by Ian O Lewis
“You have Huntington’s disease. It is often mistaken for Parkinson’s, but the outcome for Huntington’s disease isn’t good. You have inherited a defect in one of your genes that causes progressive deterioration of brain cells. This will impact your ability to move, amongst other things. It’s why you’ve been having accidents, falling down and such, and it explains the hand tremors.” He swiped at his brow with the back of his hand and continued.
“It will cause you to have serious cognitive issues, affecting the way you think and feel. Plus, it…”
“Is there a cure for this?” I interrupted.
“No. The science is advancing, but…” He threw up his hands in the air.
“How long do people live with it Dr. Keller?” Aunt Svetta asked.
“It is different for everyone. Life expectancy is shortened, but you can expect at least 10 to 30 years after symptoms first manifest.”
The four of us sat in silence, the only sound coming from Aunt Svetta who started to weep. Then it struck me why he’d asked all of us here.
“You said it is genetic. Does this mean that me and my aunt may have it?”
“You have a 50/50 chance. Both of you need to be tested, and the sooner the better.”
11
Josh
We made it to the Kennedy Center with only minutes to spare before the curtain went up. Serge apparently had major clout with the Washington National Opera, because we had the best seats in the house, front row center on the first balcony. We were about to watch Turandot, an opera by Giacomo Puccini, one of the few operas I was familiar with. It involved an icy, Chinese princess who spurns the attentions of her suitors in malevolent ways.
Despite my working in the world of classical music, I knew little about the form. Opera always seemed over the top, difficult to understand. For example, Turandot was an Italian Opera set in China, and the cultures and the languages were totally foreign. I’d heard it several times before and loved the music, but I did not understand what it was about due to the language barrier. This was my first time watching a live performance of it, and thanks to the subtitles projected over the stage, I would hopefully come to understand the story better.
“Keep your eye on the man playing the Emperor Altoum, Ricardo Dominici.” Serge whispered in my ear as they dimmed the lights. “I already know he’s an excellent singer. What I want to know is if he can act.” I looked down at Serge’s lap and noticed he had what looked like an e-reader with a stylus, and that he was taking notes on it. My eyes slid up his torso to his face. His eyes were totally focused on the stage now that the overture had started, his lips pursed in expectation. Not wanting to be caught staring, I turned my attention to the stage too.
Why was I here? What on earth did Serge want with me? Shouldn’t he have brought the artistic director of the opera, or someone else with more experience? Not that I’d ever turn down free tickets to any production at the Kennedy Center, but this whole situation made little sense.
I’d given a little thought to our after work rehearsals, and all I could figure out was that he wanted someone to help him with his own compositions, a sounding board. He’d written them for the piano and cello, but so far that was about the only thing I could understand about that situation. Then there was the matter of him helping me out with Bradley. Serge had no reason to step in like that. If I was him, I would have laughed at the silly carrot top and his boring date, and taken one or both of those twinks who were hitting on him home for a night of loveless fucking.
Serge taking me to meet his aunt, who had some sort of neurodegenerative disease he hadn’t elaborated on was the strangest part of the entire scenario. He could’ve easily picked me up after visiting with her, then driven up to DC for a delightful opera matinee. But no, he’d chosen to show me what was an intimate part of his life.
He didn’t strike me as somebody who cultivated friends, or even had a need for them. Serge was self-contained, a man who did everything his own way and if anyone tried to stop him he’d harass them into submission. So what the hell did Mr. Mouthful want with me?
The opera was violent and dramatic, and I was dragged into the story, much like the murdered Prince of Persia was dragged off the stage. Love meant nothing to the Princess Turandot, who ruthlessly had her suitors killed if they didn’t correctly answer three riddles which were next to impossible to figure out.
Throughout the first two acts of the production Serge continually took notes on his tablet, somehow writing without his eyes leaving the stage. During the intermission we never left our seats, and not a word was spoken between us. He leaned away from me, and his leg shook up and down next to mine. Finally, I tried to break the ice.
“Do you want something to drink? The curtain is going to go up in five minutes.” I whispered. He shook his head no and sighed, then wrote on his tablet. His left leg started going faster, vibrating my seat. I leaned in the opposite direction and pretended to scope out the surroundings. The Kennedy Center was stunning, and I noticed that the red carpeting and walls were the same colors as the wallpaper in his aunt’s apartment. How was she such a sweet woman, despite her illness, while her nephew was the total opposite? I mean, he was sweet to her, and to kids if his interactions with Suzi were any indication. But, to the rest of the human race he was downright cold. Oh, and then there was me. Who the hell knew how he felt about me? And why did I care?
He was my boss, and for some reason he’d taken notice of me. The problem was, every time his jumping thigh accidentally touched mine it was like an electric spark flaring between us. When I snuck a glance at him, which I did every other minute it seemed, all I could think about was if he was thinking about me. He probably was. Serge was most likely wondering to himself why he’d bothered to bring this homely dude who knew so little about opera to one of the most famous opera houses in the United States.
I’d bet he’d taken an interest in me, because I was new like him. Orchestras were notoriously cliquey, and it would be in his best interest to cultivate the other new guy, who happened to be me. There was no other reason, despite the itchy fantasy in the back of my head that maybe he actually found my freckles and out of shape body attractive.
The lights went down, and the orchestra began to play. I glanced over toward Serge who was still scribbling on his tablet, his eyes glued to the curtain as it rose to reveal the icy Princess Turandot mocking her latest suitor, Prince Calaf, for having the nerve to fall in love with her. Determined to see him off, she asked him three impossible riddles, and if he couldn’t answer them correctly, she’d put him to death.
What distinguished him from the rest of the poor men she’d relieved of their souls was the depth of his love for her. He could see inside of her and knew the answers to every riddle. You could see it on her face as little chinks in her emotional armor were exposed by this strange man who seemed to know everything about her. I was about to whisper to Serge that he should forget the boring singer who was playing her father, the Emperor Altoum. He should try to get the woman playing his daughter. Then I felt his shoulder pressing heavy against mine.
Turning my head just the slightest to see if he was trying to get my attention, I noticed his gaze focused on the stage, and his knuckles were white, wrapped tight around the stylus he’d been writing with. The tablet was nowhere to be found, then I noticed it on the floor next to his feet. The carpeting must have muffled the sound of it dropping, and I wondered why he wasn’t trying to pick it up.
The stage darkened, night falling for the cast of characters. The servant girl, who was secretly in love with Prince Calaf had just taken a knife to herself, and they were carrying her body off the stage. I felt Serge’s shoulder stiffen against mine. Then I felt a little tap against my closed hand.
I glanced down. With most of the stage lights dimmed during this tragic scene it was hard to see, but then I felt it again, a brush of fingers against the back of my hand. My eyes shut, and I wondered if I was imagining the whole thing, but then I too
k a leap of faith and opened my fist. Then, Serge’s fingers slowly slid into mine, curling and tightening his grip while my heart raced faster. I wondered if he could feel my pulse, which was beating so loudly in my ears I could barely hear the singers on the stage. Realizing I’d been holding my breath I exhaled, then felt Serge’s shoulder press even deeper into mine. I glanced over, and our eyes met for a fraction of a second and then we both turned our attention back to the stage.
I wondered when he would wise up, take a long hard look at me and drop my hand. Serge could have any man he wanted, and he exuded a sex appeal I thought was only an imaginary trait of Hollywood stars.
Why were his fingers entwined with mine? It made no sense. I’d never considered myself an ugly duckling, but I wasn’t blind to the reality of my reflection in the mirror.
The next few minutes were a blur, and I remembered nothing for the rest of the show. I kept waiting for him to wake up, to drop my hand and shift himself back to the other side of his seat. It would be painful, but I’d completely understand. Yet he didn’t, and neither of us let go until the curtain went down and it was time to go home.
The ride back to Richmond was mostly quiet, until we hit Ashland, half an hour from home. I was nervous both from driving his expensive car, and from his hand which only loosened its grip on mine when I had to shift gears.
“So what did you think of Turandot?”
I was afraid Serge would ask me that, because while I could tell him my opinions of the first half of the production, the last half was a memory wrapped in a foggy blanket of desire.
“The guy you told me to watch, what was his name again?” I asked.
“Ricardo Dominici.”
“Yeah, him. He has a great voice, but I thought his acting was kind of wooden, like he was following the stage directions to the letter, but nothing more. Now, the singer who played Princess Turandot, that’s who I’d try to get for next season.”
“She’d require twice my salary just to appear on the stage for five minutes.” Serge laughed. “Richmond has one of the best orchestras in the country, but it’s still small compared to what Elise Smithfield is used to. She regularly sings at Covent Garden and La Scala.” Serge sighed then continued.
“One of my goals is to grow the orchestra. Attracting the talent needed on our current budget is a challenge, so I will be hitting up a lot of wealthy patrons and throwing quite a few fundraisers. If you can’t tell,” he chuckled “I’m not the best at small talk, but I will make it happen. I see so much potential with the musicians. I might not be dishing out the compliments the way I should, but they are really top notch.”
“Why did you choose Richmond? I mean, you’ve worked with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, one of the best in the world.” I snuck a glance over to him. He grimaced, and I noticed his leg shaking again. Apparently that was his nervous tick.
“I could tell you what you want to hear, or I could tell you the truth. Which one?”
“Truth.”
“Aunt Svetta. She’s the reason. VCU Hospitals has one of the best centers in the country for neurological disorders like hers. Also, the cost of living here is excellent, and since I take care of two households, mine and hers, it was the logical choice.” He squeezed my hand, then dropped it.
“So, back to Turandot. I think I’m still going to approach Ricardo about singing for us. He’s got enough name recognition to pack the Dominion Performance Center, plus he’d only cost a fraction of what Elise would cost.”
Serge continued talking about the opera while both my thoughts and my heart raced. Two questions had been bugging me while he chattered away about work. Both of them would be nosy questions, which he was under no obligation to answer. Finally, when we pulled up in front of the coffee shop, I asked the easier of the two.
“Who’s Grant?”
12
Serge- 18 Years Ago
“I did it! I won the Sir Georg Solti Conducting apprenticeship with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, plus they have asked me to be a guest conductor in Vienna this summer.”
The phone call telling me the news came this afternoon, and couldn’t have come at a better time. Graduation was only two weeks away, and I’d finally gotten an agent and had been frantically looking for work. I’d hoped to secure a position in New York, that way I could be closer to Grant, Mom and Aunt Svetta, but the conducting apprenticeship in Chicago was one of the best in the world. Turning that down, plus the guest position in Europe would be the stupidest thing I could ever do.
“Cheers. To your future success.” Grant raised his glass, though the tone of his voice seemed subdued. I’d been nervous about telling him the news since it meant we’d have to be apart for a while. Being in a long distance relationship wasn’t exactly ideal, but it was hopefully temporary. I’d invited him over not just to tell him the news about Chicago, but also to say something I’d longed to say to him, but never had the courage to before.
“You know I don’t want to leave Philly, but I have to go where the work is. Mom’s medical bills aren’t horrible yet, but they’ll be adding up as time goes on.”
Grant had been a rock during the whole ordeal with Mom. He’d never complained about the long hours I spent practicing music, or the weekends I spent with her in New York. Grant had been my first, both sexually and in love. We’d met after one of the student concerts he’d attended with his sister, and soon after we’d become inseparable. While we’d never formally labeled our relationship, it was understood that we were exclusive. Now I would say the three words I’d been terrified of speaking since the day we first met.
Grant combed his fingers through his blond curls and placed his wine glass on the piano, then stood up from the bench and started pacing.
“You know you mean the world to me, don’t you?” He murmured. “But…”
“But what?”
Grant sighed, then sat on the bed. I almost got up from my chair to join him, but a little alarm bell was ringing in my head. A few moments passed, and I felt myself beginning to sweat despite the chill of my cold room. Finally, he looked up.
“You have a huge career ahead of you, and I guess maybe this should be our goodbye.”
I froze, my mouth unable to form words and my body glued to the chair. Finally my arm moved, and my hand grasped the wine glass and brought it to my lips. I swallowed, then took a deep breath.
“Why? I mean, you know…”
“Serge, it’s just too much, everything you’re going through is too much. You’re on the verge of fame, fortune and, well you know, but you’ve also got so much to deal with, what with your Mom’s illness, and…”
“There’s something else, I know there is. Everything was fine until now.” I muttered, then got to my feet. “Are you seeing someone else? Is that it?” Shit, I realized I was shouting and plopped back into the chair and covered my face with my hands.
“What do you expect from me Serge? To give up my career and follow you around the globe? All the while I’ll be wondering when you will get…” He cut the last part of his sentence off, and at that moment I knew why he was breaking up with me.
“So that’s it, huh? Worried you’ll be saddled with an invalid one day? Shit, Grant, what the hell? I thought you were... just go.” I jerked my head back and stared at the ceiling. The cracks I’d memorized from dozens of sleepless nights swirled in my sight. I didn’t blink, welcoming the blur, and hoped to hear Grant’s hand turning the doorknob.
Minutes passed. I glanced toward the bed where Grant was still sitting, staring at the opposite wall. What the hell was he still doing here? Was he waiting for me to absolve him of his guilt? Tell him I understood why he didn’t want to potentially wipe my ass or feed me if the worst scenario came to pass?
“Why are you still here?” I breathed, my throat so tight I could barely squeeze the words out. “You’ve done what you came here to do. Get the fuck out.”
“Look, see it from my…”
“Go.”
&nbs
p; 13
Josh
Next door to the coffee shop, Sneaky’s bar was packed, with drunken revelers spilling out onto the sidewalk. I didn’t want the night to end just yet, but I was afraid my last question to Serge might have frightened him off.
He got out of the car and leaned against the passenger door. I walked around the Jag and held out his keys, which he shoved into his pocket. Then we both spoke at once, neither of us looking at the other.
“Grant was…”
“I’m sorry, I…”
We turned our heads toward each other and grinned.
“Do you want to come inside for coffee or tea?” I gestured toward the dark coffee shop. “I’ve got plenty of both.”
Serge nodded, pushed himself off the car and followed me inside. I heated water and found some teabags, not wanting to make a big mess for Luke to clean in the morning. Serge stood at the counter, and I noticed the shadows under his eyes were more pronounced. I felt awkward, wondering if I’d asked too much too soon. If he wanted to tell me about this Grant character, he could in his own time. Same with my other question. What was his aunt’s diagnosis? I had my suspicions, but since I’d spent most of my nursing career working in the ER, I didn’t work with many chronically ill patients. My educated guess about her condition was most likely wrong. This stuff was none of my business. Serge would tell me what he wanted to in his own good time.
“Thank you.” Serge took the cup of tea from me, then walked to the front booth by the window and sat. I hadn’t turned on all the lights, just the ones behind the counter. A street light came on outside as I sat, throwing a soft glow over our table, while a couple of partiers from next door lurched down the sidewalk holding each other up and laughing.