reminded him of that old TV commercial: “’Atsa some spicy meataball.”
He wondered how Palmer, with his ulcer, could stomach all that spice. Having experienced Anna’s cooking many times in the past, Koesler had downed his glass of Chianti before taking a first bite of anything, hoping the dry red would make more palatable what would follow. He thought it had helped.
“You want more, honey?” Anna asked her husband.
“No. And why the hell do you put so much spice in those meatballs? You know I’ve got an ulcer!”
“You and your ‘hell’ with a priest in the house! Besides, if you didn’t baby that ulcer so much, it wouldn’t bother you so much.”
Dave tossed his napkin on the table in disgust. “I’m not in a contest with the damn ulcer. I’m not trying to conquer it. It won a long time ago. I’m just trying to live with it. And all that spice isn’t helping.”
It seemed that Anna did not hear all that he’d said. While he was speaking, she was rattling the dishes in the sink. They both finished at about the same time. She took from the refrigerator three servings of red Jello and put them on the table. For the first time Koesler wondered about the truth of the motto, “There’s always room for Jello.” Perhaps not, he thought, after one of Anna’s meals. But, out of politeness, he would try.
“Will you be coming to the concert, Bob?” Dave asked.
“Which one?”
“The Midwest Chamber Players.” Dave seemed miffed that there was any doubt as to which concert was under consideration.
“Oh, yes.” Koesler acknowledged he should have known Dave had to be referring to his baby rather than the DSO. “I remember now. It’s going to be right after Christmas. Gee, I don’t know, Dave. Even if I’m not busy that night, I’m sure I’ll be beat. That’s a very busy season for Santa and for me. But I’ll try.”
“I wish you would, Bob. Chamber music needs all the support it can get. After all, this isn’t Minneapolis. Chamber never caught on here in Detroit as it should have.”
“There you go,” Anna cut in, “nagging our guest. Can’t you let the man eat in peace?”
“I’m not nagging! I just asked Bob if he planned on going to our concert.”
“That’s nagging. And what’s with this ‘Bob’? The man’s a holy priest of God. Why don’t you call Father ‘Father’?”
“For God’s sake, Anna, we grew up together! He’s a classmate, for God’s sake!”
“There you go, taking God’s name in vain. Breaking the Second Commandment. And a priest right here in the same room!”
“Good! Then he’ll be able to give me absolution!”
“You have no fear of the Lord!”
“I’m more afraid of your spicy meatballs!”
“So, Dave,” Koesler, who was beginning to develop a nervous stomach, interrupted, “what are you going to play in your concert?” Experience had taught that his efforts at peacemaking could be little more than stopgap measures.
Dave smiled at the thought. “Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Schubert.”
“See?” Anna said. “All the old-timers. Dear, you’re going to make everybody think you never heard of the twentieth century.”
“There she goes again!” Dave countered. “An art student—and not a very good one at that—and she wants to be my program director!”
“Leave my art alone!”
“Why not? Everyone else has. But tell me, my lovely, whom would you have on the program?”
“Somebody. Anybody. At least from this century. Stravinsky maybe.”
“Good! Excellent! Superb! Then we could be certain that if someone fired a cannon during the concert, no one would get hurt.”
“Okay. All right, Andre Previn. Stick to your ‘masters’ and see where it gets you.”
“A few more people. Maybe a full house, my pet!”
“And the usual negative reviews. Ridley Groendal is not going to like that program.”
“Ridley Groendal can go to hell!”
“Forgive him, Father!”
“Forgive me, Father.”
Koesler shook his head.
Anna rose in a huff and went to the sink to scrape dishes and stack them in the dishwasher. Though it was a little noisy, it enabled Palmer and Koesler to talk without interruption.
“She’s wrong, you know,” Palmer said. “God knows I understand the atonals as well as anybody. And I like a lot of them. But we’ve got to face it: The general public has resisted them. With the Symphony, we’ll tuck one or another of them in among the classics, hoping that the audience will come to hear, say, Mozart, and learn to like Cage. But, to date, it hasn’t really worked; they’ll give Beethoven a standing ovation and sit on their hands for Prokofiev.”
“And you don’t fear Rid?”
Palmer shrugged. “I never feared Rid. I alternate between not understanding him, pitying him, and despising him.”
“An odd mixture.”
Palmer rose and motioned Koesler to follow him into the living room where the kitchen sounds would be muted and they could talk more comfortably. “I suppose. But that’s the way it worked out.”
“Care to explain?”
Palmer registered doubt. “Rid’s in your parish now. The two of you talk from time to time?”
“Yes, but I’m not the type to betray a confidence. You know that.”
“God, yes. I know that. Well, I pity the man because he’s a shell. There’s no substance. Performers, the artists know that. The trouble with Rid is he thinks he knows everything. He doesn’t. Nobody does. But, there he is, maybe the premier critic in America, certainly the most influential—or at least he was when he was with the
“He passes himself off as the expert in theater, music, and literature. And what does he know? Jargon! Outside of artsy phrases, he doesn’t know any more than the average patron of the arts. And he’s insecure.”
Koesler lifted a questioning eyebrow.
“Oh, he’s insecure, all right. Like insecure people, he has to name-drop. Like, ‘When I was talking to Lennie last . . .’ or ‘Pinky prefers the pizzicato played this way . . .’
“No, Ridley never really knew what he was talking or writing about. What he knows is how to intimidate people. People in middle and upper management. That’s where his power lies. But when he acts the critic, he just plain doesn’t know his rear end from a hole in the ground.
“So, part of me pities him.” Palmer stopped to light his pipe.
Koesler took up the slack. “You pity Rid, but you also mentioned you don’t understand him?”
Palmer puffed several times to kindle the tobacco. “I don’t understand why he hates me. I haven’t done anything to him.”
“There was that time when we were all kids . . .”Koesler well knew how unforgetting and unforgiving Ridley could be.
“You mean the eighth-grade concert?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You really think it could be that! I’ve thought about it many, many times. It’s the only conflict we ever had. But it was so childish. And so many years ago. It seems impossible. If memory serves, all I did was pay him back for what he did to me. A couple of adolescent tricks. Do you think that could be it?”
“It’s possible.” Actually, Koesler was certain it was so.
“I suppose you’re right. Yeah, it’s the only thing. But, so many years ago . . . so long ago . . . and such an insignificant incident . . . it seems incredible.” Palmer puffed, contemplatively.
“One man’s insignificant is another man’s mountain.” Koesler regretted the words no sooner than they left his lips; he sounded like a pop-psych guru. Fortunately, Palmer seemed still deep in thought. Koesler picked up another thread. “And your hatred for him?”
“Huh! Oh, well, that’s the clearest of all. He’s ruined my career quite singlehandedly. I won’t go into chapter
