�What was that for Paddy?� He asked calling me by the private nickname that only he used for me.
�Thank you Ally.� I said as I continued holding his hands in mine.
�For what?�
�For not hating me.� He looked away as the orchestra began its final tune up prior to Mr. Stock�s entrance.
�You over estimate me big brother. I have never not hated you. In fact, you�re lucky I haven�t killed you in your sleep by now.�
�Well that�s a joke in terribly poor taste Ally��
�I�m not joking.� And he looked at me again in the eyes and I knew then that he was not. I was at a complete loss for words. The audience began to applaud Mr. Stock as he made his way to the conductor�s podium� Allen continued.
�The only thing that stops me from putting my hands around your neck as you sleep is that I love you so much Patrick. God help me if you ever do anything to make me not love you anymore.� He whispered in my ear as he hugged me close to him. �You�re on. Merde.� He said, wishing me luck the way ballet dancers do. I barely heard any of my welcoming applause, as I was still busy processing Allen�s words all the way to the piano and halfway through the first movement�
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 without question 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�
