Immortal in Disguise

If you could bring your loved ones back from the dead, this planet would collapse under the weight of all the souls. But I do believe they’re all around us, in the wind and the rain, in the morning gold and the twilight blue. We can’t see them anymore but the veil between the worlds is thin. Every now and then the veil tears open and a soul slips through. How else can I explain what happened to me and those around me, changing our lives forever? I don’t know, but I’ll try.

One steamy night in July, my eight-year-old daughter and I took a dip in Cornwall Pond, not expecting to find anything new and strange. How wrong we were!

Coming home from the Children’s Museum in Boston, we ran into clogged summer traffic. Mai’s happiness evaporated like a pricked balloon.

"I'm tired, Mom!" she whined over and over, setting my teeth on edge.

I took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel. "Almost home, kiddo. I can already see the exit up ahead. We'll be home in a jiffy.”

“It's five more miles." Mai squirmed in her seat, then slumped against the car door. She wasn’t fooled.

I glanced at my daughter. Mai's creamy porcelain skin had darkened to honey tan this summer, a legacy of our Asian blood. Her bangs would need trimming now. They hid her long-lashed eyes like a Shetland pony.

Despite the streaks of chocolate ice cream on her cheek, her skin looked as smooth and soft as it had when she was a baby dozing between Doug and me on the big brass bed that first day home from the hospital. I longed to stroke that cheek and cradle my long-legged daughter on my lap.

“Tell you what,” I suggested. “Let’s take a quick dip in Cornwall Pond and get the pizza after.” Mai loves to swim, so she stopped whining.

We left the highway and headed to the pond, past a rusty sign that read, "NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY. SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK.”

Most people ignored the warning and swam during the day but not usually at night. Mai and I had the beach to ourselves. Mai giggled and splashed in the cool water, and I smiled. Finally I had done something right.

As we sat on the sand in the moonlight, Mai whispered, "Mom, are you scared?"

"No, why? This is practically our backyard.”

"I heard something just now. It sounded like a wolf howling.”

"Probably just the Cochranes' dog. It hates being tied up at night.”

A nearby splashing noise made me pause. “Or just a fish.”

The noise turned into muffled yelling. "Help. . .”

"Mom, I'm scared!" Mai wailed. "Let's go home now!"

"There's someone out there!" I jumped up and cupped my hands around my mouth. "We're coming. Hang on!"

I plunged into the water. I’d never rescued someone before but I’m a strong swimmer. The water rose to my chest as I struck out towards the flailing man.

I grabbed his hand and he nearly pulled me under. I could see Mai’s small figure jumping and screaming on the sand. She had never seemed so far away.

Somehow I found the strength to get back to shore with my burden. My feet touched the bottom and I hauled the man in as if he really were a fish. We both collapsed on the sand, coughing.

Mai jumped up and down. “You did it, Mom! You're a hero!"

I didn't feel like a hero. I felt sick. I sat up to catch my breath. The man rolled onto his back, still coughing.

Mai stared down at him with wide eyes, then leaned over and whispered into my ear. “Look, Mom, he’s naked!”

I tossed my towel over him and stood up. ”Let’s look for some clothes.”

Mai trotted away. She stopped near a clump of willow trees and called, “Here’s some stuff. Pew-yew!”

I followed her and found a shirt, some trousers, and a heavy black coat spread like a blanket. She was right. They did stink. I shook the sand out of each item and carried them back to the man. Mai struggled behind with a pair of high-top boots.

We found him sitting up, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He had wrapped the towel around his broad shoulders but I could see he was shivering. He looked up as I dropped the clothes beside him.

“Thank you for saving me.”

"How are you feeling?"

"Sick. Cold.”

"But alive."

He nodded. "Alive, yes.”

Mai said, "You're lucky we came down here, you know that? You could have drowned.”

The man smiled. "You are very wise, little one. You knew I needed you.” He clutched the towel tighter and coughed again.

I glanced at my lighted watch. "Listen, why don't you get dressed and I'll take you home.”

As he struggled to his feet, I saw his body in the moonlight. He was well-built, and my face grew hot. I swung Mai away and steered her to the car, then went back when he had finished dressing.

"Where do you live?"

He shrugged.

I frowned. "You mean you don't know? Or you don't have a home?"

"I have come for just a little while.”

"Oh? Where from?” We headed for my car.

“I once lived in Wien. Vienna, you call it. But I have been away for many years.”

My neck prickled. "Who are you?"

He stopped. "Need you ask?"

I turned. His square jaw and deep-set dark eyes looked familiar, but I was sure I’d never met him before.

Mai called from the car window. "Mom!”

"Not now, Mai!"

"But I have to tell you something.”

I sighed. "What's so important?"

"I know who he is.”

We stared at her. Mai turned coy and hid her face in her hair. “At least I think I do."

The man squatted down and gazed into her eyes. After a tense moment, I broke the silence. "Well? Out with it, Mai!"

Mai whispered, "You're Beethoven, aren't you? I saw you in my dream.”

He smiled, but I blurted, "What dream, Mai? What are you talking about?"

“Last week. . . I dreamed I was playing the piano and he was giving me something to learn. He said, 'Play my music, little one. I wrote it for you.'”

She looked up at me. "I keep hearing it in my head. It won't go away!"

"Mai, I hate to tell you this, but Beethoven lived a long time ago. People don't come back from the dead.”

Mai's face crumpled, and she hid her face against the seat. I smoothed down her wet hair and turned to the man.

“Don’t you dare mess with my little girl. You'd better come up with a better story than that.”

I climbed into the car and slammed the door. He stumbled after me, but I rolled up the window and started the engine.

"Wait!" He pounded on the glass. "Help me, Stefanie!"

My blood ran cold and I opened the window a crack. "How do you know my name?"

The man’s white teeth gleamed in the moonlight. "Sie hat meine Musik gespielt -you have played my music.”

"See, Mom? I told you," Mai hissed.

"I am not a stranger to you.”

“If you're Beethoven, what are you doing here?"

He spread his big hands to show they were empty. “I will tell you. Please open the window.”

I complied but kept my foot over the accelerator.

"I have come back to give the world my music,” he said.

"What do you mean? What music?"

He gestured to the dark trees and the water. "New music. To give hope to mankind. All this killing. . . all this hate. . . it must stop. Life is--how do you say--a gift. Do not waste it.”

"But your music has already inspired millions of people. It stands for truth and beauty and joy. Your work is immortal.” I shook my head. “I can't believe I'm saying this! Tell me who you really are and I'll help you get on your way.”

The man slammed his fist on the hood of the car, his eyes fierce, and I jumped. Until then he had seemed gentle, almost meek. "I am telling you and telling you! You must believe me. If you knew what I knew, if you had been where I have been. . . you would not scorn me.”

He straightened up, his chest heaving, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Help me give my music to the world and then I will go. That is all I ask.”

His accent and straight posture reminded me of my father, whose spine was bowed by cancer in his final months. Nothing could bring him back, no wishes and no prayers could spare him intractable pain. We all knew his death had been a blessing.

If people could come back from the dead, why hadn’t Stefan Sontag tried it or at least sent me a message from beyond? Why would Beethoven come back as a half-drowned rat in Cornwall Pond?

His hoarse voice broke into my turbulent thoughts. “Pray, listen to me and do not make hasty judgments. I bring new music and new things to say. Your world is in danger.”

I rolled my eyes. “And a few notes from you will save us?”

He scowled. “Do not mock me. My music will bring all peoples together in peace as I did with my Ninth Symphony."

“I see.” It was all so crazy, but I could almost believe his story. His quaint, formal speech sounded like someone from a Jane Austen novel. He knew my name and claimed he knew I’d studied piano. I decided to test him.

“If you’re Beethoven, what piece did I play for my audition to Brandenburg Conservatory?”

He hesitated, and I pounced on him. “You don’t know, do you? Get out of here!”

“Wait!” He raised one stubby finger. “It was my Sonata no. 30, opus 109. One of the late ones with trills in the final movement.”

I felt chills go down my spine. “Did I get in?”

“Of course. You even won a scholarship. But you left in your second year.”

“Why?”

“Because…” he paused again.

“Well?”

The man rubbed his chin. “I do know, but I should not say it in front of your little girl.”

Oh my God. My face grew hot.

“All right.” I sighed. “You’re either a terrific actor or the real thing.”

Another question came to mind. “How do you know English? Beethoven was German.”

He smiled his dazzling smile. "I have many English friends. They teached—“

"Taught.”

"Taught. They taught me your language. But it does not sound the same here in America.”

I had to laugh. "Not exactly! Wait 'til you hear someone from the South.”

"This country is most interesting. I have always longed to see the New World, where every man has freedom. That is why I chose to come here. I never saw it in my lifetime.”

He gestured to the trees. "This land is very beautiful. I am glad it is not spoiled.”

"Oh, but it is. The rivers are choked with pollution and there's hardly any wilderness left. Our skies are full of poisons from the factories. You haven't seen our cities yet.”

Mai began to yawn and slump against the seat. She’d had a long day.

I said, "I don't know if I can help you. I don't know any important musicians anymore. My father could have helped you but he's gone.”

"I know.”

"You do?"

Mai sat up and stared at the man, wide-eyed.

"Of course. He was a fine cellist, nicht wahr? He played my music with feeling, and passed it on to you.” He smiled again at Mai. "And you too, little one.”

I blew out my breath. In this day and age, you didn't just take in strangers and feed them. But he seemed so real!

Finally I opened the car door. and he climbed into the back. His stench filled the air and I nearly gagged. "You can stay with us for now and get cleaned up. But don’t go wandering off or the police will haul you in. They're pretty tough on strangers in this town.”

"’Haul me in?’ What means that?"

"They might arrest you.”

He flung his head back. "But I am Beethoven! They have heard of me, yes?"

"Don't you understand? Nobody's going to believe you. If you want to be safe, I think you should use another name for now. Like “Louis…er, Banes.”

"Nein!" he thundered, and jumped out of the car. "I will not tell lies!"

I shouted, "Fine! See if anyone else believes you. They'll lock you up faster than you can say 'Ludwig van Beethoven.' You'll wish you’d listened to me.”

He stood still in the dust, biting his lip. I shrugged and started the engine. “Are you coming or not? I haven’t got all night.”

He climbed back in the car. "You are right, liebe Frau. I will do as you say.”

Every instinct told me to take him to Harrington Hospital and ditch him at their ER, but I couldn’t seem to shake free of his compelling eyes. Even his clothes seemed authentic. The billowing white shirt and green trousers, the long black coat and high knee boots made him look like Heathcliff or someone right out of Dickens. But maybe they only came from a costume shop.

As we pulled off the highway at last and headed towards home on Somerset Road, he said, “Stefanie, I would like to see your mother.”

I nearly drove into the ditch. “What!”

“Your mother, Frau Sontag. She is a fine singer, but like a flower, she never had the chance to bloom.”

Oh my God. Now I know he’s crazy, babbling about mothers and flowers.

I pulled all the way into the ditch and shut off the engine. “Out, mister. I’ve heard enough.”

“No, Mom!” Now Mai grabbed my arm. “Listen to him.”

I yanked free, tired of everyone grabbing my arm.

The man leaned close, and I fought the urge to push him away. I had heard my mother’s story of woe since I was six. She brought it up whenever she thought she was being ignored or wanted sympathy.

This was my chance to test this madman once and for all.

“Why not? Why couldn’t she sing?” He couldn’t possibly know the answer.

“It was a special production of my “Fidelio.” Leonore is the faithful wife whose husband Florestan is jailed for defying an evil man. She disguises herself as the jailer’s helper so that she may set him free.”

My patience began to wear thin. “Everyone knows that. What does that have to do with my mother?”

He drew a deep breath. “Ming - that is, Miss Huang - was the director’s first choice for Leonore. But Gustaf Schimmel, the tenor who sang Florestan, refused to perform with her. The director- damn his soul - caved and let her go. All because she was Oriental.”

“I hate that term. We’re people, not rugs or vases!”

The man grimaced. “I am sorry, that is the only word I know. Herr Schimmel called your mother terrible names that I did not even understand. It was shameful. She was the finest Leonore I had ever heard.”

“How do you know?”

His intense eyes bored into mine. “I was there.”

I shook my head. “Right, mister. You say you’re dead but you just pop back to life whenever you want to.”

“Stefanie, you must believe me! Your mother will know me. I will write new songs for her.”

Mai began to jounce on the seat. “Say yes, Mom! Pretty please!”

The man sat back against the seat and folded his thick hands as if he could do no more.

Every nerve in my body wanted to shout “No!” I’m a nurse, damn it, practical and sensible, steeped in biology and scientific truths. I didn’t believe in miracles or reincarnation. And yet…

I remembered Grandmother’s Chinese folk tales, where ragged beggars turned out to be immortals in disguise and heaped riches on those who gave them shelter. If anybody qualified as an immortal, it was Beethoven! Maybe there was still some magic left in the world.