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"I hadn't heard his name before," recalls Wanda. "A French lady was gazing at him, and I asked, 'Who is that?' She answered, 'Horowitz. He's a genius.'" At a private party, Wanda and Vladimir met again. He was shy and withdrawn, so he took refuge where he was most comfortable, at the piano, playing Chopin mazurkas. Wanda listened with a fascination that grew in intensity as, over the next few months, she heard him in both New York and Italy. At Milan's La Scala, Horowitz performed his signature concerto, the Rachmaninoff Third. "Then he came to visit my father, and, as they say, I was swept off my feet." They were married in December 1933 in Milan. She knew no Russian, he no Italian, so they spoke French, the language they use at home to this day.
"I married an angel," he says. "She married a devil. There was much devil in me then." So there was. A relationship with a woman was an unusual experience for Horowitz, who was more comfortable in the company of men. As for Wanda, even a life of caddying for her fiery father had not prepared her for the emotional wringer she would go through with Horowitz. Despite the birth of their daughter Sonia in 1934, Horowitz's bisexuality ensured that the marriage was often stormy. They separated in 1949 and did not get back together permanently until 1953. "There were predictable problems for the marriage," says an Italian artist who has known Wanda since she was a girl. "She was deeply hurt. But she didn't surrender. Toscaninis are not quitters."
Sonia was the tragic Horowitz. A pretty but moody girl with dark burning Toscanini eyes, she was her famed grandfather's favorite and could speak to him in a way that nobody else dared. The maestro once asked her whether she would prefer to be a conductor or a pianist. "A conductor," Sonia replied. "It's easier." She was naturally talented, adept at the piano, a good writer, accomplished at painting and photography. But she was emotionally unstable, and Toscanini's death in January 1957 grieved her deeply. Five months later, she was severely injured in a motor-scooter accident in Italy. In 1974 she was in another motor-vehicle accident, this one in Switzerland, and she died shortly thereafter.
Now the storms of the marriage have subsided. "I think the Horowitzes have a relationship that transcends most marriages," remarks a close friend. "They have suffered, they have been hurt, and they have come through their personal torment, needing each other today with a degree of happiness that is freer and better than anything they had before." Wanda is at once mother, sister, friend, wife, adviser and sweetheart, guarding her husband against any real or perceived lèse majesté. "In the end," notes another family friend, "she believes faithfully and passionately that his genius is to play the piano like no one else around."
Horowitz, when asked what is most important in his life, answers simply: "My wife and that I can still play, am still a musician." He continues: "I made only one mistake when we were married, and that was I did not teach her to play duets. Now I will correct that mistake, and we will play four hands together." Wanda looks at him, understanding this unspoken declaration of love, and appears content. "You're lucky," she tells him.