Chapter 24: The Crossing of the River
On the afternoon of Saturday, December 14, a black Lincoln town car crossed the George Washington Bridge, heading south into Manhattan along the Henry Hudson Parkway.
In the back seat sat Della Coleman, dressed in an emerald-green wool overcoat with polished bone buttons, her white-gloved hands folded over her handbag. Her face was pressed close to the tinted glass, watching the sheer vertical cliffs of the New York skyline rise out of the winter mist like an impossibly dense forest of steel and light.
Beside her sat Nia, wearing a plain gray cashmere turtleneck and dark slacks, her hands resting quietly in her lap.
For the last three days, New York had been consumed by the concert.
The marquee outside David Geffen Hall had been sold out within forty-five seconds of tickets being released to the public. Scalpers outside the Lincoln Center fountain were reportedly asking three thousand dollars for a single seat in the orchestra tiers. Across the country, classical radio stations had synchronized their broadcast schedules to carry the live feed, while PBS had set up four mobile production units inside the hall to capture the performance for a national broadcast.
"Nia?" Della asked softly, not taking her eyes off the river below the bridge where ice floes drifted in the gray current. "You remember what your Nana said about the bridge?"
Nia smiled, reaching over and placing her palm over her mother’s gloved knuckles. "She said every time you cross the river, you leave a little bit of the dust on the Jersey side so you don't track it into people's parlors."
"She was right," Della whispered, her eyes shining behind her clean glasses. "We left enough dust in Trenton to bury an entire city, baby. Don't you take none of it onto that stage tonight."
The car turned off at 65th Street, pulling into the private underground loading tunnel beneath David Geffen Hall.
Waiting on the concrete bay, surrounded by security officers and production assistants with headsets, was Marcus Vance. He wore a crisp, midnight-blue tuxedo with satin peak lapels, his silver hair brushed back with impeccable care. Beside him stood Elena Rostov, looking resplendent in an embroidered velvet cape that had belonged to her father’s conducting wardrobe in Saint Petersburg.
As the car came to a halt, Marcus personally opened the rear door, extending his arm to assist Della down to the pavement.
"Welcome to New York, Mrs. Coleman," Marcus said, bowing his head with genuine, deep reverence. "Your private box in the Grand Tier has been prepared. There are three dozen yellow roses waiting for you, and two ushers assigned solely to ensure you do not have to lift a finger for the next four hours."
Della looked at the tall, silver-haired patrician, then reached out and patted his lapel with her gloved hand. "You're a good boy, Marcus. Your father might have been a hard man, but you grew up with your own heart. Esther would have let you sit on the porch for Sunday dinner."
Marcus froze for a fraction of a second, his throat working convulsively, before he managed a soft, trembling smile. "That is the greatest honor anyone in this city has ever offered me, Mrs. Coleman."
Elena Rostov stepped toward Nia, taking both of her forearms in a fierce, iron grip.
"The orchestra is warmed up," Elena said, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated electric charge. "Gustavo is in the green room. He has read through your tempo choices in the second movement. He says your transition into the più vivo is the most dangerous thing he has heard since Martha Argerich in 1978. Are your hands warm?"
Nia held up her hands. They were steady. The fingers were loose, the pulse at her wrist beating in a slow, rhythmic seventy beats per minute.
"My hands have been warm since Pier 41, Madame Rostov," Nia said.
Ten minutes later, Nia stood in the private soloist’s dressing room behind the stage left entrance of David Geffen Hall.
On the hanger behind the door hung her concert gown: a masterpiece of architectural simplicity crafted from midnight-blue silk, tailored with clean, sleeveless lines that left her arms and shoulders completely unrestricted. On the dressing table lay her small leather pouch containing the old copper penny from Gertrude Vance and the brass cloverleaf key Antoine Laurent had given her as a keepsake before she left Philadelphia.
Through the soundproof door, the muffled sound of the orchestra tuning reached her ears: the oboe sounding the pure, crystalline A-440, followed by the swelling, golden wave of ninety-four instruments locking into pitch—strings shimmering, brass blooming, woodwinds dancing in miniature runs.
A knock sounded on the door.
The stage manager, a young woman with a clipboard and an earpiece, cracked the door open four inches.
"Five minutes to house lights, Ms. Coleman," she said, her voice a mixture of awe and professional efficiency. "Maestro Dudamel is taking the podium."
Nia stood up.
She walked to the full-length mirror on the wall. She did not look at the silk dress. She looked at her eyes—the dark, steady eyes that had stared down Richard Vance across Table 12, the eyes that had watched the boiler steam rise in the small kitchen on 14th Street, the eyes that had refused to look away from the truth.
She picked up the copper penny, slipped it into the small hidden pocket sewn into the inner seam of her gown, and walked toward the stage door.