The Garden of Letters

by Alyson Richman

  She smiles at him as if he is inviting her to a dance where she is the one who will lead. She loves the fact that he has requested she play for him, even though he knows that she has fully understood the mission and doesn’t need to practice. Still, she accepts his request and reaches for her instrument.

  In the soft light of the bookstore, Luca closes his eyes and hears the notes rising from the cello.

  Once again, he is struck by a change in her, a transformation he notices as soon as she starts to perform for him. Before she had played with a mastery of the notes, but now Luca detects another layer. A feminine, seductive pull moves through the music. Luca senses it immediately, with almost animal-like instincts: beyond their shared devotion to the Resistance and the intrigue surrounding the codes, she desires him as much as he does her.

  He is entranced by her. He wants to take the bow from her and thread his fingers through hers. He wants to find her neck and expose the stretch of white skin that is hidden behind the curtain of black hair. He is taken not just by her beauty, but also by her talent. She is not like the girls who fill the air with pointless chatter, who laugh to cover their ignorance, who smile because they have no words.

  Elodie has something that is completely her own. Her music is the root of her sorcery. She fills the air with it. She uses every part of her body when she plays: her fingers, her arms, her neck, and her legs. He simply cannot take his eyes off her.

  When he can no longer hold back, he reaches for her. She feels his touch like lightning; she raises her chin and meets him with eyes lit and piercing.

  Electricity runs between them, even before they touch. Luca leans into her. She feels his fingers move away the loose strands of her hair. When he places his lips over hers, she does not feel nearly as shy as the first time he kissed her. Her mouth is like an open envelope, her tongue an invitation.

  He closes his eyes and kisses her again. And in the kiss, he finds himself moving. He discovers the shapes and tastes of each of her hidden corners. The sweetness of her throat. The peachlike flesh of her earlobe. In the circle of her collarbone, he discovers a small valley to rest his tongue.

  In his hands he feels her narrow waist and the pianolike keys of her ribcage, before kneeling to the ground to find her again. This time, he traces her from her ankles, up through the taut length of her calves and the curve of her knees. Within the abundant material of her skirt he discovers the smooth softness of her thighs.

  He is used to the sensation of paper between his hands, the perfume of leather and pulped wood. But Elodie comes with textures and scents all her own. In between her thighs she feels like velvet to him, while the bone of her ankle feels like polished stone.

  And he finds the seasons woven through her. Her skin carries with it the fragrance of spring flowers. Her breath is like frost that warms with the heat between them. And her taste, the sweetest taste of fig.

  It was the sensation of her fingers that he remembered first, before everything else fell away. He heard her slight whimper in his ear, a flicker of pain deep within her as she grasped him, as if to steady herself. In his arms, she shuddered, pulled away, then returned to him again. He wanted to hold her for a little longer. She was still wearing her skirt and blouse, but he could feel her whole body through the tracing of his hands over and under her clothes.

  Now, he rested with knees bent, with one cheek in her lap as she gently stroked his curls, before taking a single finger to trace the shell-like curve of his ear. She caresses him with such tenderness, and Luca found himself looking up at this beautiful and mysterious creature he knew as Elodie, as Dragonfly, again lassoed by her gaze.

  The first time he had kissed her in the mountains, it was he who had lifted her chin to bring her lips to his own, and it was his eyes that looked down at hers. Now she was the one gazing down onto him. He would never forget the sight of her eyes. He had never associated the color green with fire. But her eyes were indeed burning. Inextinguishable. And when she smiled, he felt almost blinded.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Verona, Italy

  SEPTEMBER 1943

  Her head is full of Luca, not at all on the concert at the Bibiena, nor on the code she has promised to perform.

  She takes the book out of her bag, hoping the story of The Little Prince will help soothe her restless mind. She finds herself smiling with each page; the little prince with his billowing scarf, his tousled hair, and his animal friends who speak in riddles. But when she approaches the end of the story, she realizes this is not a children’s book at all, but one that is about the responsibility of love. And what is most important in life is almost always invisible to the eyes.

  The next morning, the day of the fall concert, Elodie does not feel rested at all. She has spent the night either thinking of Luca or trying to decipher the hidden messages within the book. She now knows why Luca said she’d enjoy it. It, too, has its own secret code.

  She can still feel his hands against her skin, his scent on her arms. Yet she forces herself to get out of bed and get ready. Luca promised that he would have the final chord numbers for the code, so she knows she has to get to the bookstore before rehearsal. As she pulls herself up from the covers, the very architecture of her body now seems different. It wasn’t just the slight dull pain in her abdomen; there is a sense of an opening within her, a shifting of sorts. She always believed that music was the only thing that could fill the space inside her. Now she finds herself burning from the memory of his touch, the exhilaration of his breath, the brush of both his cheek and his hands, and she holds these strange and wondrous sensations in her own hidden place, where she can store all her memories of the previous night.

  Attending to her morning chores, she no longer hears notes; rather, images of her and Luca flash through her mind. She feels as though she is watching a cinematic reel in which she is both a voyeur and an active participant. She can see Luca kneeling at the base of her chair, his hands deep within the folds of her skirt, yet also feel the sensation of his hands on her skin. She can see with perfect clarity the sight of their limbs entwined, the cotton of her blouse above her waist, his hands grasping her hips. She can taste and smell every memory. She recalls his scent of tobacco and dry paper. She can taste the salt on his neck, the warm flesh of his tongue.

  She feels almost duplicitous, seeing her mother in the kitchen, smiling at her because she knows today is Elodie’s concert at the Bibiena.

  “You look radiant,” her mother says, as Elodie swallows her coffee in one quick gulp. “I can’t wait to see you on the stage tonight. I finished the alterations on your dress last night.”

  Elodie wonders, if beneath the schoolgirl uniform, her mother can see the change in her. That her daughter has discovered that it isn’t only music that can articulate both the beauty and mystery of the world. That now she knows that the heart has its own rhythm and breath has its own pulse, and there is nothing in this world that can make you feel more alive than a simple touch of a beloved’s hand.

  At the bookstore, she doesn’t find Luca as she had expected, but Beppe. He is standing in front of the cash register when she arrives. The brass machine has four white dials standing with numbers through its narrow top window.

  “Dragonfly,” he says when she walks through the door. Elodie has never heard Beppe call her by her code name, and it catches her off guard.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you, but . . .”

  “Yes, I know,” he interrupts her. “Luca had to see his brother at the last minute. So much needs to be done now.”

  Elodie nods.

  “Let’s go to the back room. I’ll shut the front door. It won’t take us very long.”

  She lifts her cello and follows him to the back, where only a few hours before, she had been with Luca. The metal chairs and table look empty and almost skeletal without their bodies against them. A slight shudder flickers through her. She feels al
most as if she is betraying Luca by being in this room without him.

  Beppe is unaware of Elodie’s mental gymnastics. As her mind leaps with the memory of Luca taking her bow from her hand, of her cello being placed on the ground, of his palms over the contours of her blouse, she struggles to regain her focus.

  “Dragonfly?” Beppe waves a hand over her eyes.

  Elodie blinks. “I’m so sorry . . . Yes. It’s just that I have so much on my mind today with the concert . . .”

  “I know you do. But you need the code, don’t you?”

  He walks over to one of the many bookshelves that line the room and pulls out a paperback edition of Italian court poetry. He fingers the pages, then stops at a page where Luca has written the number of chords she has to play.

  “Somewhere in the cadenza, I need you to play three consecutive half-note triple-stopped chords. Then you need to do two double-stopped whole-note chords. Can you work this in somehow?”

  Elodie closes her eyes and tries to imagine how she can best incorporate the code.

  Inside her head, she can hear the music and she begins to weave the consecutive chords into the Boccherini cadenza.

  After a few minutes, she opens her eyes as if struck by an epiphany. “I have it.”

  “So fast?” Beppe shakes his head, amazed.

  Elodie smiles. “At the end of the cadenza, just before the orchestra joins back in, there are a series of repeated measures, all with the same chord. I can make three of them half-note triple stops and then the next two whole-note double stops. I’ll make sure to play with a real flourish so they stand out.” She began to speak as though Beppe was a musician himself, and that he could understand what she was creating.

  “Well, you’re the one playing it, so as long as you understand . . .”

  “Yes, I understand perfectly. It won’t be too difficult, Beppe. I can do it.” She glances at the clock and begins to gather her things.

  He comes over to her and squeezes her shoulder. His touch is hard, fraternal rather than sensual. And again she detects a difference within herself, as if she now has the capacity to decipher the different messages expressed even with a touch.

  Beppe is wishing her well . . . wishing her good luck. His hands transfer no other sensations, as Luca’s had the night before.

  “I should be getting to school. I have rehearsal.”

  “Yes, of course.” Already Beppe is walking her out of the back room and toward the front door.

  “I’ll see you soon. And good luck with everything tonight.”

  She smiles and lifts her cello higher onto her back, giving him a final wave as she heads out the door.

  Elodie had chosen to wear a dress of her mother’s for the concert over a week before. She had discovered it in a closet next to the yellow chiffon one. This dress, made of silk taffeta, was such a dark blue it appeared almost black. “Like the lagoon at midnight,” her mother had said days before as she circled around Elodie, pinning the dress in the back to make it fit Elodie’s narrow frame.

  With the alterations made, Elodie slipped into the dress. Both women gazed at the sight of Elodie in the reflection of Orsina’s long mirror.

  “You look like a swan with that neck of yours,” said Orsina. And it was true. Elodie’s long, white neck stretched elegantly from the scalloped neckline of the dress. Against the material’s water-streaked taffeta, she looked like she was emerging from the sea.

  Elodie struggled to find her breath within the tight-fitting corsetry. She placed two hands on her abdomen. “I can hardly breathe with it on.”

  Orsina squinted at her handiwork; days before she had taken the dress in at the seams in order to fit Elodie’s small torso. The girl was smaller than she had been at her age.

  “Let me see . . .” Orsina came closer to Elodie, slipping two fingers between the blades of Elodie’s shoulder and the gown’s material. “You have plenty of room. Try and relax. It’s just your nerves . . .”

  Elodie struggled to take another breath. She lifted her arms, to make sure she’d be able to move freely with her bowing.

  “There . . . see . . . It fits perfectly!” Orsina clasped her hands and smiled again at the sight of her daughter’s elegant movements.

  Elodie didn’t answer her mother. Even if she could move her arms, the dress felt like a cage to her. And yet within the tightly fitting bodice, her heart was racing.

  With the approaching concert, Orsina seemed to come alive. She had busied herself with Elodie’s dress, her spirit happy to have something to channel her energy into. She knew how important it was for Elodie’s debut at the Teatro Bibiena to be as perfect as possible. It was the most prestigious venue for the students of the Liceo to perform in and she only wished that Pietro had lived to see it.

  The weather had turned cooler over the last few days, and the women wrapped themselves in long scarves. Elodie carried her cello; her mother carried a small purse that contained a tube of lipstick, a mirror, and a comb.

  Traveling on the train to Mantua, Orsina marveled at the sight of her daughter. For months leading up to Pietro’s death, she had noticed a change in Elodie’s playing. But she hadn’t noticed her daughter’s physical transformation. As the train wheels sped beneath Orsina, she had a chance to study Elodie in amazement. The girl was no longer a girl, but a young woman at the peak of her beauty.

  Elodie seemed taller, thinner, even more angular. Her skin glowed. Her eyes were piercing. It wasn’t just green that Orsina saw, but blue and gold. When she looked into Elodie’s eyes, she couldn’t help but think of the peacock feathers in her mother’s hat shop.

  She clasped her daughter’s hand; the strong grip of her musician fingers was familiar. It reminded her of Pietro.

  “Elodie,” she said, “before the year’s end, promise me one thing. Promise me you’ll make me get on the train and go back to visit Venice, even if it’s just for the day.”

  Elodie nodded. She had always wanted to see this city of her mother’s childhood, this floating city that emerged from the sea. She never understood why they had never gone there.

  Orsina looked out the window. She closed her eyes and saw the church where she first heard Pietro perform. She saw her mother in plum-colored silk, her own yellow chiffon dress fluttering over her knees. She saw the water underneath the canal and the window of her parents’ hat shop filled with hats and exotic feathers.

  She realized she had packed away so much of herself after she became a wife. As a child she had an almost incurable sense of adventure, a hunger for places far away. How many photographs of Paris had she pulled from her mother’s magazine collection? Streetlamps and bridges, gardens full of flowers and automobiles instead of gondolas and vaporetti. Every feather she touched, she wondered not just which bird it had come from, but also which country. But her need to discover the world had somehow died alongside her parents. Looking at Elodie alight in her beauty and powers, she had the desire to find herself again. Even if her body was no longer young, her dreams were waiting to be rediscovered.

  The two women held each other’s hands during the short train ride.

  Elodie wondered if her mother could feel just how nervous she was. The notes to the three pieces she was to play, she knew those by heart. She had played them for countless hours at school, at home, inside her head, but the pressure to deliver just the right new notes for the Wolf’s perfectly tuned ear was taking all the breath from her.

  “I’m nervous,” she whispered, turning to her mother as they stepped with the others off the train.

  “There’s nothing to be worried about,” Orsina said, hoping to soothe her daughter’s nerves. “It’s just a concert. Play with your eyes closed like your father taught you. That way you won’t even see the crowds. You’ll be able to focus fully on the music.”

  Her mother didn’t understand. Her father would have never said such
nonsense. Yes, she could close her eyes and perhaps tune out the faces of the crowd.

  But that wasn’t why she was nervous.

  Her mind didn’t feel as clear as it typically was. Every time she tried to concentrate and hear the music, she saw Luca. She saw the storeroom. She saw the two of them entwined.

  She tried to take a deep breath, but the dress was like a second skin. Try as she might, Elodie couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. Yet, in stark contrast, Orsina looked as though the train ride out of Verona had rejuvenated her. Her skin was luminous and her eyes were sparkling. “Train fumes are like oxygen for you,” Elodie teased her as they came off the train. Orsina threw her shawl over her shoulder and brushed her daughter’s cheek.

  “Yes,” she said. “I feel better from the trip . . . the rhythm of the train always helps me dream.”

  The Teatro Bibiena was Mantua’s small but elegant theater, an illuminated vault of stone walls and velvet seats. Soft light flickered from candelabra-like sconces. Only a few people in the audience were related to the performers. The majority of seats were occupied by music lovers who wanted to see the next generation of performers.

  Elodie had hoped that Lena would come, but the night before Lena had been wrapped up in more pressing things. Berto Zampieri had acquired the counterfeit passports for the Morettis.

  “Forgive me, Elodie. But this will be their last night in Verona and I want to be able to say good-bye . . .” Elodie understood completely Lena’s need to do this. The Morettis’ little boy was like a baby brother to Lena, and she had waited for months to get them passports.

  Elodie nodded. “I understand; don’t even give it a second thought. There will be other concerts.”