Tallis' Third Tune

by Ellen L. Ekstrom

  “Finally!”

  The Proprietress woke me out of a nap. I lifted my head from the table in the Curiosity Shop and my eyes darted around suspiciously.

  “Come along, Alice!”

  Yawning – wait! I yawned?

  I was tired?

  That hadn’t happened in so many hours, days, weeks!

  And yet, I felt more alive than I’d been in years. The Proprietress placed the lapis book in front of me and handed over the key when I stood before the counter. I was able to open the book without trouble, but disappointed by what I found: empty pages.

  The first page was empty until the Proprietress placed a gold star, a tiny gold star, on the page and wrote the date.

  “It’s a start,” she sniffed.

  “I don’t understand,” I murmured as the book was secreted away.

  “What did Dennis tell you? It’s not about understanding, but doing.”

  I went to my usual table in the corner and opened the laptop, took a sip out of my coffee mug, and looked out into the village street.

  It was a picturesque place with neat rows of houses and shops, a clutter of medieval and Tudor architecture, divided by a stone bridge across a river that flowed to the sea, a village taken from a postcard, or as I mused, a Thomas Hardy novel or my imagination, and placed here – wherever here was.

  People came and went, exchanged greetings and conversations, got into automobiles and drove away. Buses lumbered down the high street every hour or so, but where they came from or where they were going, I couldn’t figure. And the people – they weren’t just villagers, but historical figures. Some were characters from my favorite novels, even a few from the novels I had written. It didn’t seem strange that Richard the Third was hailing a taxi, or that Phoebe of Cenchrae was trying on hats in the shop across the street.

  No, what was strange was seeing Quinn across the street – looking as he had when he was twenty-six.

  Without thinking, I leapt up and knocked the laptop and the coffee mug to the floor in my haste to go out into the street. By the time I had pressed through a crowd that suddenly appeared in the Shop, Quinn was walking away. I called his name, but no sound came out of my throat. Once again automobiles and people came at me and nothing happened.

  But the pain was unbearable.

  It began to rain, or what I thought was rain. I was weeping like the girl Alice when she’d gone down the rabbit hole and found herself too large, her tears flooding the narrow corridor; now, however, I was standing in the living room of my Berkeley apartment in March of 1978. Rain was lashing the windows as if someone was throwing buckets of water on them or hosing them down, making the lamp lit reflection of myself distorted, frightening – what I was feeling at the time. I looked the same as I had when sixteen, only a bit older, more sophisticated, and more unhappy.

  My arms were folded in a defensive manner. The Tallis Fantasia was playing in the distance.

  “Would you turn that music off? It’s depressing and I can’t hear you.”

  Donovan’s comment made me turn and stare, as if I was seeing him for the first time. With dark, smoldering Mediterranean looks, height and athlete’s body, he was a mirror image of Quinn, down to the pedigree of talent, charm and privileged birth – but his eyes were cold, calculating.

  “Sorry?”

  “You’re not listening!” he continued in the condescending, professorial voice he used on students and those he thought inferior, which was anyone in the room. “Why don’t you turn off the music so you can hear me?”

  “Leave it,” I ordered quietly.

  “Well, I can’t hear you, and I most definitely can’t read your mind, Alice, so if you’ve got a definite opinion about the wedding plans, now’s the time to say something.”

  “Not that you’d listen to me.”

  Donovan slid off the sofa, his notes and books sliding to the floor and landing on my Pomeranian, Sammie, that yelped and scampered out of the room wondering what she’d done wrong.

  “I don’t listen to you.” Again the voice was condescending and there was a tinge of amusement.

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to get married?”

  “I don’t want the wedding in New York.”

  “You don’t want the wedding in New York.”

  “Is there an echo in here? My family and my life are here – and most of my friends and family can’t afford to go to New York for a wedding, they can’t afford the airfare and lodging. Dennis and Harry will have to take out a loan if they want to come.”

  “We can have a reception here in Berkeley when we get back from the honeymoon – something at the Fairmont, or the Mark Hopkins?”

  “Again, Dennis and I can’t afford that. Your mother and her husband, the rest of her family, your dad, his girlfriend, your grandparents, your friends – they can afford to come to California.”

  “My father’s schedule couldn’t be changed, what with the election coming up, and Mother was only able to get the caterers, the priest, the band…”

  “Wait, wait…is your mother getting married, or are we? I thought I was the bride.”

  “You agreed to accept her help, didn’t you? You said you didn’t have the time or interest.”

  “True, but…”

  “And let’s face it: a big wedding is what’s expected of my family, and we know you can’t afford everything that goes with it.”

  “I can afford a dress!”

  “I didn’t suggest…”

  “Is this the right thing, Donovan? All we’ve been doing is arguing since we got engaged. What if we were to just go to city hall some afternoon when we’re both in the same city and we’ve both got nothing going on?”

  He took me by the shoulders as if I was a small child, setting me on the sofa. “No, because I know that isn’t what you really want and I can’t do anything other than what we’ve planned and you know it. Listen to me, Alice. I owe everything to my parents, the chair at Brown, the dig, everything.”

  “The senator has that much clout at Brown, does he? Pretty good for a carpetbagger from New York!”

  “I need to make concessions. I’ve already had to do some serious damage control with the family over my choice of brides.”

  “Oh thank you very much! Make me feel like Cinderella or Eliza Doolittle again!”

  “Sorry, that wasn’t what I meant.”

  “I’m too sure!”

  “This may be the twentieth century but rich New England families still arrange marriages to keep everything convenient, in the family, and in the bank. What I meant to say was that I need to make concessions if I want to keep my life as it is.”

  “Not our life, Donovan?” I asked quietly. “Are those apron strings tied in a knot?”

  “It will be worth it, I promise. Besides, Mother’s managed to book The Cloisters.”

  “The Cloisters? Oh my God, you didn’t!”

  “She’s friends with the curator and was owed a favor. The Cloisters, Alice! I knew you’d love it. You can’t say no to that.”

  “She’s taking advantage of me,” I started and shoved off the sofa, going back to the window. I was torn between rage and elation.

  Donovan waited for what he had hoped would be a happy, tearful acceptance of his surprise plans and when he got nothing, knelt to retrieve his papers and books and shove them into a briefcase. Whenever we quarreled he used it as a reason to beat a retreat.

  “The choice of dress and flowers is still mine, I hope?” I said after a long, painful, passage of time, punctuated by his sighing and the rustle of papers.

  “Of course! I hope Dennis is designing it?”

  “Actually, I did. Something medieval in theme – I suppose appropriate for The Cloisters?”

  Donovan pulled me down for a kiss. “Can’t wait to see it on you – and slide it off of you!” he purred.

  “I have an idea,” I said, slipping out of his arms to finish gathering up his things. “What if we had a ceremony here in
Berkeley, and the one in New York? That way, my friends can attend, and Dennis will have a hand in planning a wedding. We could have a civil service in New York and the religious service with a blessing of the marriage here in Berkeley at my parish church.”

  “That’s not a bad idea at all.”

  “Or, even better, and a gesture of peace towards your mother, I could ask my friends at the cathedral – maybe something in the Chapel of Grace? I know the Dean.”

  “A cathedral is what Mother is used to.”

  Had anyone else made that comment, it would have been a little joke. But it was Donovan, and he was serious.

  “Now that we’ve sorted one predicament, I wonder if you have time to look at houses tomorrow before your flight. There’s a house not far from my brother’s place on Rose Street.”

  “Ah, that reminds me; remember that little cottage in Newport we stayed in last year?”

  “The mini-Breakers on your mother’s estate? What about it?”

  I didn’t like the way he was smiling. He’d done something…

  “It’s ours – a wedding present from Mom. She saw how you loved it and I thought, why not make it a weekend getaway, or give it to Dennis and Harry so that they can be close?”

  “Oh no, you didn’t say anything about living in Newport!” I sighed, trying to pull away.

  “Think of it! A beautiful setting in which to write, and your brother nearby, sailing whenever we want…”

  “I get seasick in a bathtub and your mother a heartbeat away…no. I’m not living in your mother’s backyard.”

  The unnerving stare, the nervous smile – I’d seen it before. Donovan pulled me roughly towards him and kissed me. He tasted of garlic and mint gum. The kiss was angry.

  “Are you willing to give up that?” he murmured, releasing me.

  “Yes.”

  I was as surprised as he was by that response. When he looked as if he would strike me – indeed, he actually pulled back his hand – I refused to waiver and stared head on, waiting for the blow, a bruise to mar my face for a week, something that would make me dig into the depths of creativity for a plausible explanation. Instead I closed my eyes. Still waiting, I felt a tap on my shoulder and a playful brush against the cheek. Spinning around, I was inches away from Quinn.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Alice.”

  I was standing in a living room hazy with the smoke of pot, cigarettes, and sickening-sweet incense, somewhere on Durant Street in the spring of ‘75. A party was at the height of its progress around me. My date had deserted me as soon as we arrived, and until that moment I had been alone, except for the ice melting in an empty glass.

  He hadn’t changed: the hair was a bit longer and the five o’clock shadow was roguishly sexy. Quinn was wearing glasses, though – and removed the stylish wire-rims self-consciously. Mine were safely tucked away in my bag.

  “Hello!” I exclaimed, feeling my cheeks burn with color – why, I didn’t know. I suddenly felt like I did in the winter of 1969 when we first became friends: tongue-tied and bashful, stuttering and stammering as if I’d lost control of my speech. Quinn just smiled down at me and nodded.

  “If I’d known there were fine looking women coming I would have cleaned up a bit,” he teased, smoothing back his tangle of curls.

  “You’re fine – no worries. You look great,” I gushed.

  “Do I? I feel like I’m overdressed for this crowd – the super intelligent,” he chuckled.

  “Welcome to my strange little world!” I laughed. “I’ve always hung out with history and philosophy geeks but I never thought you did!”

  “There are some music types here. Me, for one.” He looked around and added, “Christ, guess I am the only one!”

  “Good to you see you, Quinn. You look great – I just said that, damn, I just said that…”

  “So do you. Your birthday was last week; here, let’s celebrate twenty-two.” He pointed at my glass. “What was that?”

  “Gin and ginger on the rocks, I think.”

  Quinn looked around and patted my shoulder saying, “Don’t go anywhere!” Then he was back with two drinks. He handed one off and then raised his, saying, “To the most beautiful girl I know.”

  I looked around at the girls in the room. “You once said I was beautiful – but that was before we both needed glasses, so you’re either crazy, or drunk!” I laughed.

  “Crazy glad to see a friend – and such a beautiful friend – after being gone so long.”

  “Almost three years, right? When did you get back?”

  “Last week.”

  I felt a stab of remembrance, of some unpleasant memory…the same words coming from his mouth.

  He drew me outside to the front yard where we sat on the porch and faced each other while resting against the support beams. “How’ve you been, Alice Rose? Everything okay in your charmed world?” Quinn asked softly and seriously.

  “Yes; as a matter fact, I just got back from Italy, if you want to know.”

  “I do.”

  “It’s where all the faery princesses go to get away from it all.”

  “And what would you need to run from?”

  “Strange that you of all people would ask.”

  We stared at one another, waiting. Quinn blinked first and looked away. “I deserved that,” he murmured and took a very long pull from his glass and set it down, moving to my side of the porch. “How was it?”

  “Italy, or the after life, or life after?”

  “Italy.”

  “Beautiful, just as I imagined it would be.”

  “The perfect place for a perfect faery princess,” he said, tapping my nose playfully. “How did you get that nickname? I remember kids calling you the faery princess.”

  “My mother bought me a tutu and tiara one year for Halloween and I refused to take them off after she had me try them on at Freed’s. I must have been maybe three or four. I rode on the London underground in that ensemble – walked home with her on the coldest afternoon in October wearing a short-sleeved leotard, tutu and ballet slippers. I didn’t care that I was cold. I thought I looked like a faery princess. My brother started calling me faery princess to tease me, but I ruined his fun by taking on this new persona. Now it’s become a term of endearment, I guess.”

  “You’ve always looked like you belonged to or were in another world. My father used to say that it would be like finding the Holy Grail to get inside your head – or your heart.”

  “Did he?” It was my turn to take a very long pull from my drink. “Why he should care, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t? Remember, I managed to unlock your heart.”

  And break it!

  I watched him from the corner of my eye as he gave me a surreptitious up-down. Maybe he noticed that I had filled out, and though I still looked the same, there was a difference brought by life’s hard lessons. I hoped he noticed that, too.

  “I bet he’s glad he finally got you all to himself. Those devious machinations must have worked,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “How’s the Royal Philharmonic?” I asked, offering my drink when the ice clattered to the bottom his empty glass.

  “That,” he took a sip and expelled a painful sigh, “didn’t work out as I’d hoped. Being arrogant and talented works for English guys here in America, but when you’re American, and they think you’re an arrogant bastard with talent – well, doesn’t work so well across the pond. I’ve got some auditions coming up, but until I’ve locked up a chair, I’m teaching guitar and piano at the night school, and, here’s the worst part – I’m back living at home for a while. Mother didn’t like the idea of me starving in a garret somewhere.”

  “The idea of having a consumptive girlfriend wasn’t too appealing, I guess.”

  “Your health has always been excellent,” he quipped, then added, “You got a degree in History, I bet.”

  “Aces straight up, Mr. Radcliffe.”

  “Are you teaching?”


  “Not yet; I’m taking some time off before grad school – Dennis can’t afford to pay for it so I’ve put in the scores of loan applications. I’m working as an appraiser and doing book restoration for an antiquarian bookseller on Post Street in the city. I’d rather be teaching – or doing serious scholarship.”

  “Emphasis on serious, I think,” Quinn commented, raising my glass to his lips and then mine. The movement was loving and sensual – I couldn’t help but notice that his eyes never strayed from my face and I loved it, made me feel alive and happy.

  “There’s nothing I can do with a History degree except write until I have my doctorate,” I continued as the glass passed back and forth. “Your passion is music, and mine has always been history. I want to go to England and hunker down in some serious research on the Italian merchants and bankers who pretty much bankrolled the English monarchy before and during the Wars of the Roses, then work on a history of the women of the conflict – the banker and merchant wives, the nobility. I think I can write popular histories like Barbara Tuchman, or at least try. Shit, your eyes just glazed over – a bit much? I’m sorry. I forget that not everyone likes history.”

  “Wow, ambitious…I thought maybe you’d get a gig with the Starship or Fleetwood Mac.”

  “Thank God you didn’t mention ABBA.”

  “They called and left a message – loved your rendition of White Rabbit…”

  We laughed easily. How many years had it been since our last date, our last kiss? Our last anything? Circumstance and obligation had made decisions for us.

  “My mother wishes you would come by the house, not be a stranger.”

  “My life’s been complicated, and you know, given the history, I didn’t think she’d want to see me.” I paused. “Or you’d want to see me. I would have, if you’d called.”

  Not what I had originally said, I’m sure of it!

  It was too painful, you see, to pretend that nothing had happened.

  “I'm ready to make amends; all I need is your absolution.”

  Quinn had reached out and drew me close, our lips ready to touch. I felt dizzy, and my heart was pounding. He was trembling…

  “Who’s the friend, Tarquin? Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”