“And standing here in your presence has made me so happy,” said Nikolay beaming.
“We’re all overcome with happiness tonight,” said Frank, edging himself ever so slightly between Vicky and Nikolay. “Tell me Mr. Mikhailovich…”
“Call me Nikolay.”
“Nikolay. How old were you when you started playing?” Frank said.
“I was four years old when I began playing the piano,” said Nikolay.
“Ah yes, I’ve heard all great concert pianist begin playing before the age of eight,” said Frank.
“Francis here started young. How old were you Francis?” Vicky said.
“I was six, but unfortunately I quit playing as a young man.”
“I never knew you played the piano,” said one of the men to Frank.
“He’s taken it up again,” said Vicky.
“Yes, and Vicky was my inspiration in doing so,” said Frank.
“Yes, I can see that this is a woman who would inspire,” said Nikolay.
“Speaking of inspiration,” said Frank, “I’ve never heard Rachmaninoff played with so much emotion before. Does the fact that he’s a fellow Russian influence the way you play his work?”
“Most definitely,” Nikolay said modestly.
“Do you miss your homeland, Nikolay, the way that Sergei Rachmaninoff did? Sometimes his music sounds like homesickness to me,” said Vicky.
“You are perceptive as well as beautiful,” said Nikolay. “I think I miss a Russia I never knew. But perhaps it will be one day again.”
“Someday Communism will fall, and I believe we’ll live to see that day,” said Brooks.
“Yes. Perhaps soon,” said Nikolay a little wistfully, then turning his attention back to Vicky he said, “Tell me, Vicky, do you play an instrument?”
“No, only the radio and a little air guitar from time to time but I don’t think that counts.”
“Delightful,” he said.
“It’s been a great honor meeting you, Nikolay, but we really must be going,” said Frank extending his hand.
“I will never forget this evening, Nikolay,” said Vicky.
“And I shall never forget you,” said Nikolay, giving her one last look before kissing her hand in a final farewell gesture.
Frank and Vicky said goodbye to Frank’s friends and departed.
“Francis! How come you’re in such an all fire hurry to leave?” Vicky said as he led her hastily by the hand through the crowded room. “Give a poor gal in high heels a break,” she said jogging slightly to keep up with him. Finally they made it through the room and out into the hallway. “Now will you talk to me?” she said, yanking on his arm to slow him down.
“I thought I better hurry up and run off with you before Nikolay did,” said Frank.
“Why Francis, you’re jealous! How sweet. But you know how ridiculous it is. What a pair we’d make; Nicky and Vicky, the runaway ex-commie and part injun hillbilly. I really see that one working out!”
Frank stopped and laughed then taking Vicky into his arms, he kissed her on the bridge of the nose.
“Well, at least Nikolay was impressed with me. I wish I could say as much for the American men.”
“They liked you. You know what Jameson said?”
“Jameson–he’s the one who normally drinks Heineken but had to settle for Bud Light. Right?”
“I guess. He said, and I quote, ‘I like her. It takes one hell of a person to put Brooks in his place’. And you know what else he said?”
“Do tell.”
“He referred to you as a southern belle.”
“A southern belle? Why Rhett, I do declare! I need a mint julep.”
“So you see, Scarlet, you truly were the belle of the ball.”
“What about those that know I’m just a hick in disguise? Like Brooks?”
“To hell with Brooks.”
“You mean it Francis?”
“I mean it,” he said in earnest.
“That’s all I needed to know.”
Frank stopped and, once again, held her face his hands. “Look, what do I have to do to pound it into your brain? I don’t care what anyone else thinks about you. I love you.” He continued to hold her face in his hands and look into her eyes, as if he was trying to transmit all the sincerity in his heart to her, as if he meant to drive out any doubt once and for all.
“Best night of my life. Brooks and all,” Vicky said to Frank as they tarried by the doorstep of her apartment.
“Best night of my life too.” Frank said; then he kissed her, a little more passionately than had been of late. The usual kiss at the doorstep since they began their courtship had been somewhat restrained, followed by abrupt and awkward goodbyes. Frank was trying to be the gentleman. But if this romance were to ever go further than goodnight kisses at the door Vicky would have to be the one to initiate it.
“Goodnight,” he said, only not so abruptly or awkwardly this time. They lingered in silence, remaining in one another’s arms for a time until Frank, in what seemed to be one sudden and great act of the will, broke the embrace and departed. Vicky watched him walk down the hall, past Sally’s door, around the corner and up the stairs. She crossed the threshold of her apartment and closed the door behind her. The latch clicked with the sound of finality, leaving in its wake a deathly quiet. Nothing moved inside her apartment, not even the air. It was a stagnant silence, not the silence of restfulness and peace, but the silence of emptiness, dull and lonesome, driving her mad like it always did. She would be left alone tonight to pace the hall between her bedroom and living room.
Sometimes she paced it seemed just to move the air around and bring life and movement to this small square footage of space she called her home. Restlessness, loneliness, and emptiness all swirled around together in her gut, one overlapping the other. She lit a cigarette and opened her sliding glass door to let some night air blow in through the screen. If she could just get some air into the apartment, some life from the outside world then maybe she wouldn’t feel so closed in and alone. She stepped out onto the patio and looked up at the stars, trying to find all the constellations she’d learned from Frank. She looked up again, this time just as high as Frank’s place. His light was on.
Vicky knocked on Frank’s door still clad in her gold gown, but now in her stocking feet as she had to take the uncomfortable gilded high heels off. Frank answered the door. He’d taken off his coat and tie and unbuttoned the top button of his formal shirt. He too had taken his shoes off and had on his tan leather slippers. Vicky chuckled.
“You’re laughing at my slippers, aren’t you? If they were good enough for Fred McMurray, they’re good enough for me,” said Frank with a smile.
“Whatever you say. Father knows best,” said Vicky.
“Are you going to stand out there and make fun of me or are you going to come in?”
“Well, I don’t know. Was that an invitation to enter?”
“Come in, Vicky,” Frank said with a smile.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Vicky said changing the tone to a more serious one as soon as Frank closed the door behind them. “I had to walk past Sally’s place, but you know what, I didn’t even care. By the way her door was closed and her light was out.” Frank said nothing but just stood there waiting, it seemed, for an explanation from her as to why she was there. He stood with his arms crossed guarding the entrance to the living room, and even though Vicky was inside his apartment, she’d not yet received full permission to enter his abode. He was on guard, holding everything in check. He’d transformed from his more emotional Italian side to his guarded English gentleman. He waited in silence for a word from her. Vicky, in turn, stood in the midst of this silence, not really knowing what to say.
“Why are you here, Vicky?” Frank finally broke the silence.
“I think you know,” Vicky said finally looking him in the eye. “I know what I said earlier about keeping this whole thing on the straight and narrow. I know I’ve be
en insecure and afraid, afraid of things ending badly, but I promise I won’t be anymore. I won’t hold any ties to you. I won’t expect anything from you. When it’s time I’ll walk away. I promise.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I need to be close to you.” The realization of what she was proposing struck her with a harsh suddenness. She wanted to take it back.
“I don’t know what I’m saying,” she said, ashamed, casting her eyes downward. “If you want me to go I will.”
“Don’t go,” Frank said and all guardedness completely dropped at that moment. He took her in his arms and kissed her, this time without restraint. At last this was the kiss that would not end until it had been completely spent. He led her silently by the hand into his bedroom.
In a moment Vicky was seated at the foot of Frank’s bed where he’d asked her to wait. Wait for what, she wondered? And then she realized her sweet Francis was setting the mood as he searched through his cassette tapes muttering to himself about finding just the right selection of music. “Ah yes, Romantic Piano Classics by the various masters,” he said as he put the cassette into the tape deck by his bed and the sound of Schumann’s music filled the room.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Frank said, playfully slapping her thigh and kissing her quickly on the mouth before he scurried out of the room. Vicky watched, as nervous as a virgin, while Frank hurried in and out of the bedroom with candles he collected from around the apartment. He arrayed them on his dresser and night stand lighting each one, turning off lamps and flipping off the overhead light switch as he traveled around the room. When he finished he bade her wait just a moment longer. He turned the light on in his walk in closet then disappeared behind the door, leaving it slightly ajar, just enough to shed a shaft of light into the darkened room.
He returned moments later in a short black robe with ornate gold designs curling up and around like the tail of a fire breathing dragon.
“What in tarnation have you got on?” Vicky said letting go a laugh.
“Why? Don’t you think it’s sexy? It’s a gift from my grandmother. She brought it back from her trip to China a few years ago. She said all men have to have a fancy robe like this when they visit the opium dens.”
“Good. No wardrobe is complete without an opium smoking robe. Your grandma, huh?”
“She was never quite right when she returned from her trip to Asia. My father suspected she had a minor stroke while abroad. Personally, I think she may have visited some of those opium dens,” Frank said in his droll way that Vicky loved and always caused her to laugh.
“But since I’ve never been to China and I’ve never visited an opium den I’ve been saving it for some sort of special occasion.” Frank lay down on the bed next to where Vicky sat. He took her hand and kissed it. “You’re trembling,” he said examining her hand.
Vicky reclined next to Frank and put her arm around him she realized he too was trembling.
“Francis, I’m nervous.”
“I know. So am I.”
“I know. Since I’ve been with you it seems like I got my innocence back. I feel like this is my first time again, only scarier, because tonight I’m sober.”
“Good. I want you to remember this night.”
“I’ll never forget this night.”
They lay there on their sides one facing the other, taking in every detail of each other’s facial features and the way the flickering candle light danced in one another’s eyes. Frank took her hand once again and placed it on his bare chest just above his heart.
“Hear that?” he said and Vicky felt the vibration strongly pulsate through her fingertips. “You’re the cause of that incessant pounding and don’t you forget it. You’re the only one who’s ever made it beat like that.” Her hand roamed up his chest and across the width of his shoulders. By now the loosely tied sash of his silky robe had come undone and she gazed upon him in the beauty of his manly nakedness and her own heart felt as if it would pound out of her chest. The sound of their breathing and a piano piece by Liszt filled the room.
He pulled her to him and they kissed. All the longing, all the pent up feelings no longer held back but expressed in each kiss, each touch, each word of love proclaimed, each new discovery of desire, each sigh and shiver of pleasure. They made love for the first time that night underneath the stars on Frank’s ceiling.
Chapter 27
December 1984
Dear Francis, December 22, 1984
I’ll never forget 1984. Well, we almost made it a year. It was January when we first became friends. Remember that night I lost my keys and you found me asleep outside your door step? I hope you’ll remember that and laugh and not think about the bad times here lately.
Vicky put her pen down and paused for a moment wondering what more to say. She stared blankly at her slanted narrow cursive hand which scrawled across the page in blotted blue ink, looking more like a man’s handwriting than a woman’s. She just stared at the page, transfixed as people so often become with mental fatigue and lethargy, her eyes too lazy to refocus. When her eyes did focus again it was on the Christmas tree in the corner. She put it up this year trying to make up for last Christmas when she hadn’t decorated. She remembered the previous Christmas with all its good (the fun she had with Allison, starting her new life, and finally finding some peace over her long ago accident) and all its bad (the disappearance of Bobby). The lights on the tree blinked on and off and she wondered why she’d bothered to put it up.
This would have been their first Christmas together, she and Frank. She would have gone out east with him to meet his family; his demanding father whose love he was still futilely trying to earn; his younger brother Tony, named after the patron saint of lost objects and who himself was lost as he frittered away years of college with his drinking and underachievement, and now the family fortune; his eccentric and demented grandmother from Philadelphia old money, the one who brought the opium smoking robe back from China.
None of his mother’s family would be there, a fact which he grieved. They all lived in Italy and he’d only seen them twice; once when he was about seven and they went to Europe to visit them, and the last time, at his mother’s funeral.
Vicky was going to Connecticut with Frank for the holidays; it was a given, until the day before they were scheduled to leave. She picked up her pen and resumed writing.
I know my decision not to go with you out east was a surprise.
Her pen stopped on the page, thinking how that wasn’t exactly true. Frank really didn’t seem surprised at all when she told him. He seemed resigned, yes resigned, that’s how he came across, a passive acceptance of the inevitable as he sat hunched over on her couch, his elbows on his knees, his hands folded. Frank often hunched and slouched when he was unhappy. He looked at her with his blue Frank Sinatra eyes and she could see the sad resignation there. He said nothing. He only nodded. And did she detect a little relief as well in that sigh of resignation that he exhaled as he pushed on his knees to raise his tired defeated self off the couch?
Did he know what that meant–her not going out east with him for the holidays? Did he know that this was the end for them? Or did he believe what Vicky said–that they just needed some space from one another, some time and distance to think things over.
Or maybe you weren’t surprised. Maybe you were relieved. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. The point is when you get this letter I will be gone. I plan to move out tomorrow. Please don’t try to look for me.
Why did she write that? She didn’t want to say that, it sounded so melodramatic, and besides she really didn’t mean it. Part of her hoped he would look for her. She couldn’t cross it out though because that would only make it look worse. Let him read into it what he wants.
I know it may seem a little hasty but I want to end it before it gets too complicated.
Writing a letter like this was easier now that she completed a year of college (or nearly). She didn’t even have to
look up the word ‘complicated’ to check the spelling. She knew it was right. She had Frank to thank for that. She planned to continue her education, or at least she thought she did. She’d enrolled for the upcoming semester at the University. She must be sure to thank Frank for that. Not only had he encouraged her in her education but he also helped her with the tuition. She would promise to pay him back.
I’ll always be grateful for all you’ve done for me. I promise to pay you back for the tuition you helped me with. I will get that degree and have my own restaurant some day, and I will be a better person for getting an education, like you always say, more able to think things through and more able to appreciate truth and beauty. So thank you.
Vicky thought about what she’d just written. But wasn’t that the very thing which was driving them apart. She was the ignorant hick he was trying to make over. Wouldn’t he always know that deep down? He had to remake her into the image of a woman he could love and she was more than willing to let him in the beginning. Wasn’t it just like that play she read in that elective she took: Introduction to Theater? What was the name of it? Oh, yes, Pygmalion. She was embarrassed when she read it. She was Eliza Doolittle and he was Professor Henry Higgins. He knew her true identity. He shaped her and formed her.
She looked again at what she’d written. Grateful? Sure she was grateful, grateful to her old buddy, Francis, whose help she had asked for. But he was no longer her old buddy, he had become her lover and now she resented him for trying to make her over. She had become his project, at times his obsession. If she was going to make it through college it would have to be on her own, without all this prompting and prodding from him.
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