Nocturne

by Andrea Randall

  “Savannah, darling, we could have met somewhere in the city.” My mother rushed to her seat, fifteen minutes late for our date, calling her drink order to a passing waitress.

  Dressed in a sleeveless black dress that had a pencil skirt which accentuated her thin frame, she wore bright red pumps and a matching patent belt round her tiny waist. I’d say it was a bit much for afternoon drinks, but she’d passed her expectations of style onto me, and I’d begun to follow them over the last several years—especially during my time in Moscow. I played with the bottom of my grey skirt as I addressed her.

  “You know I love the view here, Mother.” I sighed, drinking more of my wine.

  “How was James and Madeline’s wedding?”

  “Lovely,” I replied with a smile.

  “Gregory Fitzgerald … was he there?”

  “I’m not sure why you have to look at me that way,” I commented on her accusing gaze. “But, yes, he was. He was the Best Man.”

  It was interesting that five years later, meeting in Boston brought Gregory to my mother’s mind as well. She had been less than pleased to find out about what happened between Gregory and me, though she only knew about the kiss. When I fled Boston and went to Nathan’s, she pulled it out of me on the phone one night. Incensed, she threatened to call the school and have him fired before I convinced her that he wasn’t the reason I was leaving. I’m not sure if she bought it, because I couldn’t tease out all of the reasons I was leaving myself, but she bought it enough to back down on her threats.

  “Hmm,” she paused briefly to plaster on her stage smile while accepting her Manhattan from the waitress, “did you speak with him?”

  “Mother,” I sighed, “it was five years ago. Move on. I have.”

  “You don’t sound so convinced—”

  “For God’s sake, Mother, drop it!” My voice came out a bit louder than I, or my mother cared for, and the people at the next table looked up. Embarrassed, I picked up my wine glass and took a large gulp, shifting my gaze to the tiny white caps bobbing through the water.

  “So, you’ve decided to join that Big Five tour, I hear?” my mother inquired after an acceptable length of silence.

  My jaw failed me and dropped just enough for her to arch her eyebrow. “How did you …” I trailed off, not really needing an answer. Her connections in the American music industry ran so deep, it was hardly surprising that she found out about a decision I’d made only hours before. “Never mind.”

  “And am I to assume that since we’re having this conversation here, and not in Moscow, you’ve chosen to leave Bolshoi?”

  I didn't try to disguise my exasperated exhale. “We’re on break for the summer, Mother. I’m not sure what my plans are.”

  She clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head, looking across the harbor with a sour look on her face. “You simply can’t settle down, can you?”

  “Interesting choice of words, coming from you.” I carefully set my glass down and braced for her counterattack.

  “Young lady, I’d watch my tone, if I were you.”

  “Well, we’ve established I’m not you, haven’t we?” It had been a year since I’d seen my mother, and I was already regretting asking her for drinks. It was too long and cold of a swim to make a break for it now, though.

  My mother stood gracefully and tucked her clutch under her arm. “I don’t have to take this attitude from you, Savannah. I’ll be on my way.” After she took an elegant half turn and a single step, I stopped her.

  “Wow, this is getting easier for you.” My pulse raced as I prepared for what I would say next. “Being on your way. Is that the same term you used on Dad when you left him last year? That you’d be on your way?”

  She turned around slowly and stared at me as ruffled as I’d ever seen her. Her blue eyes darkened, and her mouth swung open. I’d rendered Vita Carulli speechless. I’d never addressed her leaving. Not with her, anyway. Not only had I not seen her in a year, I hadn’t spoken with her either. While I received phone calls from both of them on the day she left, I happened to answer my father’s call first and got the raw version of events. She wanted more, he had said.

  More than my father giving up his own career to raise me while she traveled the world doing what she loved.

  More than having the entire opera world love her.

  More than doing exactly what she wanted, when she wanted.

  More than having my father wait lovingly for her for two decades and welcome her home with open arms to resume their life together.

  She packed her things and moved to Boston. Fucking Boston. The city I loved.

  Taking a page from her score, I slid my bag over my shoulder and stood to leave.

  When I reached the place she was standing, shocked and unmoving at my words, I leaned in so only she could hear me. “I’ll be on my way, Mother.”

  Walking through the lobby of the hotel and out to the parking lot, I never turned around to see how long she stood there. In that moment, I didn’t care if she stood there forever.

  Alone.

  Savannah

  “Nervous?” Nathan leaned in and whispered to me after we finished tuning.

  I shook my head “no” as the comforting buzz of excitement coursed through my body. One benefit of being in the flute section is being seated near the front of the orchestra. While I wasn’t nervous, because I wouldn’t have to visually take in the entire orchestra to keep my eyes on the conductor, I reveled in feeling the power of the whole orchestra behind me.

  Nathan and I arrived a little earlier than necessary. I knew no one was going to particularly care that I was there, if they even noticed. I wanted to be sure to make a good impression on the conductors we’d be working with, in the event that I wanted to audition for any of the orchestras represented in this room. Despite Nathan’s insistence that I take the seat ahead of him, I demanded to sit last chair based on principle. Everyone else in the flute section was a member of one of the Big Five. I was an outsider.

  I elbowed Nathan and whispered, “Hey, there’s Tim Flannigan!” My cheeks heated as I pointed out the principal flute for Chicago. Not only was he currently my favorite flutist, he was shockingly easy on the eyes.

  “Blush much?” Nathan teased, rolling his eyes.

  Tim was tall, just like Nathan, but much more filled out. His broad back and narrow waist had him looking like a percussionist for a marching band.

  I’d followed his career since I was old enough to care about such things, and his rise to the first chair with the Chicago Symphony was remarkable. The son of Irish immigrants, he’d come to this country when he was ten, though he started playing the flute a year prior. His parents couldn’t afford to send him to a conservatory, so he studied music at his local college. Practicing every spare hour he could, he auditioned half a dozen times before getting in. Since his acceptance, he traveled the world doing solo performances before sold out crowds during the symphony’s off-season.

  He was only ten or twelve years older than me, but his skill made him sound like he’d been playing for a hundred years. His hair was completely salt and pepper, which did wonderful things for his green eyes. As he sat, he turned toward Nathan and me, extending his hand, which Nathan accepted.

  “Tim, I’d like to introduce you to my friend—”

  “Savannah Marshall.” Tim leaned past Nathan and gently took my hand in his.

  “Yes …” I trailed off, shaking my head in confusion.

  Tim chuckled softly as he let go of my hand and ran his over his tightly cropped hair. “I’m a friend of Madeline White. She told me you’d be joining us this summer. She’s talked a lot about you over the years, and I’m glad to finally meet you. That piece you played in your junior year flute ensemble was stunning. Well done, really.”

  “Were you there?” I asked, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “No. Madeline sent me the video. She was showcasing the two of you.” Tim pointed his finger between N
athan and me. “She was giving all of us a heads up on who to look out for over the next few years.”

  “Oh … wow.” I exhaled softly as someone tapped Tim on the shoulder, calling his attention away from us.

  “You okay?” Nathan asked, trying to follow my stare at the floor.

  “I feel like I may have let Madeline down a bit.”

  Nathan rolled his eyes. “You just spent a year playing for Bolshoi. You’re far from a disappointment.”

  I smiled and leaned my shoulder into his before going through our music selection. Apart from playing The Stars and Stripes Forever at the end of each performance, we would be rotating through a breathtakingly beautiful selection of music. On the order for today’s rehearsal was Beethoven’s Leonore Overture No. 73, Theme from Schindler’s List, which I could rarely play without tearing up, and Mendelssohn’s Symphony No. 4 in A Major. There were more. Generations had lived and died under this music, and I was getting chills at the prospect of making the music come alive.

  “Here come the bees,” Nathan mumbled, tilting his chin toward the front of the stage, where a majority of the strings swarmed to their seats.

  I laughed, thinking about my summers as a student at Tanglewood with Nathan, when he first pointed out to me that the strings huddled together and always took their seats together, looking and sounding like bees as they settled into their seats and began tuning.

  “Oh, excellent,” I whispered, “Zoey’s here!” I caught the eye of one of our conservatory friends who’d gone on to Cleveland, and waved. She smiled and waved back.

  My smile quickly vanished as the cellos made their way on stage. It didn’t occur to me that Gregory Fitzgerald would want to participate in something like this, given his two best friends weren’t participating, and loads of travel crammed into an eight-week, twenty-city tour didn’t seem to be his cup of Earl Grey.

  “Nathan,” I snipped.

  “Yeah, doll—oh, for Christ’s sake,” he grumbled as he looked to where I was pointing.

  “Did you know?”

  “Yeah,” he spit out sarcastically, “I thought it would be a fucking blast to sucker you into spending two months with him on the road. I’m sorry, Savannah.” Nathan leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his loose curls.

  I shook my head, mocking Gregory’s signature dismissive wave. “Don’t be sorry. It’s way old news. A heads up would have been spectacular, but, whatever … let’s look over this piece.”

  Nathan and I got out our pencils, marking sections that we would each have to pay extra attention to in order to not make total fools out of ourselves. Every few seconds, my eyes would flicker to Gregory, and I found myself wondering what had him in a seemingly extra sour mood.

  His eyes seemed ashen, bags under them that weren’t there a couple of weeks ago at James and Madeline’s wedding. His usually well-groomed goatee looked about a day or two past its scheduled maintenance, and he seemed to speak in clipped sentences to his section mates. Despite his usually gruff attitude toward the rest of the world, from what I’d seen, Gregory was always pleasant with his fellow cellists.

  My stomach flipped as I waited for him to relax the muscles between his eyebrows. He didn’t. Something was wrong, and wrong enough for him to let it show all over his face and body. I’m not sure what concerned me more, that something was definitely unsettled in his meticulously polished life, or that I cared.

  And I wanted to make him feel better.

  Gregory

  I don’t understand why you won’t agree to have children with her.

  The voice of my mother grated in my ears every time I thought about it. After days of a cold standoff between Karin and me, I’d received an unexpected phone call. My mother, who barely left her home these days due to a host of ailments, most of them imaginary, wanted to meet for lunch. And catch up. That was her code for interfering in my life. I could have rehearsed her lines for her in advance; they were so predictable.

  That lunch resulted in a shouting match later between Karin and me. How dare she involve my family in this discussion? The last two days our attempt at a silent argument over whether or not to have children had erupted into open warfare, and I’d left this morning in a rage.

  All the same arguments kept running through my head as I carried my cello into the rehearsal hall. I’d told her more than once, many times really, that I had no desire for children. Did she think that was going to change after we got married? Did she think she could change it for me? Did she want to change who I was?

  I didn’t speak to the other cellists as I opened my case and very carefully took out the instrument. I frowned as I saw a tiny mark near one of the f-holes. Very carefully, I wiped it with a polishing cloth then breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever had caused the mark, it wasn’t permanent.

  Finally I looked up at my section.

  They were all prominent, first rate musicians. Colleagues. Looking at them, I was disoriented for a second. For my entire career, I’d been the youngest cellist. But of course, years had passed. Years in which I was one of the preeminent cellists in America, but also years in which I was aging. Some of the men and women in my section were much younger. I looked at them, and without a word signaled them to gather and began to issue instructions.

  Normally I’m considerably more deft with people, but after the last several days of fights, of continual emotional battles with Karin, I had nothing left. For anyone. I kept my instructions terse, cold and functional. Then I turned my back on them and began to set up and tune my instrument. The tuning on the Montagnana is always delicate, in particular the G string, which tended to slip and loosen occasionally, sometimes even while in the middle of a performance. I always kept a close ear on it, a constant ongoing background tension, which kept me poised, alert, and responsive. In some ways, that constant tension was far better than having the pegs adjusted so they didn’t slip.

  But nothing today was going smoothly. From the moment I woke up and she started harping at me about the nonexistent baby before I’d had my first cup of tea, to the tearful scene at the front door … nothing had gone smoothly. And so, of course, this would be the one day the G string refused to tune properly. I sat there, in front of six younger cellists from other orchestras, looking like a rank amateur, as the frown on my face grew deeper and deeper. Finally, I got it right.

  I closed my eyes. I leaned back in my seat, my right hand slowly moving over the body of the instrument. I opened my eyes.

  And staring back at me, just ahead and to the right, was Savannah Marshall, her eyes wide and alarmed. She was sitting next to Nathan, of course. When she saw me looking at her, her eyes darted away. She leaned close to Nathan and whispered something. And I felt a sudden, reckless urge to stand up, walk to her and grab her arm. To say ... something. I had no idea what.

  Of course Savannah was here. Why hadn’t I thought of it? I'd seen Vita Carruli around Boston, and knew the Bolshoi was on break for the season. Savannah had become one of the premier musicians in the world, and everyone knew it.

  She was certainly as good as anyone else in this group.

  Now she met my eyes with an almost dismissive look. Was she annoyed? Irritated to find me here? Was she angry? Did she even feel anything at all about me? And why the hell did it matter? I had a wife at home, after all. A wife I’d chosen to marry three years ago. A wife I’d married in spite of Savannah. A wife I’d married because … because she wouldn’t complicate things. Because it made her happy and she wouldn’t interfere with my life.

  But now?

  Now she wanted children.

  The thought of Karin swept through my head like a migraine, and consequently, I was the first to look away from my unofficial little staring contest with Savannah. And I decided then and there I wouldn’t look again. I wouldn’t meet her eyes. I wouldn’t talk with her before or after rehearsal, I wouldn’t seek her out, I wouldn’t discuss her, or, worst of all, think about her.

  So I sat up straight in
my seat. I looked at the conductor. I took a deep breath. And I tried to ignore that in my peripheral vision just to my right, Savannah sat in the flute section. I tried to ignore the fact that for the next eight weeks, this little traveling road show would be performing on stages large and small all over the United States.

  And she would be a row away from me the entire time.

  Savannah

  Tim Flannigan threw his head back and let out a full-throated laugh and Nathan grinned. I smiled in response. I’d been telling the two of them yet another story of Sasha Nikulina, the Bolshoi’s Prima Ballerina and a slightly crazy, waifish woman who had attacked her boyfriend with knitting needles midway through last season.

  “You may think it’s funny,” I said, “but Boris didn’t. He was in the hospital for two weeks. Knitting needles are serious weapons.”

  I tried to keep a straight face. I really did. But their laughter got to me. First one corner of my mouth quirked up, then the other, and then I was laughing along with Tim.

  “All right. What happened to the young ballerina?” Tim asked.

  I shrugged. “The police escorted her to the performance, waited, and then picked her up afterward to take her back to jail. Every night for the rest of the season.”

  “No way,” Nathan said, staring at me incredulously.

  I nodded. “Russians are serious about their ballet.” What I didn’t say was that Sasha’s story wasn’t even the weirdest. The politics and backstabbing at the Bolshoi were legendary, and even if I went back in the fall, I had the feeling I wouldn’t stay much longer.

  Tim gave me a quirky grin and said, “And that, my friends, is why I’ve never dated a ballerina.”

  Nathan laughed, but I just raised an eyebrow and said, in as droll a voice as I could manage, “You’re assuming one would have you?”