Now the orchestra stood and took their bow, followed by single bows for the soloists. Natalia shot a look of joy to Alba. Her cheeks were flushed, her smile reached the edges of her face, eyes twinkling. Once the bows had repeated in the same order, and flowers were placed in Alba’s arms, they filed off through the noisy wings, chattering with post-performance adrenaline.
An assistant led Alba to her dressing room. A huge fruit basket from Dante was upon her table, as he always arranged after every performance, beside a bottle of champagne on ice. She closed the door for a breath or two, her accustomed pause before inviting anyone inside after performing. She breathed into the quiet. A twirl of an idea smoked her mind. After this concerto where could her performance take her next? A new world had opened up, one where she would reach students and watch them unfurl before her. This concerto had been the apex of her ambitions for so very long, and now restlessness crept in. She blew away the preemptive thoughts, admonished herself for not enjoying the present moment of glory, opened the champagne and her door, signaling to the assistant outside that guests were now welcome. Dante strode in and wrapped her in his arms and praise and gushes.
He held both her shoulders. “How do I start then, Alba? I’ve listened to that piece since I was a child and I know I have never heard it like that and I know that they are going to sell millions of copies from the recording and it fills me with joy because so many people will be able to feel what I’ve felt in the comfort of their homes.”
“I don’t think you stopped for breath, Dante!” Alba chuckled.
“Yes, tease me as much as you wish. I don’t care. You made music history out there and you know it, and it’s my job to make sure everyone else knows it too.”
A knock at the door.
He paused.
“I will see you at the restaurant. Gianni’s given me the address, I have some people I need to talk to out there, si?”
Laughter frothed out of her. “Talk is something you do so marvelously, my wonderful Dante!”
He took her hand and squeezed it. “It’s wonderful to see you like this, Alba. It’s been too long.”
He left before she could neither agree nor disagree.
Goldstein was in the doorway as Dante opened it.
“The king has arrived, Alba, will you see him now?” Dante said, flashing Goldstein a grin. The men hugged. Goldstein stepped inside. Alba handed him a fizz filled flute.
“To Rachmaninoff!” he said, clinking his glass to hers. “For allowing us to swim in the depths of Alba’s soul.”
“I think that Russian has made us all dizzy tonight. Wasn’t the orchestra sublime? I’ve never had a night quite like this.”
Another rap at the door. Gianni poked his head around it. Alba raised another glass for him. Her room filled with ebullient praise, ping-ponging from person to person, as effervescent as the champagne they sipped. Some of Gianni’s guests were introduced and then left. Goldstein followed.
“Don’t keep us waiting, Maestra,” Gianni said with a smile, “my wife is hungry and that’s never anything others should suffer.”
He closed the door behind him.
Alba turned to the mirror. She’d asked Salvatore to come to see her in the dressing room. She could imagine him now, reticent about asking for directions to the artists’ entrance, overcome with that familiar shyness he’d tried to outgrow. She’d seen it when he’d spoken to her over dinner, the quiet angular tics that crept up when the conversation steered away from business or their father and toward her world. She’d noticed the way Mario had listened with a steel silence and it had surprised her. Perhaps her brother’s awkwardness served to make Mario appear open, interested, fascinated even. She’d tried to keep descriptions of her life to date to a minimum. The only way they could see what it had been was to watch her play. Then all the colors of that life would tumble out, fill the air, sift into their senses without pause, without words, that always carried with them the risk of being misunderstood.
Perhaps he’d hated the concert? He was delaying coming to see her because he wouldn’t know how to say that to her face. It was longer than many other concertos she played, but melodic and easy to understand in places. It was filmic, even, a pastime she knew he adored. She scrolled her lipstick back into its holder and zipped up her long gown. It was simple, black, but with an understated elegance and glamour that meant her movements were neither self-conscious nor stilted.
The assistant assured her that her car and driver was waiting for her whenever she was ready. Alba thanked the young woman and made her way down the corridors toward the artists’ entrance. Outside the air hung heavy and humid. The crowd she had grown accustomed to being greeted with was bigger than usual, voices cascaded over one another for her autograph, as they held out their programs. She made her way down the line, trying to connect with as many as she could permit herself, conscious that somewhere amongst them must be Mario and her brother and she didn’t want to keep them waiting, nor have them watch her speak with her fans as if she enjoyed the spectacle of attention. She noticed a young man standing a little bit away from the crowd, his back to her. Across the street her black Mercedes waited. The crowd dissipated, after the flashbulbs from several cameras lit the narrow street that ran the length of this side of the auditorium. Hands were shaken, well-wishers began to make their way home. As she reached the kerb, the young man turned. Misha’s face lit up. He held out a bouquet of damask roses.
“It may be corny, but they were too beautiful and I knew my tongue would be tied so I thought if I just pushed them at you like a schoolkid you’d take some element of pity on me and accept them with grace.”
Alba received the flowers in her hands. She looked at his wry grin. “I’m so very curious to hear what you sound like when you’re not tongue-tied.”
He laughed at himself then, the streetlight catching the mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes, his face creasing into the kind of smile that made Alba feel like all was well with the world. Around him she noticed the crowd commit his face to memory too. His kind of smile was one she wouldn’t mind waking up to or falling asleep beside. Their expressions relaxed. Neither spoke for a breath. An unhurried pause filled the narrow space between their bodies.
“They are, indeed, beautiful,” Alba said at last, without hurry, wondering when they might have time and space to talk without having to be somewhere else, someone else.
“I wrote a note,” he said at last, his voice dipping into a warmer, maroon timbre. “It’s a little less stupid than the way I’m acting right now. But not much.”
“I’d never describe you as stupid, Misha.”
“Good. It was a trope to get you to tell me all the things you like about me so that I wouldn’t start holding you up any longer after you’ve been so kind to this gaggle of fans. I need to tell you that your performance makes me want to play all night and also never touch the piano again.”
She liked the way he made her laugh with ease. It had been too long since she’d been close to this youthful giddiness, this ebullient dance. It struck her that she’d never known it at all. Perhaps she was adult enough to be childlike at last?
“For the sake of others, I do hope you wouldn’t consider giving up your piano just yet,” she said.
Misha’s cheeks flecked with something like embarrassment or happiness.
Alba shot another look to the car across the street. Where was Salvatore? How long would she disguise her prolonging the conversation with Misha as waiting for her brother?
“We’re probably at the coffee stage I’d say,” she blurted. “You know, now that you’ve done a little sycophantic dance. I suppose I’m as much an egomaniac as the next concert pianist after all.”
Their laughter mingled, notes jangling in space, hovering golden in the night air like two glowing spirals of light.
“I have to go now.”
“I see that,” Misha replied.
Neither moved.
Someone called out Alba’s
name. She spun around. A figure was running toward her. Mario was flush like a man running late for his train. He held her shoulders and kissed her on each cheek. His skin felt clammy.
“I’ve been trying to find my way around this warren. Are all auditoriums like this? It’s like a small labyrinth. Anyone would think they don’t want the commoners to get to the stars or something!”
Alba filled with a spicy mix of joy and trepidation. Had they enjoyed the evening? Where was her brother?
“I was a bit nervous of coming alone, I have to say,” Mario began, in between panting for breath. “Salvatore got held up at the conference, but I didn’t want to miss it.”
Alba felt a knot twist in her stomach. She turned back to avert her expression from him for a moment. Misha had gone. The mild disorientation that followed irked her. She felt the gaze of the driver. And Gianni’s words rang in her ear.
“They’re expecting the three of us at dinner,” she said, not wanting it to come out as clipped as it did.
“Don’t worry, Alba, I know this is a work thing for you. I just wanted to tell you how wonderful it was. I don’t want to encroach on your night.”
“It will be worse if neither of you show up, especially as they’re already waiting for me.”
Mario straightened. Alba willed her disappointment to disappear, but it was as uncooperative as her pride.
“I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. Salvatore really wanted to be here.” He shook his head, waving off the clunks of their almost conversation.
Alba softened. “I don’t mean to be short with you. We should get going.”
Mario looked her square in the eye. It was impossible to trace the idiot she’d once longed to pummel. Why was it so difficult to accept others’ changes but expect everyone to accept her own? The hypocrisy made her bristle.
“Please come and eat with us,” she said, a little calmer, “it will be a table of big personalities, but they’re good fun too.”
Mario’s features softened. “I’d like that. Don’t know if I can keep up with the conversation?”
Alba shook her head with a smile and started to walk across to the car. Mario held the door open for her. “If all else fails,” she began, “just tell them about the time I almost knocked you out cold in the marketplace.”
They scooted onto the back seat. Alba exchanged pleasantries with the driver, apologizing for keeping him waiting. He pulled away, rumbling over the cobbles of Rome through the streetlamp-lit vias, out toward the hills in the periphery where Gianni’s favorite haunt looked over the moonlit city, its terrace stretching the length of the venue. Alba knew he would already be seated holding court with a chilled Frascati in hand, waving his arms through another anecdote, behind him an unadulterated view of San Pietro and the surrounding cappellas, gleaming in the midnight blue of the Roman midsummer evening.
26
Delirante
instruction to a player to play in a mad, frenzied way
As Alba stepped onto the terrace of Ristorante Anselmo all the guests around Gianni’s table stood and began applauding. She waved the entrance off, swatting away the warm but embarrassing welcome. Other diners from the adjoining tables looked up. Several appeared to recognize her. She reached the table and a waiter held out a chair for her. Someone gave her a glass of wine.
“Thank you so much,” Alba said, taking her seat, “now please let’s get back to Gianni’s story—I’m sure he was painting some elaborate picture about the Berlin Symphony orchestra or some such.”
The guests laughed. The more well known she’d become, the funnier her lighthearted quips appeared to be.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is my friend Mario. We grew up in the same town.”
The guests rumbled their welcoming patter. He took a seat beside her, and the lady next to him launched into an instant conversation. Romans had a fascination with Sardinia. Alba had grown accustomed to the slight wariness and awe of the city dwellers interrogating the islander for knowledge on how life is like the other side of the water. Many had spent lavish holidays there and were keen to display their knowledge. Alba sensed Mario was neither intimidated nor patronized by the attention. It put her at ease.
“Alba, darling,” Gianni said, walking over to her side of the table, “let me introduce you to Francesco Maschiavelli.” The man beside her reached for her hand. He wore a blue artist’s linen jacket with a silk scarf wrapped around his neck, splattered with various shades of purples and blues. His skin was fair with a shake of freckles along his cheeks, his hair white with age, but his blue eyes sparkled with a youthful humor.
“Tesoro,” he began, “I can’t believe we have never met in person. It’s a farce, really. I have all your records. I’ve listened to every one of them and each time I hear something new. It’s like staring at a painting and noticing the minute details that make up a masterpiece. Not just the broad strokes, but the smallest flecks, the minuscule handling of light, the courageous handling of the dark.”
His words hung, shimmering in the air. Alba wasn’t sure if he was the sort of person who would welcome conversation or like the sound of his voice as a virtuosic solo. Alba stepped into the gap. “That is the most beautiful way I’ve heard music described to me. Words are not my friends.”
“That’s why you play,” he replied.
“Francesco is working on a new film about a pianist,” Gianni added. “He’s coming to the conservatorio and accademia to listen to some of our students over the next few days.”
“I haven’t decided who my protagonist will be. At the moment, the script is about a young girl who discovers music. We’ve heard musicians up and down the country but no one has revealed what I’m looking for just yet.”
“That must be a difficult process,” Alba replied.
“It’s like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack, my dear. Each time I feel like I want to give it all up, to be frank.”
“Don’t say that,” Gianni’s wife, Anna, chimed in from the other side of the table. “Your Don Quixote was the most beautiful thing I ever saw, I remember you saying the same thing about that auditioning process. Imagine if you’d never given me the pleasure of watching that, my darling Francesco.”
The guests murmured warm appreciation. Alba watched him deflect the group’s spotlight off of her and toward him. Another night she might have minded, but she was so dazzled by his personality that she welcomed the opportunity to observe him from the safety of not being attacked with praise from the others.
“I’m working with a sublime composer,” he continued, “all original work around the classics of course, but I wanted something fresh.” He swiped his gaze across the guests. “Where is he, Gianni?”
Gianni straightened from where he was leaning on the back of Francesco’s chair. “He’s gone to call Clare, I think he’d said, no?”
The name rang out like a bell. Alba brushed off the ridiculous spark of irrational jumping to conclusions. There were other women in the world with the same name as Vittorio’s wife, after all.
“Oh yes,” Francesco replied, “that little British woman keeps him in line alright—darling bird with the voice of a comet and a temper to match. Breeders can’t be choosers, I suppose.”
The two younger men beside him cackled at that. He threw them a wry look. Alba’s chest felt hot and tight.
“These are my assistants, Florin and Armand,” Francesco plowed on, oblivious, flopping a hand toward them like an afterthought. They appeared to bow their heads a little, and Alba realized she was indeed in the presence of filmic royalty. Of course, she too had watched all of Francesco’s films: They were decadent, passionate, elaborate in design and pomp, a feast for the eyes and the soul. His time working in opera had lent him a keen sensibility for the grand, sweeping tragedies that worked well on film.
“Pleasure to meet you all,” Alba replied. “This night continues to thrill me.”
Gianni went back to his place and raised his glass. “To
music and the power it has over us all!” Everyone cheered. Mario clinked glasses with Alba. “I think I’ve made a new friend with Mrs. Countess here.” His face twisted into a sardonic grin.
“Here he is at last,” Francesco began to the entire table, as if they had all been waiting for someone, “the henpecked artist, back from the Signora Veritiero front, the walking injured, love or world weariness creases his brow, I don’t know which.” His flanking men sniggered. Alba turned, following his gaze.
Vittorio met hers.
“Nice to see you, Alba,” he said, effortless, as if they were business acquaintances familiar with regular meetings in work environments. He stretched his hand out and shook hers before she could register the shock.
“Darling boy, you always have this effect on women?” Francesco teased. The men in waiting giggled. Francesco turned out to the company. “Honestly, it’s a liability. No wonder your wife is calling you at every minute.”
The guests rippled laughter. Vittorio sat down beside Gianni, opposite Alba.
“You alright, Alba?” Mario’s voice chimed in from somewhere far away, an echo over the sea.
She turned to him, feeling like her movements were slowed down to an abstracted speed, paint smudging before it has dried, rendering a picture a mess of brown blur as the pigments merge.
A Roman Rhapsody Page 28