Dio mio. You are Ellen, he said. It’s you, isn’t it? Walter’s daughter.
Yes.
You look very like your father. I am Bruno, as you have no doubt guessed.
His English was accented but clear.
Yes, she repeated.
He stared some more before speaking again.
I have lived in this city my whole life, he said. Even so, only Walter knows—knew—who I really am. I’m known in Cremona as a violin maker, but in most other respects I have often felt invisible. Yet you, his daughter, found me here, of all places . . . I’m not surprised. Coincidences happen all the time, they’re as common as salt, sprinkled—is that the verb?—sprinkled all over our lives. It was pure coincidence that I met your father in Firenze, you know. Walter wasn’t supposed to be at that festival. He decided to go at the last minute.
He stood.
Come, he said. I’ll show you where your father’s been all these years.
3
They’d walked in silence to the apartment, a suite of graceful rooms in a building dating from the nineteenth century.
This apartment, said Bruno, has been in my family’s possession for well over a hundred years. I was born here. But these rooms became your father’s home, too. After the first six months, he said he felt as if he’d always lived here.
It’s lovely.
Your father liked to eat. As you may remember.
Yes. That much I recall.
Bruno led her through the living room. Books and journals sat in neat stacks; a cashmere sweater lay folded on the back of a chair. He proceeded to the kitchen, a well-lit space with an old trestle table against one wall. There was a marble-topped island in the center; a ceramic jar full of wooden spoons sat next to the stove. Copper pots and pans hung from an iron bar near the stove.
She sat at the table and stared at the spoons.
Your father, said Bruno, did all the cooking here. But I shall make us a little lunch.
He poured some prosecco, then put out a plate of olives, cheese, salami, and bread. They ate and drank, saying little—a few words about the violins in the Stradivarius Museum, a few about San Sigismondo. Then Bruno began to speak about Walter.
For two decades, your father performed all around Europe and Asia.
She nodded.
But eventually it started to fatigue him—the hotels and airports, the strain on his voice . . . so when he turned sixty-five, he decided to retire.
To do what?
To help me manage my studio. Walter had a good business sense. He encouraged me to train two young Japanese apprentices; they run the studio now. I’m sure my clients will continue to patronize the studio after I leave it in my assistants’ hands.
When will that be?
I plan to retire in a few months.
Why?
He shrugged.
My fingers are no longer agile. And now that Walter’s gone . . . here, take one of my cards. A little souvenir.
He handed her a cream-colored business card embossed with his name and the studio’s address.
Your father knew how I like my coffee. And which columns in Corriere della Sera I read first. What music I admire most, which artists, which books . . . and what makes me melancholy. All the details. Not to mention the names of every man I’d slept with.
He looked away.
Since his death, he added, I walk around the streets of my city like a . . . what is the word for a ghost who returns?
A revenant.
Yes. That is what I am now. A ghost returning to his home as though it were someplace he’d never seen.
4
She pushed away her glass.
Bruno, are you aware that my father walked out on my brother and me?
His gaze was perplexed.
You’re mistaken, he said. Walter walked out on your mother.
He poured himself some water.
Your father married an alcoholic, my dear. He was living with a woman in love with gin, and then he fell in love with me. What choice did he have but to leave your mother?
Now his gaze was trained steadily on her.
Ellen, he said. A nice name. Walter chose it, did you know that?
No. And I’m not sure I believe you.
He nodded calmly. No matter, he said. I can see you are tired. And dehydrated. Your father would always return from his travels and immediately drink a liter of water. Can I get you anything else? A coffee? Your journey has surely exhausted you.
Thanks, she said. I’m all right. I’ll be going back to my hotel shortly.
A pause, then he said: I would like to know something. Have you ever been taken?
Taken?
Perhaps I am using the wrong word. Taken, as in captured. By another human being, I mean. Or perhaps the word I am looking for is captivated?
She shook her head; he smiled.
You are skeptical, I see. Like your father. In this regard I can say that I changed him. Walter’s skepticism diminished over the years. He began to see it as a waste of energy. Truly strong emotions are not defeated by skepticism.
His hands on the table were age-spotted but wiry, an artisan’s hands. He flexed his fingers lightly before resuming.
Please understand, I am not merely going through the motions, my dear. I would like to know the truth about you. Have you ever experienced ardor?
Ardor? The word puts me off. It’s for sentimental songs.
Bruno smiled a little.
Perhaps you confuse it with passion, he said. That is not what I am referring to. Passion is fueled by sex—sex and its demands on one’s dignity. One imagines oneself capable of endless physical desire. Then fatigue and boredom do their jobs, and eventually it all grows . . . tame, I think that’s the word. The body begins to withdraw. This is natural.
He rolled his neck briefly; she could hear its clicking.
In the end, he continued, passion makes a person disloyal. Not to the love-object but to himself. It gives rise to jealousy, anger, mistrust. Your father was loyal, to himself and to me. This I call ardor.
5
She finished off her water and took her glass to the sink.
We all have our definitions, she said, rinsing her glass. I’m not the most receptive audience for this, Bruno. I’m not the person to talk with about Walter’s loyalty.
I don’t expect you to be. From your perspective, your father was perhaps a selfish man. But one must learn to walk all the way around whatever one is looking at, don’t you agree? Like looking at a sculpture. You must see it from all sides. I do not think you have understood your father.
I’d say the failure of understanding was mutual.
Bruno stood.
Let us go to the living room, he said. The light is best there at this time of day.
He led her to a comfortable-looking leather armchair next to a window. Its view was of the rear of San Sigismondo, its plaster walls burnished by the sun.
Beautiful, he said, pointing at the church’s facade. Even the back side, which so few people see. Have a seat. That was your father’s chair. I want you to know something: your mother wasn’t a passive victim, Ellen. Perhaps you are unaware that your father wrote to you and your brother repeatedly after he left?
I received a few postcards from him, she said, while he was traveling. For about a year. Win didn’t get anything.
Walter sent you letters, my dear. In addition to the postcards. One each week, in fact, starting right after his arrival here. I walked with him to the post office to mail the letters, so I am sure of their frequency. But you didn’t receive any of this mail, because your mother intercepted it.
Why should I believe that?
He stood.
Would you like to read the letter from your mother in which she announced that your father should cease writing? I have that letter in my desk. Your mother said she was destroying all communications from Walter before you could read them. She wrote him three times after he left. Once to tell him not t
o write you again; once to ask for more money, which he gave her; and once to say that she intended to drink herself to death, which she did. Would you like to see this correspondence?
No. Let’s be clear, Bruno. My father could’ve gotten in touch with me—and with Win, too—if he’d wanted to. Nobody was stopping him.
Bruno clucked his tongue.
You are forgetting the times, my dear. In the sixties, a man who left his family in order to be with another man, especially a foreigner, was not likely to be permitted access to the children. Your father had no desire to turn your life into a tiro alla fune, a tug-of-war . . . on her side your mother had all the power, legal and social. Your father had none. He felt it would be better for you if he didn’t try to pull you away from your mother. My daughter will always land on her feet, he told me. My daughter’s a cat.
At that she stood, pulling her bag onto her shoulder.
I think I’d better go, Bruno. You’re right, I’m tired. We should make a plan for tomorrow morning. Where are we meeting—at Walter’s bank?
Bruno was silent for a moment.
Yes. At the corner of the Piazza Roma, he said finally. You can walk there from your hotel. I will be there at ten.
I need to be at the station for a noon train to Milan. I’ll be flying out from Malpensa in the late afternoon.
A very short visit, Bruno said.
I haven’t time for anything longer. I need to get back to New York.
Let me call you a taxi, he said. It will be here in a few minutes.
6
They’d walked to the front door, which he opened for her. As they stepped outside, she’d paused.
Can you tell me how much money my father has left me?
Yes, of course. Twenty thousand dollars.
You’re sure? Twenty thousand?
Of course I’m sure. Our lawyer drafted Walter’s will; I have had a copy for several years. The bank will give you a copy as well.
Was anything left to my brother?
Bruno’s brows rose.
Of course not, he said.
With that, the dialogue commenced its descent.
What do you mean, she asked.
I refer to the fact that your brother ruined your father’s career as a composer.
What? Are you talking about the score my brother lost? That’s ridiculous—Win didn’t ruin anything.
You are very mistaken. What your father wanted most of all was to compose. To be known not just as a wonderful singer but as a composer, a brilliant one. Over the years, this goal became more important to him than anything else. But your brother made it impossible.
That’s absurd, Bruno. Did Walter tell you what actually happened? Win took Walter’s score to school to make a photocopy, without asking Walter’s permission. He was a ten-year-old kid trying to teach himself to notate, and Walter never bothered to instruct him. So Win took the score from Walter’s study and made a copy of it, but he forgot to take the original out of the photocopier. Another kid found it there. The kid didn’t like Win, so he threw out the score. Later that day, Win left the photocopy on a bench at the school-bus stop—he was that kind of kid, distracted, forgetful . . . When he went back to the bus stop the next morning, the copy was gone.
I know the facts, said Bruno. Walter recounted them to me as you just did.
Then it should be obvious to you that Win didn’t do anything on purpose. It’s crazy that Walter would hold a grudge against his son for this.
Bruno clucked his tongue.
You haven’t understood. What your brother destroyed was a commissioned work. When Walter couldn’t produce the score, the orchestra canceled the commission. He’d already been given an extension because of his busy performance schedule. Your brother’s actions ruined Walter’s reputation as a composer.
Bruno, we’re talking about a kid. A boy who made a mistake, and should’ve been forgiven for it.
He shook his head.
We are going in circles, he said quietly. After he came here to live with me, your father did want to see you again. But your mother prevented any contact. When you were older, Walter thought it best not to complicate your life by asking to meet you. He knew what your mother would have told you: everything was his fault. It seemed to us both that if you wanted to see him, you would communicate this desire to him.
Are you kidding? As far as my brother and I were concerned, our father had already renounced us. Why would we take the initiative—and how exactly were we supposed to communicate with him, in any case? We didn’t even know where he lived! For all we knew, he’d left you, too.
My dear, to find out where he lived, you could have contacted his agent any time. Your father was always willing to see his daughter, but you decided against it. That was your choice. And as for your brother, since he’d ruined his father’s prospects as a composer, why would Walter make any effort in his direction?
7
The next thing she’d said had not seemed to take Bruno aback. Perhaps he’d even been expecting it.
Bruno, do you think my father actually wanted to have children, or was he tricked into it by my mother?
He smiled.
Nobody could trick your father, my dear. Initially, he thought he and your mother could maintain an amicable, mutually useful partnership. He wasn’t in love with her. He was young and ambitious, and he didn’t want to be deeply involved with anyone. He wanted to be a great performer, and he didn’t want any rumors about not being . . . fully heterosexual. Your mother was young but not stupid. Walter offered her a clear proposal: all she had to do was take care of the practicalities, and he would pay for everything. Being in the closet, as you say in English, was burdensome for him, and marrying a woman who didn’t require him to be at home all the time made sense. He felt, however, that Nola would need a couple of children.
Why?
To prevent her from becoming too solitary while he was traveling. And to be useful to her as she aged. As you are surely aware, your mother was not a woman who enjoyed the company of others. Your father never asked her to change; he accepted her as he found her, a reasonably intelligent woman who appreciated his musical talent. But her drinking became a problem he did not expect. In any case, he fulfilled his role in the partnership.
Which was . . . ?
To demonstrate how to be an adult. When he was at home, your father had no difficulty instructing two young children how to behave. But he insisted on freedom for himself—doing as he liked, going where he liked, enjoying sexual as well as artistic liberty. All this he made clear to your mother before they married: she was not to interfere in his musical or private life. Everything went fine until your mother became an alcoholic. And then the commissioned score was destroyed—which was your mother’s fault as well as the boy’s, since she failed to keep Walter’s study locked. The situation was obviously falling apart. By then, Walter had met me, and once again he demonstrated how to be an adult, true to one’s own nature. He was ready at last for a deep involvement. The partnership with your mother was over.
My mother had no idea he’d leave her, Bruno.
Oh, your mother merely pretended to be shocked, my dear. She claimed she didn’t want Walter involved any longer in raising you or your brother, but she’d always known about her husband’s sexual desires. Her reaction was pure hypocrisy. The truth was that she could not imagine Walter actually wanted to live with me. That was the problem for her. By that time, you were old enough to know who Walter was—how important an artist . . . Must you still claim that his wife was a good mother, or are you willing to admit she was simply a drunk?
The taxi approached; Bruno signaled to it, then continued speaking.
Remember, cara, that your father sustained both his children up to adulthood. He paid for your college educations, and he sent your mother a monthly stipend until her death. She was never in danger of starving. The fact that she preferred drinking to eating—well, there was nothing Walter could do about that. As for your br
other, it was better to let it go, as you say in English.
He paused, then picked up her suitcase and walked to the taxi. Spry, he was. The weight of the bag no problem, his balance still good.
So there you have it, he said as he opened the taxi’s door. Your family was a failure, yes, but not your father’s failure. I will see you tomorrow at the bank, cara. I hope you are able to rest this evening.
He closed the door and turned away.
The next morning, the bank made the transfer swiftly.
As Bruno chatted with an acquaintance in the foyer, an English-speaking manager took her into his office and helped her fill out the forms. For this transaction, he explained, her physical presence had not actually been required; she could have simply faxed him the necessary notarized documents. She’d been told otherwise? Ah well, in any case she’d had a chance to visit Cremona, a lovely city, non? So the visit was worth it. Signor Portinari was a client of the bank for many years. Condoglianze, signora, we are all sorry for your loss.
Bruno accompanied her to the station. On the platform he handed her a fountain pen, the one he’d lent her to sign the documents. It’d been Walter’s, he said, and she should keep it. A gold-capped Parker, difficult to find on the collector’s market.
She put it in her bag. Checking into a hotel in Milan, she used the pen to sign the register, then gave it to the receptionist.
All yours, she said.
Really?
Yes.
Bellissimo, he replied, smiling. Grazie!
Sell it if you like, she said. It’s worth real money.
Bewilderment
1
Sitting at her kitchen table, Ellen stared at the sugar dispenser. No need to check: the ticket was buried there. Invisible, safe.
She wrapped her fingers around the glass jar. Warm, was it warm? Cold, tepid? Could she feel it, her fortune?
On the counter lay a stack of mail: flyers, two literary magazines, a few bills, some insurance paperwork. A renewal form for her driver’s license. The food co-op’s newsletter. Jetlag was a bitch . . . what time was it? Ten o’clock, her cellphone said, though it was 4:00 p.m. in Italy, and her body thought she was still there. Good lord. Had the trip to Cremona really happened?
Buy Me Love Page 15