Tallis' Third Tune

by Ellen L. Ekstrom

  Quinn’s glass clinked with mine again.

  “Well done, Alice Rose!”

  “I just did it. It just came out of my mouth. Your mother was amazing – she gave me a hug, and well, it was amazing.”

  I took a gulp of my beer and Quinn smiled. “You’ve got foam,” he gestured with his finger to the upper lip and tentatively reached out, then wiped my face. “You look great,” he said softly.

  “So do you. I like the longer hair, the five o’clock shadow.”

  “Do you? Thanks. It’s called fatigue. We have two more performances in London and then we close out the season, and then it’s back into the studio to record – then I’m going home for a bit,” Quinn said as he split an order of fish and chips.

  “Where’s home these days?”

  “San Anselmo, when I have the time. You? Still have that little place down on Oxford?”

  “I have a bigger place in Normandy Village on Spruce.”

  “Normandy Village? That little place that looks like it dropped out of a faery tale? The one you used to sketch?”

  “The very same. When I turned twenty-five I was able to take some money from the Trust and that’s what I used it for. I have the apartment facing Spruce Street, just as you enter the courtyard, with the really steep stairs. I love it. Harry and Denny sold the house and moved to a bigger place on Hearst, so now I’m closer.

  “Denny’s been sick – he constantly has a cold, sometimes it goes into pneumonia, and there are rashes,” I explained, helping myself to the chips and offering to sprinkle some malt vinegar on the basket. “He’s been to at least a dozen doctors and nobody knows what it is – or they do, and they’re not saying. He’s a trooper, though, still working, still being a mother hen.”

  “A little more, yeah, you remember,” Quinn chuckled. “I bought one of his ties – the knight design. Made me think of you.”

  “I’ll let him know, since he designed that one with you in mind.”

  “Tell him hello, and I’m sorry about the illness – I really like Dennis. Y’know, I still have that cummerbund and bow tie he made to match your prom dress.”

  “I think I’ll kill myself if you tell me you’ve worn them recently.”

  Quinn started moving the knives off the table and we both laughed. “It was a party for a friend’s album release, okay?” he defended himself. “And I’ll never forget how beautiful you looked in that dress. You still are, you know.”

  “Didn’t you record an album before taking over the orchestra?”

  “Alice, I just told you you’re beautiful!” he laughed.

  “I know, I know – I’m milking it. Your parents were playing something of yours when I was at the house – Sleepers Awake. Funny, I knew it was you as soon as I heard it.”

  “That got me the conducting job. I should give you a copy of the album.”

  “Please, I’d love it. Have you done anything else?”

  “Last year – Schubert. My first with the orchestra. Not the easiest couple of weeks. Now I call the shots, but I think it will still be challenging. Ask me what’s on the new album,” Quinn said as he playfully fought for the last of the chips. Our fingers met and locked – I felt that electricity, that sweet surge of adrenaline when we touched, was glad he didn’t let go. Quinn leaned forward, his face close enough for a kiss.

  “Ask me, Alice!”

  “What’s on the next album, Quinn? White Rabbit?”

  Our hands were still clasped when he leaned even closer and said, “Vaughan Williams. Lark Ascending, Greensleeves,” he paused dramatically, “Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis!”

  Our lips were almost touching now.

  “Really!” I whispered, genuinely surprised.

  “No joke. I insisted.”

  “Really?” I was incredulous, and leaned back shaking my head in disbelief. “All these years…”

  “I listen to it whenever I need inspiration, whenever I’m lonely.”

  “My friends say it’s the most depressing music they’ve ever heard, and one guy – oh, it doesn’t matter.”

  “No it isn’t. It’s like a summer morning after a shower, or an evening. Everything is there – the light and dark, the changes in colors. I should take you to Scarborough to show you what I mean. Most of all, it brings back good memories.”

  “I think of it as a friend – I know it sounds maudlin or silly, but when I need to think, while I’m writing, I like the Fantasia.”

  “What do you think about?”

  “The usual – Dennis, his health, my parents, screwing up my life in so many different configurations, do-overs.”

  “I wonder if you think about me.”

  Quinn moved in and placed his hand on mine. Again, our faces were close.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “What about when you’re happy?”

  “Here Comes the Sun.”

  “Purple Haze when you’re feeling silly?” he teased.

  “That’s just for go-go dancing. White Rabbit is for silly.”

  He was still leaning in, the smile softening, and I wanted him to kiss me. If I’d been more daring, I would have kissed him. I was sure Quinn expected something, the way he lingered. Finally, he tapped my nose playfully and said, “C’mon Alice, I’ll walk you home.”

  We strolled leisurely through the streets of York. I didn’t care if it took a month and a day to reach home, for it meant that Quinn would be there a little while longer. The May night was pleasant, not cold, not too warm, and the stars were scattered above us with a full moon that lit our path to Gillygate despite street lamps in The Shambles.

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe it’s just…”

  “Ask!” I implored. “What?”

  “I suppose you’ve got a couple of kids, an attorney for a husband or an English professor from Cal,” Quinn said half in jest.

  “None of the above.”

  “Really?” Now Quinn sounded incredulous. He glanced over and studied me carefully. “Really! Well, there’s got to be someone.”

  “He’d like to think there was,” I quipped.

  “Serious, or…?”

  “He’d like to think it was.”

  When I turned to look up, I was looking at Dennis and we were walking down the high street in the village past the Curiosity Shop and towards the church.

  “Do you think she’ll tell him the truth?” Richard the Third asked, joining us.

  “Is it your business to know?” I snapped.

  “Lying to the love of her life? Never a good idea,” Tyrone Power added, stepping in line behind us with Richard.

  “How many of us are ready to spill our guts when we have an opportunity thrown at us like Alice had? Or in her case, walking out of the pub?” Dennis asked, squeezing my hand as we continued to stroll. “She’ll tell him – all in time. Besides, don’t you remember? Things happened first.”

  “First? Before what?”

  “Do I have to tell you?” Dennis teased as we waited for the traffic to clear the intersection. When the last automobile and bus had gone through, I was back in The Shambles, but standing at a corner with Quinn, waiting for the light to change.

  “And you? Is there a lady?” I asked Quinn.

  Quinn paused and I knew what that meant. He sighed and then opened his mouth to speak, nodded. “She’s a girl whose father donates a lot of money to the orchestra. We’ve been dating for a few months.”

  “Ah, sounds like an arranged marriage to keep the orchestra afloat.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Do you sing to her, play songs to keep her smiling? Play games of Risk or read aloud from Tolkien and John Donne?”

  “She’s a lawyer without a sense of humor.”

  “Does she have a soul or a heart?”

  That didn’t come out the way I’d wanted it and I immediately looked up at Quinn to see if I’d inflicted any pain. He was smiling, and then started laughing. “Believe
me, I’ve been searching for them for months. If they existed, I think I would have found them by now!”

  “Geez, I really stepped into it, didn’t I?”

  “No, no, of all the women I’ve been with, and there haven’t been that many, so don’t believe what the tabloids scream, you’re the only one who really knows me. Absolvo te, Faery Princess.”

  We laughed nervously at that and then walked in silence for a bit until Quinn spun around to face me, winking and walking backwards as he said, “Now, your guy. What’s this guy got that I haven’t?”

  Me, he’s got me…

  “A degree in archeology and a substantial stake in the dig going on at Petra, the chance to have a building named after him.”

  “An archeologist! Like Allan Quartermain in King Solomon’s Mines! Remember that old movie with Stewart Granger and Deborah Kerr?”

  “Sure – we saw it, what, three times? And I think Quartermain was an adventurer, not an archeologist. Handled snakes better than someone I know.” I smiled at him sideways.

  A sensation of lightness overwhelmed me, and I felt as if my heart had grown stronger with every breath I inhaled, the longer I was with Quinn.

  “Better than me? Hardly! Remember that giant garter snake we found in your sanctuary?”

  “Yeah, that was pretty amazing, Quinn. I would have been more impressed if it had been real.”

  “How was I to know Harry put it there for an April Fool’s joke?”

  “I think he’s finally over your ruining his best golf club on a fake reptile.”

  We shared the best of laughs over that, leaning into one another as we walked. As we paused for another traffic light, Quinn draped an arm around me casually and said, “I’m pretty good with plastic creepy crawlers, aren’t I? I suppose your archeologist would come swinging from the rafters with a machete or something.”

  “Actually, I prefer the strong, silent types, who quietly tell guys to back off and then walk away; the kind that defend a lady’s honor above all else and personal humiliation.”

  “Did that a few times and will gladly do it again if the occasion calls for it.”

  “Good to know.”

  We walked in silence for a time, his arm still draped around my shoulders. Quinn looked down and grinned. “I guess you guys talk about Roman sarcophagi and stele at the end of the day?”

  “Mostly. He works at Petra, though. Not much Roman stuff there.”

  “And you discuss your latest theatrical designs, or your latest book, research, how you unlock the mysteries of Italian city states governance or the vagrancies of the Crusades.”

  “Nope. Just whatever was dug up at Petra, or his latest press conference, tour. Whatever.”

  Quinn looked surprised. “You’d be his equal in so many things, Alice.”

  I stopped suddenly and Quinn, still walking, turned and raised his brows in question.

  “He isn’t. He’s not my equal, you see. He’s not you.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “With you, I can just be Alice; be myself. I’m never on guard, never worrying about saying or doing the wrong things, never worried about offending extremely wealthy and class-conscious friends, colleagues and relatives.”

  We were at my flat. Quinn stood on the sidewalk while I walked up the stairs to turn the key in the lock. “And yet he’s got a hold on you,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “One that I’m trying to untie, I guess, or figure out.”

  The door now open, I turned and gestured with the keys. “Do you want some coffee, a nightcap?”

  “I wouldn’t mind some honesty.”

  His tone of voice and the expression on his face didn’t surprise me.

  “C’mon,” I invited.

  Quinn followed while I took out cups and saucers, set up the coffee maker and looked for a bit of courage while I was at it.

  “Nice digs,” he commented.

  “They are, aren’t they? Do you want crumpets or scones?”

  “Doesn’t matter. So how long are you here?”

  “Through August. I’ve been here since May and I really like it. I’m hoping the university will let me return next summer.”

  “I’m here through the end of next week, then down to London – I told you that, didn’t I?”

  “To record the new album.”

  “The one dedicated to you.”

  “That’s a huge honor, Quinn. You don’t have to.”

  “It’s a gift a long time coming.” He studied me now – not the obdurate glare that Donovan threw at me while he undressed me in his mind and fantasized; but a critical, loving glance, one offered to encourage sharing secrets or a cause for unhappiness.

  “I don’t think he has a hold on you, Alice,” Quinn said softly after a time.

  I glanced up, surprised.

  “I think you’re being strangled. Tell me if I’m wrong – or worse, if I’m right.”

  The toaster oven bell went off and gave me an excuse to turn away from him and collect my thoughts. Measuring scoops of coffee, I counted them to myself and poured water into the pot, wiping my hands on the dishtowel hanging off the rack against the wall. Quinn waited. Finally, and without looking at him, I said slowly and quietly, “This isn’t something I want to discuss with you right now.”

  “But you do want to discuss it?”

  “It’s been a long day and I’m tired, and seeing you again…”

  “Understood.”

  I was not prepared for the kiss. Quinn pulled me gently into his arms and kissed me for the longest time, as if he’d saved up years of passion just for that moment.

  Anticipating a confession of love, of loyalty, years of anguish, I opened my eyes and frowned up at the Proprietress, who was wearing a pair of my mother’s cat-eye glasses with a beaded chain that matched her severe blue suit. She grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

  “What could you have done?” the Proprietress moaned, a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Nothing!”

  It was a Greek chorus: Richard the Third, Joan of Arc, Anne Boleyn, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Marie Antoinette, Sigmund Freud, Tyrone Power and Dennis. Having stated this, they went back to their usual business, whatever that might have been at the time.

  “So, Faery Princess, have you figured it out?” the Proprietress demanded.

  “The riddle of the Sphinx: two wrongs make a right?”

  “Well, aren’t you the clever girl! And?”

  “…No.”

  The Proprietress expelled a rather theatrical sigh and turned her back, taking casks from the shelves and setting them carefully on the velvet square on the counter. She opened each and inspected the contents: large, shiny gems or rocks that were brilliant in color and light, solid yet fluid, as if each contained flowing water and liquid metal in different shades of whatever color the gem might be at the time. Some boxes had two, others one. The boxes that had three were opened carefully, for the light that poured from them was blinding and mesmerizing.

  She took down a box carved with medieval trefoils, roses and crosses. On the lid was an ornate ‘A’ entwined with an ‘M.’ Placing it on the velvet square she opened it with the lid facing me so that I couldn’t see its contents, sighed loudly and made an entry in the ledger before her.

  “May I see what’s in the box?” I asked timidly.

  “No.”

  “I’m guessing that’s my box, and whatever has been happening, all these journeys I’ve been taking, the changes I’ve been making to my life, all of it has something to do with that box and the book,” I stated, my hand out.

  “No.”

  The box went up on the shelf with the others and the Proprietress glared at me before smiling at Sigmund Freud as he left the Shop.

  “Two wrongs – not going with Quinn and settling for Donovan,” I said all of a sudden, not backing down. “The right would be choosing one over the other. I just have to discover which is most right – but I think I already know, since…”

&n
bsp; “No!”

  The Greek chorus had spoken.

  “I’m going for a walk.”

  Out in the high street, I was as confused and conflicted as I ever had been since this journey began. The same historical persons sauntered to and fro, as if this was a Disneyland attraction, or a Renaissance Faire somewhere in Northern California or the Midwest. As I thought of people they appeared – Quinn was the only person who did not.

  “I’m going mad, that’s what this is all this about!” I muttered to myself as I walked up the street. “I’m on a Vicodin drip and I’m hallucinating!”

  “You’d like to keep believing that,” said Isabella of Aragon as she walked by with Florence Nightingale.

  Glaring at her over my shoulder, I went into the bookshop near the end of the street. The bell over the door tinkled thinly and the shopkeeper, again the Proprietress, did not turn from her shelving of books. The other patrons in the shop ignored me as well. They all were browsing and thumbing through the same book: a biography of me.

  “Read this, Albert,” said Emma Pankhurst, the suffragette leader to Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. She held the book up and tapped the page. “‘She was conflicted for many years. Out of fear of loneliness and unhappiness, finally, and when all seemed to be lost, she at last found her bliss despite the warnings and threats he made.’”

  “I believe she was in great need of emancipation, don’t you, Miss Pankhurst?” the Prince commented.

  “Where?” I exclaimed, grabbing the book. “Where does it say that? I have to know…”

  “Silence, Miss Martin!” hissed Lewis Carroll perched on a ladder across the shop.

  “Oh shut up!” I snapped.

  Everyone in the shop turned and gasped. The Proprietress stared me down from above the rim of her glasses.

  “Oh please! You’re all here because of me!” I proclaimed. “Each one of you has something to do with my life, or my interests! If I wanted, I could snap my fingers and you’d all be sent to whatever circle of Hell you came from! In fact, I think I will.”

  Snap!

  Looking about, I smiled and nodded. Only the Proprietress was there, and Lewis Carroll perched on the ladder, and who slowly, eerily, transformed into The Cheshire Cat.