Tallis' Third Tune

by Ellen L. Ekstrom

  “Gifts from a friend – I wrote a paper on the Pre-Raphaelites that year,” I said when I brought him a cup of steaming hot coffee.

  “The friend you tried to forget?”

  “Yes, if you must know!” I chuckled.

  “And this pensive young man must be the mysterious friend?” He was pointing to a portrait of Quinn grouped with other artwork.

  “The same.”

  “This is very good; I’d forgotten how incredibly talented you are. Jesus! You drew every single hair!”

  “Thanks. Look on the wall to the right of Fair Rosamund.”

  “I’m looking…hey! That’s me!”

  “I based it on the sketch I drew while we toured the Palazzo Davanzati. Remember? In Florence?”

  “I remember the courtyard – wow! Watercolor?”

  “Yes. I was going to send it to you as a gift, but then I never heard from you – okay, that’s forgotten. But it’s yours if you want it.”

  “No, no, I like that it’s hanging on the wall in your apartment. Keep it here,” Donovan said, stepping back to view it at a different angle. “Wow, do I really look like that?”

  “You mean that good? Yes.”

  The answer pleased him, for Donovan’s dimples increased and his smile was genuine. For a moment it might have been Quinn standing near the coffee table admiring himself. But then, Quinn wouldn’t have dwelt on how he appeared to others in his portrait. He would have shrugged and remarked on the technique, the play of light and shadow that made the arched stairwells and galleries of the famous courtyard in the fourteenth century Florentine townhouse look like an Escher print, or tease me about wanting to rent rooms there.

  The doorbell rang and saved us from what I knew would be an awkward exchange for Donovan was now looking at the photo of Quinn and me. “That’ll be dinner,” I said going for my wallet again. Donovan was quicker and moments later the bags of takeaway cartons were being unpacked on the kitchen table. “Consider this a date,” he said, winking.

  “You’ve caught me by surprise – I was hoping to have this place cleaned up a bit before tonight.”

  “Bad timing as usual,” Donovan said, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

  “No, not at all. In fact, I spent most of the morning working on a surprise for you.”

  “For me,” he said skeptically, then, “Seriously, for me?”

  “That’s what I said.” I turned and frowned. “Donovan, are you okay?”

  “Want the truth? I haven’t had a drink in twenty-eight hours.”

  “Twenty-eight?”

  “I did it for you.”

  I kissed him on the cheek, saying, “Thank you, but I insist that you do it for yourself; that will make me very happy.”

  While I served up equal portions I noticed that he was watching me carefully and his expression was sad.

  “Please, tell me what really is the matter.”

  “What?” he asked, distracted.

  “Something’s the matter. Where’s the urbane, erudite and cocky archeologist that swept me off my feet and into his bed in Florence?”

  “Believe me, I’m looking for him. I think he’s corked up in a bottle somewhere!” Donovan replied half in jest.

  “Well, I could get used to this new guy sitting at my kitchen table.”

  “The guy who looks like the evil twin of the guy you’re trying to forget?”

  “I don’t know if he’s evil, but I’m here with him.”

  Donovan scowled at the food before him, glanced at the chopsticks I handed over. “Could I get a fork? I want to keep this urbane, witty, handsome evil twin guy thing going, and I can’t do it with chow mein on my lap.”

  A fork was handed over and we dug in. Donovan inhaled the food as if he hadn’t eaten for days and was reaching for the carton of cashew chicken when he paused and picked up a copy of a monograph stacked on others and books at one end of the table. “Sorry; I wanted to straighten things up. Some day I’ll have a proper office,” I apologized and reached for the monograph. Donovan shook his head and flipped through the pages.

  “No, no; this is good, Alice! Historical origins of the Guelph Ghibelline conflict and their connection to the Fourth Crusade. You couldn’t have chosen a more obscure but fascinating topic.”

  “And I’m defending it in two weeks.”

  His eyes nearly popped. “This is your doctoral thesis?”

  “The basis for it, anyway. I wrote that during my first trip to Italy and a small scholarly press published it in their quarterly. I’m taking a big risk. I’m sure you’ve published papers and in more recognized journals. Weren’t photos of the Petra excavations published in the National Geographic last month?”

  “Yes, but they weren’t my photos.”

  “There was an article about Petra and Santa Reparata in The Society of Archeology Journal – I immediately thought of you when I read it.”

  “Wasn’t my work.”

  Now he held up one of my costume sketches for a local theater group. “Let me guess, part of the thesis?” he teased.

  “Part of my employment. I work at the bookshop part time and design costumes for local groups – best money I ever spent getting that union card. It pays for this place.”

  He picked up a chopstick and started pushing cashews around on his plate, then pushed it away and sat back in his chair, took a drink of the sparkling water. “I wonder if you aren’t too intelligent for me.”

  “What do you mean?” I laughed, though inwardly I was starting to feel ill, as if this was the big brush-off coming.

  It wasn’t supposed to go this way!

  “What did I do to attract someone as beautiful, clever, smart…”

  “You said hello to me in Verona and ran down the street after me to find out my name,” I whispered, my face close.

  “I’m the kind of guy who finds courage in a bottle,” Donovan said quietly. “All the girls I’ve ever dated were drunken pick ups in bars, or daughters of my parents’ friends – everything neatly arranged. I never had to do anything on my own to attract someone.”

  “Have you looked in a mirror lately, Doctor Trist?” I teased.

  “I never knew if that was really the attraction!” Donovan suddenly laughed, but the laughter was bitter. “They saw Senator Trist’s son, the rich boy from Long Island and Rhode Island, the Hamptons, the guy you’d get your picture taken with and it would be in the Times that Sunday.” Donovan did something uncharacteristic then. He raised my chin with a finger and just looked at me – really looked at me, without judgment or appraisal. I felt a chill ride through me, as if something had been stripped away and I suddenly felt vulnerable and strangely sympathetic.

  “I wouldn’t have had the guts to say hello to you if I hadn’t already drunk a few glasses of wine that afternoon,” he admitted.

  “But you did, and here we are.”

  I wanted to kiss him then, and I did. I stood, hand held out. “Let me show you something.”

  I had transformed my bedroom into a desert sheik’s tent, complete with carpets and pillows, and yards of silk falling from the ceiling and walls. I’d changed the lights so that the room looked as if it was in a never-ending sunset; all that was missing was a gentle evening breeze and the perfume of incense. I took care of that by placing a cone of frankincense in a bowl and put a match to it so that evocative and exotic smoke started to rise, then turned on a small fan to make the hangings dance.

  Donovan nodded and strolled around the room as if it was a museum exhibit, running his fingers against the silk, touching the middle eastern trinkets and décor I’d purchased at Cost Plus just that day. “You’ve got the feel for it, the colors and lighting – I guess that comes from your theater work and penchant for research,” he said. “The lighting is good; it really does look like a spring sunset in the desert. All that’s missing are the camels and sand.” He stopped before me, smiling. “But I’m glad they’re not here.”

  “Is this what you imagined?” I
whispered, as one of the panels skimmed my body when I removed the bathrobe.

  The Donovan I remembered took me in his arms then.

  It was the mere physicality of his lovemaking and how I responded that made me want to be with Donovan. There was no tenderness, just urgency. That was the greatest attraction to him. Dennis once said he knew couples whose relationships were purely physical and there was nothing else. I supposed that would be Donovan and me. When all else in our lives fell apart or strained to the point of snapping, we still knew what kept us together.

  “Have I redeemed myself?” Donovan asked hours later while we were still among the pillows and tangled in yards of silk and dawn was breaking.

  “Well,” I said, turning in his arms to face him, “that’s something you’ll have to ask of yourself.”

  “Ah, my beautiful, charming, incredibly sexy Alice has turned philosophical.”

  “First, I belong to no one. Second, there’s no philosophy in one speaking their mind. Only truth. I’m doing what I should have done in Florence: speaking my mind.”

  Donovan started to laugh. “I wasn’t expecting a manifesto, Alice! Did you take something that said ‘drink me’ and have it turn you into a raging feminist?” He noticed the steel cast to my eyes and plopped his head back down on the pillows. “I’m going to pay for that, aren’t I? I should not have said that. I shouldn’t have said that; sorry!”

  “It's a start,” I said, planting a kiss on his mouth before I grabbed my robe and slid out of bed, adding over the shoulder, “and you gave me what every woman wants: to hear a man say he’s sorry. Consider that redemption.”

  “I meant it!” he called after me as I disappeared into the bathroom and when I emerged, the sun was breaking and shooting rays of bright saffron into the apartment. The light picked up the last of the incense smoke and made it dance rapidly. I knew what was about to happen.

  “No!”

  The voice was mine but I did not know where it came from. A pressure started to overwhelm me, that sensation of being in a vice grip. The light danced and weaved as if it were captured in a lava lamp. I heard voices and strange electronic noises, rapid footsteps. The sensation of pressure and now lightness was replaced by fear, a panic I’d never experienced before.

  I moved away from the light and was face to face with the Proprietress.

  She crooked her finger and I followed her to the counter. The lapis lazuli book was waiting for me. Everyone in the Shop was quiet, watching me. Even Richard the Third had put his crossword puzzle down and idly holding a PopTart was staring at me.

  “Go ahead,” I sighed. “Say it! Say I’m a fool because it will come around badly. But there is good in him! There is hope!”

  The Shop erupted in cheers.

  Rather than speak, the Proprietress wrote in the book with a beautiful pen of sparkling diamonds. The ink that flowed from the nib was iridescent plum, the color of my prom dress. She held up the book so that I could read the words:

  Καλοψημένος, Alice Rose! Καλοψημένος, εσείς!

  Translated, it meant: Well done, Alice Rose! Well done, you!

  “Don’t look so surprised, Alice,” Cecilia Tornabuoni said as I went to my table, and was joined by Anne Boleyn, Joan and Cecilia. “A leopard cannot change its spots, but it can be tamed.”

  “And it can turn on you – it has.” I hissed.

  “Has anyone noticed how petulant Alice gets when she returns?” Richard the Third murmured.

  “I was noticing that,” Anne piped in. “One would think she would be happy with her conquest.”

  “It was hardly that!” I sniped.

  “Hardly nothing,” Cecilia added and she placed a slice of angel food cake with strawberries and whipped cream in front of me, pushing it forward and nodding. Rather than indulge in my favorite dessert, I put my chin in my palm and stared out into the street. Dennis was with Sir Walter Raleigh. They were discussing a map unfurled before them as they walked towards the Shop. Moments later, Dennis arrived and slid onto his chair beside me.

  “I know you’re curious,” Dennis said, attacking the cake with great abandon.

  “So?”

  “We were wondering what the best path to Alice’s heart was,” Sir Walter Raleigh said, winking.

  “That would be honesty and love,” Joan commented and winked as I looked at her and nodded.

  “The path to that place is pretty steep and rocky; it’ll cost you,” Dennis replied and pointed with his fork towards my reflection in the window which slowly morphed into a younger Alice standing before my bathroom mirror, combing my hair. Donovan was standing beside me, smoothing lotion into his day-old beard.

  “How long are you in town?” I asked, our movements and mannerisms those of a couple married decades rather than lovers rediscovered.

  Donovan looked at me in the mirror, his face sad and serious. “I leave tomorrow night – Christmas with the family in New York and the semester starts up week after New Year’s.”

  He was fussing with his polo shirt, turning it wrong side out and back again before slipping it over his head.

  “So…” I sighed. “Is this it?”

  “That’s up to you, Alice.”

  I turned and ran my hands up his broad, muscular back and wrapped my arms around him. “There is something good here.”

  “If there is, it’s because of you.”

  “I’m glad we talked – and argued. No illusions, no surprises.”

  Donovan looked as if he was going to speak and then held me at arm’s length. “What if you came out on weekends after the holidays? You could interview for jobs, spend time with me.”

  Now it was my turn to be hesitant. “I don’t want to land at Providence and discover that you’re in Petra or somewhere in the Tuscan mountains digging out an old castle and have forgotten it’s our weekend together.”

  “I just made promises to you and I intend to keep them.”

  “Let’s see that you do, Doctor Trist. Still, airfare is pretty steep, and my brother couldn’t help if he wanted to.”

  “Let me foot the bill and you could pay me back when you get a job at Brown or Stonybrook.”

  I laughed. “You’re that sure I want to work on the East Coast? Why don’t we go half and half – you come out here, then I go out there and we’ll talk about cost.”

  “Can’t say no that that.”

  It was Quinn’s voice and it was Quinn beside me. We were sitting at the boarding gate at San Francisco Airport in the fall of 1970. His parents had gone to find some coffee and yet more reading material for Quinn on his flight to London. He reached for my hand and then leaned in for a kiss, which was hesitant and brief, as we were surrounded by strangers in a noisy, busy place.

  “Nervous?” I wanted to know.

  “Hell yes, Woman!” he laughed. “I'd feel better about it if I’d chosen New York Conservatory instead.”

  “But Oxford! I know people who would kill for the chance…sorry, I’m not making things any better. Yeah, New York would have been good.”

  “New York would have been closer to you.”

  “Well, I've applied to Cornell, and that's closer to England.”

  “I’d like to be really close now!”

  “This airport goes on for miles and no decent coffee!” Our kiss was interrupted by the Professor grousing and whining as he and Mrs. Radcliffe rejoined us. Quinn moved away when saw his mother's sympathetic smile. He reached into his carry on and took out a parcel, handing it over.

  “These are for you.”

  “What've you got there, Alice?” the professor asked as he looked over my shoulder while I unwrapped art prints. “Ah! Waterhouse and Burne-Jones.”

  Two of the fine prints were copies of Fair Rosamund and Juliet by Waterhouse, the third was Burne-Jones’ Love Among the Ruins. In all three, the women were pensive, waiting.

  That would be me.

  We had seen these works as part of an exhibit at the Legion of Honor an
d decided on the bus ride home that I would design an entire Shakespeare play or an opera using a Pre-Raphaelite theme, inspired by these medieval ladies and Burne-Jones’ melancholic lovers.

  That would be us.

  “You remembered,” I said quietly, smiling at him.

  “I never forgot the look on your face when you saw them.”

  Mrs. Radcliffe was bending over us now. “Sorry, darlings, it’s time to go.”

  A stewardess had emerged from the tunnel and was at the desk. Around us, passengers were sharing goodbyes and queuing up to board the flight to Heathrow. We were no exception. I stood off to the side while Quinn said good-bye to his mother and tried not to stare when he brushed off his father’s extended hand and came straight to me.

  “See you at Christmas?” he whispered, leaning in for a kiss. Quinn dropped his carry on and wrapped me tightly in his arms for a passionate farewell. “I don’t want to go!” he murmured in my ear.

  “I would be happy if you stayed,” I whispered back. “I love you!”

  “I love you! God, if I could just…”

  “It’s for the best – at least, for right now, isn’t it?” I said, my eyes sliding towards the professor.

  “You sound as unconvincing as I put on!” Quinn’s laugh was forced, the words choked with tears.

  Again I was held tightly and given a passionate kiss that had his parents embarrassed, but left me in tears, yet elated. It was the professor’s turn not to stare, though he was still looking at me as we left the terminal and it was hard to discern whether it was jealousy or hatred.

  “I think, Alice,” Mrs. Radcliffe commented, linking my arm in hers, “that absence will make his heart grow fonder.”

  “Looks like our Faery Princess has it all knit up, Jane,” the professor said, opening the door for me. As I passed through, the light changed and the sensation of being pulled along overwhelmed me so that I shut my eyes and wondered when this painful journey would finally end. Opening them, I was in another airport at another time, walking down the tunnel to the gate at T. L. Green Airport outside of Providence.