were talented and since no one ever told us otherwise, we never once questioned the matter. Around the age of eight the campaign to find out where our true talents lay began in earnest. We no longer had the luxury of spare time to play with our friends after school for instead our time was now taken up with endless myriads of lessons upon lessons. Music theory, piano, violin, ballet, painting, voice lessons… whatever it was we were to be good at, we were to have as much a head start as was possible. Instead of cutting our teeth on a school pageant or a production by a local thespian society, we made our stage debuts at the world famous La Scala opera house. Of course we were only nine years old and chasing the toy maker in the second act crowd scenes of La Boheme, but a debut is a debut. We performed any time that mother could work us into the action onstage and thus we came to know our way around the shadowy back stages and endless catacombs of all the great opera houses. We relished these opportunities, as performance time was the only time on these trips that we ever got away from the ever-watchful eyes of Nanny Lucci and mother. (Who was naturally too busy with her own performance to worry about what we were up to.) The stage manager was now in charge and his only concern was that we stay out of the way and make our entrances on time. Allen and I spent every moment not onstage investigating cavernous, dank prop rooms filled with unimaginable scores of treasures. Swords, chariots, pyramids, cauldrons… We would make up little operas of our own usually involving us as conquerors of some foreign land or knights fighting for the hand of some lovely maiden.

Mother kept only two people on staff, Nanny Lucci and a maid. As toddlers, the maid arrived three times weekly but as we got older all chores were divided between us equally. When our lessons became serious we were freed again from doing housework and the maid moved in permanently. During my endless rounds of practice arpeggios I often wished I could again return to the time when all I had to do was polish the piano and not play it. I was certain this attitude assured me of future success for our home was always full of musician visitors and not a single prominent pianist I ever asked admitted to loving the process of leaning to play it as a child.

There was one other employee who came and went with enormous frequency and that was my mother’s business manager Dietrich Meisinger. Mother of course had little actual need for a manager as she was perfectly capable of managing her own affairs but in those days many European opera houses and impresarios would not negotiate business contracts directly with a woman. In addition to negotiating her contracts for the season he spent quite a bit of time during the year overseas scouting future productions she was to appear in and arranging everything from her press to the flowers that would appear in our hotel rooms. Meisinger was around so much in fact, that when I was very young I innocently asked aloud one evening during dinner if Meisinger was our father. He and mother looked at each other for the longest time then laughed so hard their dinner went unfinished. Allen and I were totally confused, not understanding what could possibly be so funny but were at least able to assume that the answer to my question was no.

We were too young to know then that Meisinger was barely old enough to be anyone’s father and that strangers often mistook him for our elder brother. When he was only sixteen he wrote mother a long letter after seeing her 1911 European debut in his native home of Vienna, Austria. Mother never revealed what that letter contained but she was so moved by its contents she wrote him back offering him a position as go between for her European engagements which were becoming more frequent since her debut. Meisinger possessed the perfect combination of a professional grace and maturity far beyond his years and the boundless energy of youth, both of which were important tools if you wanted to keep up with mother. With his command of several languages, his businesslike manner and his vast knowledge of music he became an invaluable aide to mother and the only other member of the male species that she would ever come to fully trust.

Meisinger was a fairly typical representation of his countrymen. Not overly tall, blonde, solidly framed, fine-featured and blue eyed, he attracted one’s attention with his appearance and kept it when he opened his mouth to speak. He was gentle and intense and never seemed to stop moving. Even while sitting in a chair his foot would tap or fingers would drum the armrest as he continually developed then filed away ideas in his head. People were so often shocked to discover his actual age after hearing his deep baritone voice on the telephone that he smoked cigars in an effort to look older and be taken seriously. This habit dismayed mother to no end, but she grudgingly conceded him. Allen and I were absolutely fascinated of course and begged him at every opportunity to blow smoke rings, which he was quite the master of. Unlike Nanny Lucci, Meisinger never treated us as though we were children but exactly as he did any other adult and we grew to love him for it. He became better than a father to us for he befriended my brother and I in ways that Nanny could not due to her primary loyalty to her employer. He became our co-conspirator, our confidant and our go-between during those occasions when mother became unapproachable due to temperament.

Meisinger himself was a fairly accomplished cellist and when I became proficient enough on the piano our home was filled with more music than ever before. Allen also followed suit musically as a violinist but he never seemed to enjoy it very much and preferred instead to compose songs and little symphonies for us to perform. There was no end to the musical gatherings in our parlor and we sang and played with people whose status in the outside world Allen and I were completely oblivious to. Renown composers Igor Stravinsky and Samuel Barber, jazz musicians Joe Jordan and Marion Harris, Vaudeville stars Marie Dressler, Magician Harry Blackstone Sr. (who would always try out new tricks on us) and even "Mr. Yankee Doodle" himself George M. Cohan were just a few of the many luminaries who all allowed us to place the title "aunt" or "uncle" before their names.

True to my history with Allen, I became quite accomplished at the piano long before he had mastered his violin and performed my first symphony with the Civic Orchestra of Chicago at age 13. The conductor of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, Mr. Fredrick Stock was also a frequent guest in our home and thus it was no surprise to anyone that I was invited to play with the CSO the very next year. On the one hand mother was thrilled to see all the hard work and sacrifice come to its natural conclusion, but on the other, she was absolutely adamant that this opportunity was not just being gratuitously handed to me due to her connections. Mr. Stock had to keep reassuring her that this was not the case at all and that I truly had earned the honor all on my own. After several weeks of much discussion behind closed doors (and a lot of shameless begging on my part) Mother relented and I was eventually allowed to make my debut at Orchestra Hall.

Allen was completely supportive of my success but when mother insisted he be my page-turner ("after all, he’s already doing it at home…") it was the last straw. He accepted the position with his usual self-deprecating grace but as I waited in the wings for my entrance onto the Orchestra Hall stage, I looked into his eyes and saw that the last of the gray sparkle had died in them, like a married woman who suddenly realizes her husband no longer loves her. I knew at that moment that I was the only one who truly knew what the future held for my brother and that from now on everyone but me would be surprised at the choices he would make. I clasped both his hands in mine and kissed each one.

Allen waited another three years for his own invitation from Mr. Stock to come but he waited in vain for none was ever forthcoming. Mother believed that it just was not his time yet and all that was needed was more practice. I never saw anyone grow to resent an instrument so much and if his violin had not been an almost 200-year-old Stradivarius I do believe he would have eventually smashed it to bits. By age seventeen he gave up hope completely. Mother tried to convince Allen to put off college for a year and work intensely on his instrument but he would not practice one day more than he absolutely had to. He applied and was accepted to the Institute of Musical Art (later to become the Juilliard School) with the goal of becoming a composer. Mother was absolutely furious, as this decision did not fit in with her well-laid plans. She knew very well that people adored the performers of music, not its creators. Mozart, arguably the finest composer of all time, was buried in a pauper’s grave she constantly reminded him but something inside Allen had snapped and he would not listen. She resorted to tactics I had never seen her apply on anyone including begging, pleading, bribery, and even screaming beyond high C but it all fell on ears deafer than Beethoven’s. Allen knew in his heart that he was never going to make his fame or fortune on the stage. (Next to it or perhaps somewhere near it, but never actually on it.) It was easily the most emotional issue the household had ever seen and the drama continued right up until the evening prior to our voyage overseas to accompany mother on her summer tour.

Our time together was to begin in Paris. Mother and Allen came to a tentative agreement in which he would agree to study intensely with several different master teachers in Europe to gain a broader opinion of his prospects. In addition to mother’s full performance calendar I was scheduled to make my European debut with several concert dates of my own thanks to Mr. Stock and of course, Meisinger. With my debut looming ahead and the prospect of my own career taking off long before I felt prepared for it I was extremely nervous and in a very foul temper prior to boarding the ship. I became queasy almost immediately upon boarding and spent the entire crossing either violently ill or in a drug-induced sleep. Nanny Lucci and Allen took turns at my bedside but it was Allen who took my hand and made me feel better by recounting tales of practical jokes we would play on unsuspecting divas by gluing down certain props to certain tables just prior to a performance. We would always make sure that either the tenor or any rival soprano would be expertly framed for the scene stealing episodes and the ensuing fireworks would have us both in cataclysmic fits of hysterical laughter that would last well past the third act and long into the night…

With my brother and I now young adults and completely self sufficient, Nanny Lucci spent all her time as mother’s dresser during performances and secretary the rest of the time answering her impossible volumes of fan mail, screening her calls and making sure her needed rest was not interrupted by well wishers or other such nonsense. We were never to know exactly how old she was for anyone over 20 seems ancient to you when you’re a child. Nanny however, still did not consider Allen and I too old to be taken by the ear in a crushing vice grip, (its strength completely undiminished by time) or to have our attempts at sneaking a bit of pre-dinner dessert interrupted by a flying house slipper. (Which she was able to maneuver with deadly accuracy even around corners.) With the passing of time and her mortality looming, she took to carrying her Bible with her everywhere and quoting from it whenever she suspected that our morals were in question. (Which was fairly frequently.) Allen got the larger share of the fire and brimstone what with the constant parade of female admirers he was entertaining behind closed parlor doors and the hours he was keeping by sneaking out late at night (and back in with my assistance of course). Nanny still had the ability to hear a fly landing on a door and would always have a special quote prepared especially for him the next morning as she served us our breakfast. Through her uncanny powers of observation she had absorbed a great deal from many years of watching mother perform. Any day she wished to change careers she certainly had one waiting for her as evangelist Aimee Semple McPherson’s replacement because when she got on tangent, you could actually feel the spirit. Mother did not necessarily approve, but she also did not discourage this new method of discipline, as she was raised agnostic and was beginning to feel guilty about raising us with no organized religion to save us from even the remotest possibility of eternal damnation.

"’And when ye spread forth your hands, I will hide mine eyes from you: yea, when ye make many prayers, I will not hear: your hands are full of blood.’ THUS SAYETH the Lord!" Nanny sets the last plate down in front of Allen with perfectly timed emphasis and a glare that made me try and recount any major sins from the past week. I held my eggs in mid air realizing I had forgotten to say grace and put them slowly back down. This is my first attempt at eating a meal since disembarking the ship two days ago and I’m not about to take any chances. If a little prayer is my only link to actually keeping any food down then so be it. Allen puts on his contrite face but when Nanny isn’t looking he switches to his thoroughly-pleased-with-himself smile and continues to over zealously eat everything in sight just to annoy me. He had snuck out of the hotel room the night before to meet with some Parisian street artist ten years his senior in the hotel café. Allen’s dalliances with our neighborhood girls is one thing but this was something else entirely and Nanny actually went downstairs in her dressing gown and interrupted them mid-Gauloise. As usual she said nothing to her employer about it but Mother will see the bruise on his ear later and know instantly that he has been up to no good.

"Good news gentlemen!" Meisinger announces as he comes into the suite drawing room where we are breakfasting. He sits at our table and Nanny automatically puts a plate down in front of him then gives him a withering stare as he pulls out one of his ever-present candela cigars. He quickly thinks the better of it and puts it away again.

"Your mother opens her season in Massenet’s Thais next week. Guess who will be playing the Meditation violin solo right in the Paris Opera’s pit?" The ensuing stunned silence urges him to continue. "You can thank me later Allen." He says as he begins to eat the eggs and toast in front of him.

"The papers will be here in an hour to do a whole mother/son story." He says between mouthfuls. "There’s already a press release on the radio. They’re practically rioting for the standing room tickets as we speak." I’m overjoyed at the idea of my brother finally getting an opportunity in the spotlight all his own.

Allen turns the same pale green as Meisinger’s cigar right before our eyes and looks as though he were about to plunge his butter knife into Meisinger’s heart. Had the news come at dinnertime and had it been a steak knife in his hand…

I take Allen’s hand. "Allen this is amazing! Aren’t you excite…"

"How could you do something like this without asking me?" Allen says in a tone of voice so controlled in its anger it frightens me.

"Allen… I’m sorry. I… I thought you knew. It was your mother’s idea…"

The rage consumes my brother so quickly the pale green instantly turns bright pink as he bolts up out of his chair knocking over glassware and tumbling his breakfast to the marble floor where the plate shatters in an explosion of porcelain. He leans over the table his face inches from Meisinger’s, his face now fiery red, veins straining along his neck…

"If I fucking wanted to play the Meditation I would have fucking asked to!" He hisses through clenched teeth. "From now on you keep your goddamned…"

"May I ask what is going on here?" Mother appears at the door instantly surveying the damage and the positions of everyone in the room…

Allen takes a few deep breaths and then backs away from Meisinger who looks as though he has just escaped being eaten by a wild animal.

"Nothing mother, I’m sorry. Just a moment of clumsiness." Almost on cue, a maid comes in, curtsies and begins cleaning up the mess.

Mother pauses to see if any further explanations will be offered. When none are forthcoming she crosses to the sideboard and prepares herself a cup of tea. "Very well then." She says as she takes a seat at the table. "I can only assume that Dietrich has told you the delightful news."

We all freeze except for the oblivious maid who continues cleaning.

Mother ties her cascade of fiery auburn hair back with a ribbon as she speaks and waits for her tea to steep. "Allen, I apologize for not being the one to tell you but it went from being just an idea to being all settled within a matter of hours. I wanted to tell you last night but Nanny informed me you had gone to have a late supper. I tried to wait up for you but I was just too exhausted from last nights rehearsal."

Allen says nothing, but I can tell that the necessity to be civil is making him even angrier if that’s at all possible.

Mother drains her teabag around her teaspoon as she continues. "We have a press conference here in less than an hour Allen. You need to finish your breakfast and then we need to dress. You have your lesson with Maestro Pagano after lunch and then you have an orchestra rehearsal at the theater. We have an early dinner scheduled together then dress rehearsal…

She stops in mid sentence when she finally looks at Allen and notices the tears running down his face.

"Oh Allen, what is it dear?"

He turns and looks directly at her. "You don’t understand at all do you mother?

It is mother’s turn to look hurt.

"What exactly do I not understand Allen?"

"I don’t want this." He replies quietly waiting for a reaction. "I don’t want to play the violin anymore mother. How many different ways can I say it so that you’ll believe me? I don’t want to have to get up in front of a crowd of people night after night and worry about my tone, or my pitch, or my fingering, or my phrasing or any of the countless things that can go awry during a performance. What I don’t want is the responsibility of having to be as good as the two of you."

"Allen, you are every bit as talented as anyone in this family. I know you don’t think…"

"Mother, just because the violin turned out to be the one thing I was best at does not mean that my best is good enough. Please respect me enough not to force me into a position where I may risk associating my name and the word "mediocre" in the minds of the public forever. I don’t want that mother."

"Allen you are anything but mediocre…"

"Your saying it does NOT make it true!"

Mother rises instantly and slapped Allen so hard a bright red imprint of her hand is instantly formed on his face.

"It IS true! You possess as much talent as anyone in this room. You are just too frightened of your own future to accept it. Why your own brother…"

Allen interrupts her by weakly holding up his hand.

"Mother," he says in a voice so soft and determined it actually sounds like possession. "If you compare me to Patrick one more time, I cannot be responsible for what I might say or do. It sufficed to be his shadow when no one even knew I was there. But I refuse to do it for a living."

After a long pause, she looks away. She then steps out of Allen’s way, effectively dismissing him from the room. He exits quickly and a second door slamming after the first signals his exit from the hotel room. I get up from my seat to go after him but mother’s hand on my arm stops me cold.

"You haven’t finished your breakfast yet dear. You know the rules."

Only until I reluctantly take my seat does mother then take hers.

"Well," she says cheerfully as she looks at the both of us. "How are the eggs?"

I find Allen in the café downstairs already on his third glass of beer. He signals the waitress for another, which I take to mean I’m welcome to sit down.

"I’m sorry Allen." I say as I take his hand. He flinches and removes his hand.

"Don’t apologize to me Patrick. You haven’t done anything except live up to her every expectation." He said bitterly as he lights a Gauloise.

"Well that’s hardly my fault Allen…"

"I’m not blaming you Patrick. There is no one to blame unfortunately." My beer arrives and is placed before me. I pick it up in a toast.

"Well here’s to you Ally. I for one am enormously proud of you."

"What the hell for?" he replies as he exhales a cloud of smoke that touches the ceiling.

"Well, you’re supposed to be the one with no spine and yet here you are, fighting another world war with "La Divina" and almost winning I might add." I take the cigarette from him and peruse his face as I inhale. It’s almost like I don’t know who you are."

Allen raises his glass and accepts the toast with a wry smile.

"God these are awful." I say as I put it out in the ashtray. Why are you smoking these anyway? Didn’t you bring any of ours with you?"

"When in Rome…" he replies.

"Allen, play the Meditation. It can be your one and only performance if that’s what you wish. At least then you can put your violin away for good with the satisfaction of having tried. Forget the fact that you might stink. By some remote chance that you do, do you really think anyone is going to say so? You’re the son of Lillian Diehl. Mother is absolutely worshipped here. There’s not one member of the press that would dare say anything unkind about your performance. At the very worst you’ll get a polite mention about your future promise or some such nonsense.

Allen puts down his empty beer. "I can not believe that after all this my own brother is going to try and force me…"

I take both his hands across the table and continue. "No Ally, absolutely not. I’m not trying to force you into anything. But just forget the pressure, forget the expectations, forget Mother, forget everything. Just take the moment and create something beautiful. I know you can do that Ally. I for one would love to see you shine for just one moment all by yourself. You’ll never have to do it again if you don’t want to.

Allen looks down at the table nervously twirling the pack of cigarettes in his hand before continuing.

"I’m afraid Patrick. Not of the performance, I know I can do that. It’s what will happen to me afterwards that frightens me. This family is one big avalanche that just keeps picking up speed. If do this performance the next thing I know I’m committed to a thousand other appearances you know how they are! I want no part of that! If I give in just once, it will never end.

"Look Allen, mother will never admit that she is not completely in charge of your life anymore. If you want to prove to her your recent sense of resolve is not a fluke than what better way to do it than to fulfill this obligation like a gentleman, and then walk away on your own terms?"

"Vous les jeunes messieurs aimeraient n'importe quoi d'autre cet après-midi?"

The pretty café waitress appears at our table addressing us both but clearly looking directly at Allen.

After a long pause Allen looks at me as he replies, "En fait no. je juste me suis rendu compte je tout ai j'ai besoin de."

Questions are posed, poses are held, flashbulbs pop… The first tour mother has made with her sons also performing as professional musicians creates a storm of publicity larger than anyone had previously anticipated. Allen looks like a cat seeking safety from a pack of dogs on the edge of a rickety fence but he answers the reporter’s questions in flawless French (as do we all) and graciously co-operates with the endless requests for photos both with and without his violin. I can tell that Mother is not buying into this performance for a second but she seems appreciative for the effort nonetheless.

When the last reporter exits the parlor Allen shut the doors just as Meisinger and I are making our way back from seeing everyone to the front door. We look at each other and decide the best course of action is to wait out the next wave of the storm in the park across the street from the hotel.

Mother sits at the piano and looks through passages from her score of Thais playing bits here and there. Allen sits on the bench next to her.

"Mother, I intend to go through with whatever plans you and Meisinger have made for me this summer. But come fall, that will be the end of it. Could we please not have this issue come between us anymore?"

Mother plays a few more passages then stops to regard him carefully.

"The problem with children is that they eventually believe they can think for themselves. Many a path to destruction was paved by allowing a child to think for himself."

"I am NOT a child, mother."

"Oh you’re not? Oh do forgive my error. So I have an adult living under my roof? Eating my food? Wearing my clothes? Spending the money I earn? You forget dear boy that just because you have recently mastered the ability to form a complete sentence in three different languages does not mean that you actually know anything. Much less about what is best for you."

"Mother I do not doubt for a second that you have ever made a decision for me that wasn’t based on what you believed were my best interests. But I’m not going to argue with you about it anymore. Come fall I am starting school as I have planned."

"Oh are you dear? How lovely for you. Mother rises from the bench and crosses to the picture window. She looks outside for a bit before continuing. "Tell me my dear boy, how exactly do you plan to pay for it?"

Allen’s features freeze as he realizes just what Mother means.

Mother turns around from her place at the window to continue.

"Because if you truly are the independent, self sufficient, free thinking adult you claim to be then you must certainly have made those arrangements, yes?"

Allen looks down at the black and white keys spread before him.

"I take your silence to mean "no". Then I suggest you follow the course that has been carefully prescribed for you Allen. You have no other choice."

Allan gets up from the piano, several keys jumbling in discord as he rises and exits the hotel room.

Meisinger and I sit on a bench near a little lake where several children are sailing homemade boats, a few none too successfully. We find ourselves wading in several times to perform heroic rescues to various doomed vessels and the opportunity to roll up our shirtsleeves and pants legs and cool off a bit is extremely welcome. After another round of splashing each other silly we sit back down on our bench and Meisinger procures one of his cigars from its leather case. Ever fascinated with the masculine ritual of cutting and lighting it, I watch his every move as I always do. Four perfect smoke rings follow into the stiff, heavy early-summer air.

"Meisinger, I still can’t figure out how you do that." I say in as much awe as the first time I ever saw him accomplish the feat.

He smiles at me, humbly accepting my idolization. "Patrick, you must call me Deitrich from now on, I absolutely insist. You’re not a child anymore and that customary offering of respect is no longer necessary. I begin to protest but he holds up his hand to stop me. "Please?" he asks.

I nod my affirmation.

"Now there is no good way to explain the technical mechanics of how smoke rings are accomplished. I’m going to teach you the way my elder brother Peter taught me." He says as he pulls his leather case and cigar cutter out of his pocket and hands me a cigar.

"Now you can forget about looking shocked at my letting you smoke with me. I happen to know for a fact that you and your brother have been smoking cigarettes for some time now and no, I have not said anything to your mother. It’s one of the few civilized masculine privileges left to us gentlemen and I for one intend to keep it that way."

After teaching me how to cut it, light it and hold it properly the lesson begins in earnest.

"Now remember not to inhale Patrick. This is not one of those God-awful Gauloises you’ve been smoking. And remember there are only two acceptable ways to hold it. Again, I must remind you it is not a cigarette…" The coaching session goes on for some time and while towards the end, no casual observer can tell I have not been smoking cigars for years, not one single smoke ring has materialized on my end.

Our lesson is interrupted by more stranded boats and Deitrich shows me how to hold the cigar in my jaw to keep my hands free as we wade in yet again. More horseplay ensues to the point where we end up drenching each other much to the amusement of the children. Their parents attempt to look disapproving of our show but obviously envy us, as we were certainly much cooler than they. The silliness is abruptly cut short when during the course of a wrestle hold a sharp pain runs through my left hand with a faint snapping sound to accompany it. I shout suddenly as the pain travels up my arm at lightning speed.

"Patrick! I’m so sorry! Are you all right?"

I hold my hand and gently explore the range of movement with a sharp pang each time I spread for an octave. "It’s my thumb Deitrich." I say (his name sounding so foreign coming from my own mouth.) "A slight sprain I think." But the flaming pain shooting up my inner arm says otherwise. In an instant he is fifty yards away procuring shaved ice in a towel from a vendor. He is back at my side in less than a minute.

"Here, put this on your hand. Hurry." He says wrapping the towel around my hand and pressing it close. "We can’t have it swelling up on you. If we have to cancel your debut because of my foolishness I shall never forgive myself. I can only imagine what Miss Lillian would have to say about that." He looks just about on the verge of tears as he intently continues the pressure on my hand.

"Deitrich, it wasn’t your fault." I tell him as we sit back down on our bench. "I have no intention of telling mother it was anything other than an silly accident on my part. I’ll tell her I caught it in a taxi door."

"You would do that for me Patrick?" he asks as he removes the ice and begins massaging my hand between both of his.

There are moments that are instantly recognizable as milestones in a life. We only have a few grand ones to contend with such as births, graduations, marriages etc… But the rest of life’s milestones are far more subtle yet no less important. Dietrich’s ministrations to my hand were becoming less clinical and more infused with a sense of kindness so palpable that even an inexperienced boy like me could recognize it.

A memory comes back to me that I never realized I would need again. I was about 13 years old and Dietrich was coaching me through a particularly wicked passage of Rachmaninoff…

"No, no Patrick, your phrase is still completely off. You’re just not feeling. You’re still trying to play it…"

He puts down his bow and takes a seat next to me at the piano while gently scolding me. "This is just not something that can be read off the page and played with technical precision Patrick. This section must be felt in order to be conveyed. You’re completely forgetting what the composer was trying to convey in this passage. It’s the step beyond technique and you’re just not applying it here. Try again."

We begin the phrase again this time with him as my guide. The same notes, the same tempo, the same dynamics are brought forth but this time the result is completely different. It sounds exactly the way it should…

It takes me a while but I begin to understand that Dietrich is now placing a fork in the road for me to choose from. I can ignore the subtle signal and pretend that his touch is nothing more than clinical concern leaving the incident to be forgotten forever, or I can recognize what is truly happening and allow him to lead me further. The choice is very delicately being left up to me…

I place my uninjured hand on top of his and meet his gaze.

"I would do that and so much more for you Dietrich. You must certainly know that by now."

"I thought so Patrick. I just wasn’t sure."

We are both growing very nervous over what is being articulated but not actually said, the prospect of which is suddenly rather frightening to me and I begin to shiver violently despite the summer heat. Dietrich is suddenly all business and immediately throws his seersucker blazer over me, his straw boater on his head, mine on my own and stands me up.

"Come Patrick. We must get you back to the hotel immediately and fetch the doctor."

Back at the hotel room the doctor injects something into my hand to keep the swelling down and advises against wrapping it to ward off any possible stiffening up. My debut is just about three weeks away and when I inquire about my ability to play by then he says he’s seen runners win races in far worse shape so he doesn’t see why I wouldn’t be able to play. This is oddly not as encouraging as perhaps is intended but Dietrich and I both thank him profusely nonetheless.

Nanny has left a note stating that she has accompanied mother to an opera society luncheon in her honor and will then be meeting Allen at his Maestros for his lesson. I can’t get used to the idea of Nanny not always being around and will probably never feel as though I were truly alone in the house.

Dietrich pours himself a scotch then after a pause pours a second one then brings it to me.

"Here. This will ease the pain a bit." He observes as I sniff at it warily. "Oh don’t pretend like you’ve never had a drink now my boy." He teases.

"I’ve never had hard liquor Dietrich. Just beer."

"Well if you’re going to smoke cigars like a man you may as well drink like one too. C’mon. Bottoms up." He clinks his glass to mine and downs his in one swallow. I assume he’s expecting me to do the same so I do. The sensation immediately afterwards is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Golden heat flows down my insides and immediately spreads everywhere. I’m shocked and enthralled all at once.

"Wow." Is all I can manage to say.

"Like that huh? Well, just remember to never overdo it. No one likes to be around a man who can’t hold his liquor." He says as he pulls out his leather case and hands me a cigar. I accept it but then hesitate, suddenly remembering where we are.

"Don’t worry, we have the place to ourselves till this evening and if by some chance we are wrong about that just put yours out and I’ll later claim it as mine."

I mirror his every move and get my cigar clipped and lit expertly. I’m truly enjoying this masculine rite of passage and enjoying it even more so with the man I most admire.

"Now Patrick, the trick to smoke rings that you’re not getting is the snapping of the jaw…

With our separate rehearsal schedules and respective openings to prepare for I see almost nothing of mother until her opening night of Thais. When performing she never leaves her bedroom till late afternoon not out of exhaustion but to completely avoid having to use her voice. She engages in as little conversation as possible during the hours before preparing to leave the theater and even then, only in a whisper. Outsiders may find this rather odd but we are all quite accustomed to this and have always taken advantage of this time in the past for sightseeing and daytrips. That time for me is now spent attending my own interviews, at lessons, and at rehearsals all with Dietrich constantly at my side. With mother’s own performance to worry about she has left all the smaller details of my debut to him and each moment he gives me is a blessing indeed. His infinite patience and knowledge, his gentleness and firm encouragement drive me forward and when the pain in my hand becomes so great I cannot continue he massages it for me immediately the way a coach would work on a runners cramp. If no one else is around, his touch will turn questioningly gentle again and each time Dietrich allows me the opportunity to address an unasked question I freeze for I am completely clueless as to what the right response should be. He then leaves it unspoken, seemingly happily so, and turns focus again to the more pressing tasks at hand.

Allen may very well have taken a vow of silence of his own for all we knew for he does not appear at breakfast the next day nor any other day thereafter. He attends his music lessons with Maestro Pagano for Mother has Nanny on spy duty and the word is that he has not missed a minute of a single lesson. Nevertheless, the one instance prior to mother’s opening night that he does join us for dinner he has nothing to contribute to any conversation and when asked a direct question it is answered in five words or less. I’m shocked for I have never seen him in this kind of state before. This is not just a phase of childish sulking. This was a man who has been changed and not necessarily for the better. I want more than anything to help him somehow but I am all to aware of just how far away he has gotten from all of us, like a man who falls deep into opium obsession and no one knows it until it’s too late.

Meisinger and I stand in the grand lobby of the Paris Opera exchanging the obligatory pleasantries with the members of Paris society and accepting the congratulations and well wishes of friends to be passed on to both mother and Allen. I have no doubts about what my mother will accomplish tonight but Allen weighs heavily on my mind. Will he show up at all? If he does will he even play? Will he play well? Dietrich can read my mind as the usher parts the curtain for us to enter our box. With a gesture he waves the usher away and pulls the curtain to our vestibule area closed.

"Patrick, you mustn’t tear yourself up over him. It’s completely affecting your own work. You can’t see it but I can. There’s something missing. Your playing is suffering and it has nothing to do with your hand either. You must put your heart completely back into your work Patrick. Allen may wish to completely self-destruct but that’s his prerogative. But he doesn’t need to take two people with him. You have your own career to think about right now."

"Dietrich, how can I possibly do that when my heart is breaking? I can’t stand to see my brother like this. I’ve always been able to fix things for him but I haven’t a clue how to make things right now. I love him so much, I just wish to see him happy once."

"You will Patrick. You will. I love him as well and of course I want the same." He takes my face in his hands and continues. "I love you too Patrick. So very much." Dietrich puts his arms around me and kisses me on the cheek. He holds me close and I am quite overcome with emotion for I realize at that moment that without him here I would be sitting in this box by myself with no one to talk to about the brother that I love slipping away from our grasp…

Just then the curtain to our little vestibule parts and Allen is suddenly there.

"I’m not interrupting anything am I?" He says in a tone of voice I had never heard before.

"Of course not little brother, in fact it was you we were just talking about. What are you doing up here? Shouldn’t you be in the pit?"

"I’m not needed until the second act remember?"

At that moment the house lights begin to dim.

"Of course, yes. I’m sorry Allen." I say as I part the curtain for him to step down into the box. "Do sit down."

Allen chooses the chair to the far left and Dietrich takes the center with me at the right. There’s no time left to talk to Allen for the conductor has taken the podium and receives a very warm welcome from the standing room only crowd. Even in the relative darkness I can see that Allen is looking at me the entire time until the curtain rises on the first act….

In Jules Massenet’s opera Thais, the heroine does not appear onstage until the latter part of the first act and the anticipations grows steadily until it reaches a truly fevered pitch. When mother finally makes her entrance as the famed Egyptian courtesan the audience interrupts the action to welcome her with an extended ovation. She breaks character for a second to accept the greeting with a slight curtsey then nods to the conductor to proceed. From that point forward she completely mesmerizes the audience but no one notices the brief look she directs toward our box as if to include us as accomplices in her master deception.

Dietrich remains in the box during the first part of the intermission to receive more guests and well wishers but I know that prior to curtain time I will find him in the men’s lounge smoking a cigar and cheerfully arguing politics. (A subject he is very fond of but due to his rather monastic occupation he gets very little opportunity to discuss since no one in the house is thus inclined.) I take the opportunity to make my way down to the musician’s dressing rooms but find Allen’s assigned room unoccupied. I ask the stage manager if he has seen him and he points toward the door leading down to the catacombs. I suddenly know exactly where to find him.

Strains of the Meditation flow out of the cavernous prop room and I find Allen seated on the same throne from the opera Turandot that we played on as children. I smile for when we played on it as children, I always got to be the King…

"Allen?"

He rises instantly as if suddenly discovering the throne was on fire.

"What are you doing here?" he asks sitting down again and resuming his playing.

"I wanted to wish you luck tonight Ally. I also…"

He stops playing the instant he hears the cherished nickname.

"Don’t call me that anymore, ever. We’re not children anymore are we Patrick?"

I am astounded by the brusque request but since I realize time is short I cannot take the moment to debate his demand. "All right Allen. As you wish. My apologies." I step forward and remove a small package from my tuxedo breast pocket. "I wanted you to have this for luck Allen." I say as I hold the present out to him.

After a considerable pause he puts down his violin and comes slowly down the steps from the dais. He takes the package from my outstretched hand and unwraps it. He removes a gold pin from the box and inspects it. It is in the shape of a violin.

"I realize that this may be the one and only night that you ever wear it Ally… Allen. But I had the distinct feeling that this would be a night to remember regardless of how things turn out."

He places the pin on his lapel. "Oh it’s certainly turning out to be just that brother dear."

The sound of the orchestra beginning to tune up for the second act stops me from asking him exactly what he meant by that.

"I must go. Thank you for the gift. I’ll treasure it."

And with that he is gone.

I do indeed find Dietrich in the men’s lounge and upon seeing me enter he excuses himself from his conversation to join me for the walk back to our seat which is no easy feat for we are constantly stopped by more of mothers friends and even a reporter who missed us before curtain time who wished a comment on the performance and a photo. I am always worried about returning to my seat late for the start of an act but miraculously the conductor has always made his entrance just as we were sitting down no matter how long or short the intermission was intended to be. I’ve always marveled at this coincidence but unbeknownst to me, the conductor is under instruction by mother that whenever we are in attendance he is never to begin until he can see that we have taken our seats. I can clearly see Allen in the pit and try to smile at him but he will not look up.

When the first scene of the second act is over, the other moment everyone has been waiting for has finally arrived. The curtain came down and a spotlight appears on Allen in the orchestra as he stands up and the famous Meditation interlude begins. The Meditation is by now a well-loved and highly recognizable concert piece outside of the opera stage but this time instead of some anonymous player in the pit, the son of the star of the opera is providing the heavenly musical commentary.

I have heard Allen play many times (and often quite well) but was completely unaware (as was everyone else) of the fact that he is actually brilliant and now everyone is discovering this at the same time including mother who stands in the wing opposite our box with the main curtain being held aside to make room for her.

Music and its effect on the spirit is something that words naturally fail to adequately describe. Any competent musician can play a piece of music beautifully but a virtuoso musician is a storyteller who speaks to a crowd through his instrument. Allen proves in the three and a half minutes he plays for the packed house at the Paris Opera that he is no merely competent musician. He is indeed a storyteller. His Stradivarius sings of newfound hope in such a way that we all find ourselves with tears in our eyes not just for it’s beauty but for the triumph of the moment that no one knew was possible.

The standing ovation that follows is so genuine and so heartfelt that I find myself crying yet again for finally that moment that I have always wanted for Allen has come. Dietrich and I actually have to share his handkerchief as we shout our "bravos" and I can see mother equally overjoyed as she applauds in the wings. Allen smiles and takes his bow then looks up directly at me for a moment with a strange almost amused expression. As the applause finally dies down he then steps out of the orchestra pit, lays his Stradivarius on the lap of the Viscount de Charmagne sitting front row center and proceeds to walk up the center isle and out of the theater.

"What the hell is he doing?" I ask incredulously and the audience now totally confused becomes suddenly disquiet and Mother actually steps out from her hiding place in the wings and onto the side stage. I have seen her angry before Lord only knows how many times but this particular expression of outrage on her face is one that will burn in my memory forever and I will never be so unfortunate enough as to ever see it again.

Allen stops about three quarters of the way up the aisle, turns and looks at mother, blows her a kiss, waves goodbye then looks up at us in the box, smiles and proceeds with his exit. The reporters occupying the standing room only area are all scribbling furiously in their notepads but the look on mother’s face communicates to them that they will regret exiting to the lobby to ask Allen any questions.

Instantly upon Allen’s exit mother’s expression turns to steel and she signals the conductor to resume and storms off the stage. I am already halfway down the grand staircase calling after Allen who pretends not to hear me and only stops when I grab his arm and spin him around to face me.

"Just what the hell do you think you’re doing Allen? Just what was THAT all about?"

"I’m doing exactly what you told me to do big brother. Allen replies calmly as he shakes off my grip. "I’m leaving on my own terms."

"Why you ungrateful, selfish little bastard! How dare you imply that any of this spectacle of yours was my idea! What I told you to do was to fulfill your obligation like a gentleman. No real man would ever embarrass all of us in such a childish and selfish manner!"

Allen catches sight of Dietrich coming down the stairs to join us then comes nose-to-nose with me and hisses; "YOU are certainly in no position to lecture me about what it means to be a man brother dear. Not after what I saw you and your… boyfriend up to in our box earlier!"

The purely hateful way he spits out the word ‘boyfriend’ causes my fist to cock and instantly retract…

"No Patrick!" Dietrich shouts as he reaches me just in time to grab my arm and move me aside. "We can’t have you with two injured hands." Allen smirks in satisfaction knowing he is safe but it lasts only about a second… "Allow me."

The right hook Dietrich throws is so fast it snaps Allen’s head to the right in a shower of blood from his instantly broken nose. Dietrich leans down to whisper in Allen’s ear as he lay on the floor.

"You will never disrespect me or this family again or I promise you Allen you will regret it for the rest of your natural life. Now get out."

A flashbulb from a reporter whose hunger for a story has overcome his trepidation accents Dietrich’s dictate perfectly but upon seeing the look on his face he realizes that his photo is never going to make it into the morning’s issue of La Presse…

Allen slowly gets up off the floor and takes a moment to decide what he will do next. Blood runs down his nose staining the entire front of his white shirt and waistcoat. A few bold audience members give in to their curiosity and tentatively enter the lobby to catch a completely different show. For a moment he looks contrite and almost as though he may apologize. The sight of Dietrich gently placing his hand on my arm seems to make up his mind for him. He spits a measure of blood on the marble floor…

"You two queers can go straight to hell."

And with that, he turns on his heel and exits through the front doors leaving a trail of blood and a small flash of bright gold lying on the marble floor.

Upon closer inspection I see that it is the pin I gave Allen before the start of the evening, which now seems like ages ago. I can’t help but wonder if perhaps the audience is feeling the same way. I close my hand around the rejected offering and hold it tight. I have no idea whether to laugh or cry, whether I am angry or infinitely sad or if I am safe or still very much in danger. Dietrich puts his hand on my shoulder and leads us out of the theater into a thick evening fog that almost completely obscures the waiting carriages at the curb. We get in one and as the cab leaves the sight of the Paris Opera I ask him where we are going.

"I haven’t the slightest idea." He replies.

Dawn arrives before either of us ever notice the small trickle of blood flowing from my still clenched hand.