The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [8]
“Anna Prus,” he said with a nod and closed his ledger, into which he had been entering figures—as she noted with appreciation—with a feather quill. “You’re by far the most accomplished singer I’ve had the pleasure to welcome here.” He took her fingers in his own and lightly kissed her cheeks, in the European manner, close enough for her to feel the soft scratch of his short beard.
“I’ll bet you say that to all of your clients,” she replied as she opened her overcoat and took in the contents of the room. There were armchairs, dining chairs, desks, secretaries, and other pieces, which radiated with a glow of iron and dark mahogany. The walls were lined with paintings and etchings, several of which resonated with an azure tone that reminded her of the sky outside. She smiled at him. “Your collection appears to match the graciousness of your words.”
“You’re very kind.” Lawrence made a slight bow and after taking her coat invited her to sit. “Could I offer you a drink? A whiskey or perhaps some cognac?”
Anna opted for the former, and Lawrence soon returned carrying a tray with two glasses, a crystal flask, and a bottle of water. She received the glass with both hands, almost cupping them, which allowed her right palm to caress the back of his left hand, a gesture that seemed neither to surprise nor to displease him as he sat down across from her. “An Irish whiskey for an Irish princess,” he toasted before nodding at her. “So—how do you feel after the big debut?”
She savored the ambient heat of the alcohol. “It’s a bit unreal,” she confessed. “I have to keep pinching myself, especially when I think about doing it again.”
He nodded. “I haven’t been to the opera in years, but you made me think it was worth the wait.”
“I thought I overheard you say that,” she remarked, catching his eye as if they were still flirting in a crowd of people, “which surprised me.”
“It seems unconscionable, doesn’t it?” He laughed and explained: “When I was younger, I was beyond idealistic—not just about opera, as you can probably imagine—but when things in the rest of my life didn’t work out exactly as I hoped, I gave it up—I didn’t want to be reminded.” He looked up at her. “If that makes sense.”
“It does,” she emphasized and—prompted by his questions—described moving to New York City from Vienna with her parents, followed by high school in Washington Heights and conservatory at the Manhattan School of Music. Minutes vanished as they talked, and not once did his expression develop that maddeningly distant quality she associated with men who were merely indulging her, as if they couldn’t quite imagine that singing was as important to her as their art (or more frequently, business affairs) was to them, nor—like certain opera fanatics she had met over the years—did he seem to want to exploit her experience to become more of an insider, to be regaled with backstage stories involving singers more famous than she was. She was struck by the certainty of having already met him at some forgotten point, which—though he had denied this the previous night—heightened the pleasure of talking to him alone for the first time. “So yes, I was idealistic, too—painfully so,” she said, circling back to his original point. “I used to kill myself preparing for roles. I read philosophy and psychology, I studied the Eddic myths—I spent hours in the library—I wanted to be an ‘intellectual’ singer.”
He refilled her glass and passed it to her, and perhaps allowed his hand to remain under hers for a fraction of a second longer than the first time. “What changed?