by Allie Hayden
Something to be forgotten.
The memory of the pork chop haunted me.
Chapter 4
(Cecilia)
I married Bill because I knew I owed him and because there was enough love there to make a life of a certain kind of happiness. Oddly, that first passionate night in New York was never repeated. Bill settled into his job at the insurance company and returned promptly as six every night, ready to have a meal and watch his favorite television show: “Married with Children.”
He could watch it for hours, guffawing at the antics of those slobs. For some reason, New York and its many charms had almost no effect on him; he continued to live a Midwestern life in Manhattan.
But I didn’t. I immersed myself in the Lincoln Center and the Metropolitan Opera, where I seemed to be able to get free tickets any time I wanted. It was exhilarating for me, and I discovered worlds in opera and symphony that I had only dreamed about before.
New York was filled with music at that time. The many Russian émigrés who added so much to New York’s cultural life were all around me, thanks to my teacher, Dmitri. I met musicians and singers and ballet dancers and people who were obsessed with creating castles in the sky with their minds.
They were fascinated by my life with Bill and in our American ways, they questioned me about him, concluding that our relationship must’ve been a marriage of convenience. And in some ways, it was.
My parents were, of course, mortified when I called them from a payphone on my wedding day to tell them that I had married him without their permission. I was only nineteen, and their reaction of horror had taken me by surprise and depressed me.
I had never been that close to my family: my father and mother both escaped by fleeing to Sweden and then to America, and their only daughter was their greatest connection to America life.
My father had declared that I would come back to Minneapolis to have a proper marriage or he would disown me. I discussed this with Bill, and he agreed that we must make things right, and so, in the summer of my last year at Julliard, we packed up the station wagon that had been parked in the street for nearly a year without stirring and headed west.
Chapter 5
(Cecilia)
The wedding in Minneapolis was done as though nothing had happened in New York, as though we were never married. I wore a long white dress, and he wore a tuxedo, and we both played the part to avoid parental issues.
As a result, my father, Helmut, welcomed Bill into the family with a grand speech, quoting Heinrich Heine and Goethe. My father was a fascinating man, but his icy exterior never let me find out much about him. My friends claimed that I married Bill (obviously, never to my face) to make up for my daddy issues. I would’ve likely disputed that. I always claimed that I saw a good man in Bill and decided he was the one for me.
But in New York, I had been tempted—oh, there was no doubt about that. There were a lot of males who gave me attention. And there was the attention of the occasional female too. People my own age, people with similar interests to me, people with beautiful bodies and beautiful minds. And all the time, I always knew that my first love was the cello, and my second love was Bill. In that order.
The passion I felt that first night in New York never returned, and my life with him was punctuated with comments about the television shows he was watching as I studied beside him.
Bill supported me, paid for the concerts that I couldn’t get free tickets to. But never once did he attend with me. Some of my classmates thought I had made Bill up to ward off the advances of my many suitors, but he did come to one recital I gave at the school, and so all their hopes were dashed when he turned out to be a lovely, if slightly too old, man.
Afterward, Bill went out with me and some of my classmates to a bar where he drank Old Milwaukee beer as we drank Old Fashioneds and Manhattans. He grew tired of their company since he had virtually no idea what most of them were talking about.
They discussed the music of Mahler, Schubert, Shostakovich, and Prokofiev, as well as the intricacies of fingering and bowing technique. He had nothing to contribute, and so he grew bored. I was fascinated but torn because I wanted to include Bill in my life, and yet he seemed unable to meet me halfway.
There was almost nothing that I talked about that interested him. Even the television shows that others talked about were alien to him. He had his ‘stories,’ and that was enough for him. At one point, Dmitri Yakovsky asked Bill what he did, and he told him he was an insurance underwriter. Yakovsky looked at him as though he were joking. “What is this?” he said disdainfully, turning away from Bill.
I noticed this interaction and felt for my dear husband. I knew he was a good person, and he even enjoyed music as an audience member, but though he tried, he could not understand this part of my life. And I knew it too.
I tried my best to include him in this part of my life, but ultimately, it hurt my chances of advancement. I was recommended for many different positions in orchestras around the world but turned them all down until I heard about the one in the Minneapolis Phil and auditioned.
Of course, I got the position—I was lightyears ahead of the competition and, despite their trepidation about hiring a woman, they offered me the job, much to the delight and relief of Bill, who, despite three years living in Manhattan, was still as out of touch with the pulse of the city as the day he arrived.
Once again, we packed up the station wagon and headed west, this time for good.
Chapter 6
(Cecilia)
While I made efforts to keep in touch with my classmates, I watched helplessly as they all faded away into European centers like Hamburg, Amsterdam, and Prague. For my part, I worked with the symphony, practicing and giving concerts, appearing twice as a soloist in small concertos, to some local acclaim.
The city paper called me the hidden gem of the orchestra, and I tried not to let it get to my head. In fact, I kept things in perspective: compared to my classmates, I had achieved relatively little in worldly terms, but I had reconciled with my parents after the catastrophic marriage at New York City Hall.
In all ways that most people measured it, my life was good. My husband was still kind to me, if not passionate. I had gained a little weight and was not the waif I was when he first met me, and although he never said a word about it (or in fact, about almost anything else—he was a man of few words), I knew that he had noticed it.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t help comparing myself to the other people I had once been peers with…I was yearning for travel.
Not once had we even gone on vacation, and it appeared pretty clear by now that no children were in the offing. But certainly not for want of trying. In fact, for the first few years of our marriage, I had taken birth control (I secretly blamed my slight weight gain on this stupid pill, quipping to my friends that the real effectiveness of the birth control pill was making you sufficiently unattractive to your husband that he wouldn’t try), which ensured me time to focus on my career.
But after that period, we did try in earnest. Bill desperately wanted a son and made it clear to me that he wanted one, and soon. And so, we diligently went to work trying to “make a baby,” as Bill phrased it.
He would prepare the marital bed and pump away in a workman-like way until he was satisfied. Rarely was I ever satisfied. And the result was far from satisfactory as no progeny issued from my fatal loins.
This was not the source of my slight dissatisfaction with my married though. The fact was, my marriage had grown stale; Bill and I had been married for fifteen years, right after I had graduated from college and Bill—who was twelve years my senior—supported me through Julliard, even moving with me to New York. But now, every night when I got home from being intellectually and artistically challenged by the brilliant music I played with the orchestra and the string quartet that grew out of the first-desk players, I felt a certain comfort that Bill just wanted to cuddle and watch our favorite television shows. But fifteen years of sitcoms
take a toll on a person, especially a person who wants to be stimulated by art.
Bill was older than me, of course, and the years of sitting around watching television were taking a toll on him. I used to tell people that when I met Bill, he had the body of a Greek god, but now he resembled some Greek guy! And they would all laugh about it. But the joke was wearing thin, just as Bill was growing paunchy.
I was a woman in my prime, at thirty-three, with needs that Bill couldn’t meet. He was now forty-five, and I secretly knew that although he still desired me, his spirit was willing, but his flesh was becoming…well, flaccid.
I still remembered the dinner party that I was invited to at the home of Dmitri Yakovsky, my cello teacher. He was not as fluent in English as he would have liked, and at dinner, the subject of the word “flaccid” came up. He turned to his wife, a brilliant English violinist named Penelope Fast, and asked her “Malenk’iv, how do you pronounce this word?” She smiled broadly and said, with great aplomb, “How should I know? I’ve never had to use it!” She was the toast of the party from then on, and Dmitri beamed.
Sadly, Bill was becoming increasingly familiar with this word, and although I still harbored a strong love for him and his sweet nature, there were some things you could not get past. And he knew it.
I secretly knew that Bill was spending his evenings surfing the internet for sexual inspiration. I had walked in on him in his study several times when he was supposed to be doing peoples’ taxes—he was a chartered accountant—with his chinos around his knees and his un-tax-like tool in his hand. He was invariably embarrassed and professed great interest in porn.
But I knew he was discovering the joys of anonymous sex through the webcam phenomenon. Not that I would ever have confronted him.
For my part, my escape was looking at the wonders of southern France and northern Italy. I spent hours searching the internet for beautiful places that would stimulate me, imagining myself hiking the Gorges du Verdon or Lake Como. The beauty, the color, the deep history of these places gave me the stimulation that my Minneapolis split-level home just couldn’t offer me.
Chapter 7
(Cecilia)
It was deep in the cold, relentless winter of Minnesota, and my face had grown pallid from the lack of sun. My ashen countenance registered my ennui; these sunny and bright places, with their golden yellow hues, and their deep ultramarine colors gave me the joie de vivre that I needed.
Slowly and gradually, I began to think of ways to turn my imaginary vacation into reality. I looked at rentals in Florence, Milan, Nice, or Aix-en-Provence, admiring the beautifully appointed rooms filled with the history of the warring clans of the regions
And then one day, I found a beautiful villa advertised for “the right person.” This curious phrase captured my imagination, and I was prompted to look closer at the place. It was a bastide in a small town called Le Castellet that had once belonged to a famous writer named Frederic Mistral, whose Provencal poetry, written in the Provencal language, was the pride of the south of France.
I Googled his work and found that, despite my extensive French studies through high school and college, I could not understand a word. In translation, though, it was beautiful; it described the location I was looking at, and so, on a whim, I wrote to the owner, Darius Wilde—using Google translate, in French, to ask exactly what it was that he was looking for.
Darius Wilde wrote back to me almost immediately, in English, expressing great interest and asking if I was the same Cecilia Winter who played in the Minneapolis Symphony. Relieved that he spoke English, I wrote back and told him that indeed I was, and I was surprised that someone from far-off France would have heard about me.
“Miss Winter, you may be surprised, but I have heard you play on two occasions: once in New York and once when you played in Minneapolis. I was impressed both times. Are you interested in coming here with your family?”
“Actually, Mr. Wilde (curious if you are related to the late, great writer), this is to be a recharging of my creative juices. I would be coming alone. Is your lovely place appropriate for such a stay? It’s possible that my husband might join me, but he is awfully busy with his work.”
“I am loath to say it is ideal for such recharging efforts, Miss. Winter. But I feel inspired every day that I spend here. And sadly, no, I am unrelated to Oscar!”
“I see. Would you be living there with me?”
“Well, Miss Winter, the bastide itself is all yours; I would stay out in the woodsman’s cottage. This is where I have lived for several years, since buying the property. There are two servants—a young woman named Charlotte, who will see to your laundry and cleaning and any other little chores you set her to doing, and Guillaumette, our wonderful chef. At the moment, there are no other guests, and I am tempted to keep it that way, to help you recharge. Would that suit you?”
“Mr. Wilde, that would be wonderful. I’ll get back to you once I hear from my husband. And, I am almost afraid to ask, but how much would it be?”
“I’ll be honest with you, Miss Winter. It is an honor to have such a guest as yourself at my humble abode, and so I am willing to give you the entire place for €800 a week.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilde. Would it be indiscreet to ask what you look like? You have me at a disadvantage.”
Almost instantly, he sent me four photographs of himself surrounded by the beauty of Provence, and I had to admit, he looked handsome.
He was tall, with long auburn hair, his skin burnished, I guessed, by the Mistral winds that plagued the area. He deep-set blue eyes burned with a certain fury, but his face was symmetrical and striking.
His body was powerful and well-shaped, with broad shoulders and powerful arms. I imagined him carrying large loads to a ship or chopping wood. In fact, I let my imagination run away and, given the unexpected and quite audacious nature of his photos (one with without a shirt, exposing a delicious torso), I decided to send him a couple of my photos.
I scrolled through the tiresome family photos with the Palmer family, the weddings photos, the short weekends away photos, the event photos, and finally found a few that showed off my figure. If I were being honest, I had to admit that the photos showed me to be shapelier than I actually was. Two of the photos were in an evening gown, holding my cello, one in a swimsuit, and one in a provocative pose I had done for a friend many years ago. I added them to the email and pressed send. Then I rose and went into my husband’s study.
“Bill,” I said at the door, not wanting to expose him to any embarrassment. I heard a scratch of the chair leg on the floor and some scrambling noises.
“Come in!” he called, clearly dressed and presentable.
I entered the room, which smelled a little of man-musk, and sat on the small chair in front of his desk. His computer was tipped down in anticipation of a discussion. “What is it, Cess?” I hated that name. It sounded like a disease, and not the curable kind either.
“Well,” I began hesitantly. “I have found the place I want to go to recharge my batteries, and I can have it for eight hundred Euros per week.”
“Euros?” said Bill, raising his eyebrows. “How much in American?”
“Probably less than a thousand dollars,” I said as he gasped.
“Dear God, woman, are you trying to bankrupt me?”
“Bill, we’ve been married for fifteen years. In all that time, have I ever suggested a vacation? Even once? Have we gone anywhere?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Do we have any money? What are we going to spend it on? Our children? We have none and never will. I need a recharge, and I am asking you if you will join me, not if you would like to spend the money. The money will be spent, and I will go.”
“It’s in Europe? Which state?” Bill was playing dumb.
“It’s in France,” I said.
“France? Don’t they have a lot of Frenchmen there? With baguettes and striped shirts and cigarettes and mustaches, and bicycles, and those beret hats
?’
I sighed. I shook my head hopelessly. Years ago, this might have been endearing, but it was wearing thin. “Yes, Bill, they do. But this place actually is run by an English-speaking person.”
“I see,” he said, feigning interest. “A Brit then.”
I didn’t know his origin, but he had seen me play twice, and once was in Minneapolis. Minneapolis was not exactly a must-see place even in America, and so I could safely conclude that he was probably an American, possibly even a Midwesterner. But I said nothing.
It was possible that I didn’t really want my husband to come; maybe I forgot, or maybe I wanted him to myself. Whatever the reason, I remained silent.
“My question is, do you want to join me? I am leaving in a couple of weeks.”
Bill was stunned, and a little annoyed. Since when did I, Cecilia Winter, ever make my own decisions? Since when did I skip off to some swarthy French café? This was all highly unorthodox, and it took him by surprise.
“Now, hun, you know I can’t just up and leave. I have my clients, my business to run. It doesn’t run itself, you know. I can’t just gallivant all over Europe. I think we best put this idea to sleep.” His imagery of the veterinarian putting down an old dog was not lost in me.
We had both put down two dogs in our time together, and both times, with Misty, the labradoodle, and Tiger, the Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever, I had wept uncontrollably for hours. I had a great love of dogs, and this was a cheap and unfair ploy, and my indignation rose.
“I have already decided to go; I just want to know if you’ll come with,” I deliberately phrased my sentence in a classic New York way, leaving out the personal pronoun. He caught it and glared at me. He was used to making decisions, which, I finally realized, was why we never went anywhere. This was the end of that.