Washed Up with a Broken Heart in Rock Hall

by Peter Svenson

  On the designated Tuesday morning, Budge leaves the cottage at nine o’clock in case he is stuck in traffic, which he isn’t. He cruises right up through Wilmington and Chester, doesn’t take a single wrong turn, and arrives in the vicinity of the restaurant by eleven. It’s not a bad commute, he thinks, for lovers living at either extremity.

  I could do this once or twice a week, if necessary. We could meet at the restaurant and then go to her dormitory room. I could find inexpensive overnight parking, or perhaps I could just park at her parents’ house in the suburbs and take the bus in.

  Budge has time to kill, so he maxes the parking meter before strolling six blocks twice on both sides. At length—and with a full bladder—he walks inside the mostly empty restaurant. It’s about ten minutes to noon. He is early but he can’t help it.

  “Table for two by the window, please,” he requests of the maitre d’.

  “Is the other party with you?”

  “No, she’s coming later.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot seat you unless the two of you are here together.”

  Budge reacts haughtily. “And why can’t I just sit there and have a drink while I wait for her?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but these are the management’s rules.”

  “Let me speak to the manager!”

  “He’s not here today, sir.”

  “I never heard of such a rule.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You’re welcome to sit at the bar and have a drink while you wait.”

  If it were any other situation, I’d walk out after telling the guy to stick his stupid rules up his you-know-what, but the restroom visit is pressing. Also, Nadia wouldn’t know where I’ve gone. No, I have to wait for her. I’m stuck.

  Emerging from the men’s room, Budge selects a barstool with an unobstructed view of the restaurant entrance. He is in no mood to order anything but a glass of water. Noon passes, ten minutes after, twenty minutes after. He is beginning to think he has been stood up. Twelve-thirty, still no sign of Nadia. The choice tables are long occupied. What’s the point of waiting around?

  On the verge of bolting, he sees her walking through the door. Yes, it’s unmistakably her—he’s sure even without his glasses. She is wearing a light sleeveless blouse with dark culottes, and her hair is pinned back by a barrette. She looks tiny and thin, with great pools of fire and genius in her eyes. She spots him right away, too.

  “My apologies for being late,” she offers breathlessly. “I have only just now come from the practice studio.”

  Clutched in her arms is sheet music entitled, DEBUSSY. She holds out her free hand. It feels small and cool and valuable. He would lean over to kiss her, but the handshake extension keeps him where he is. The wistfulness of her Kyrgyzstanian smile quite melts him.

  “It is so very kind of you to wait for me,” she says.

  His reply is something to the effect that he hasn’t minded waiting at all.

  We’re led to the last available table—an ill-lit cubby-hole beside a swinging kitchen door. Nadia takes the wall bench; I sit with my back to the waiter traffic. For a few moments, we’re both at a loss for what to say. It’s as if we’re sizing up our age difference and unrelatedness, and wondering how to proceed. I mention how much I’ve been enjoying her CD—I tell her that I’ve listened to it at least 25 times. My confession seems to break the ice; within the space of a minute, we both manage to unleash the torrent of words that characterized our previous encounter.

  After they order their food—a glass of pineapple juice and a bowl of gaspacho for Nadia, draft beer and chicken salad for Budge—she volunteers some background information on the CD. She hadn’t been long in the United States when the contract offer came through. Her family was friendless, near-penniless, and their English wasn’t very good. To keep studio costs to a minimum, she recorded all thirty-two Variations in two days. It was the most difficult musical project she had ever undertaken, and she was a nervous wreck.

  “But there’s no hint of nervousness on the CD,” Budge asserts.

  “Naturally not! I knew the whole composition by heart. In my profession, one has to do it right or not at all.”

  Her indignant vehemence startles him. She is a perfectionist, that’s for sure. She goes on to explain that practicing six hours a day obliterates the possibility of error. How unlike his own experience, he thinks. Despite the years of devotion to his craft, he still delivers to the tune of rejection slips.

  It must be nice to be so sure of yourself. Having the future mapped out so succinctly, one professional triumph after another, as if you’re building a crowning edifice of your interpretive achievement. She’s got the clout of prodigious talent propelling her. Her youth and innocence notwithstanding, she’s already sage beyond her years. She focuses on Art, not Life. She can afford to; the map presents no obstacles.

  By way of contrast, I daub at Art and wallow in Life, all the while worrying about next month’s rent. For me, creativity is always a gamble: I feed the quarters but the row of cherries rarely lines up. No wonder it’s hard for me to discipline myself these days. Six hours, ha! I’m lucky if I put in two, with frequent self-imposed interruptions such as checking for e-mail.

  Sitting in the restaurant with tray-toting waiters whooshing past his back, Budge tries not to feel sorry for himself. His youth is gone, he might as well get used to it. His luck may be gone, too. Across the table from him sits a brilliant nineteen-year-old from Kyrgyzstan. Though she is approachable and not the least bit shy, her foreign manners regulate the give and take. The formality of their conversation, plus the contrast in age and experience, quite deflates him; he just can’t work up the nerve to ask disarming questions—like will she marry him and let him be her manager. He sees his unspoken plan for what it is: a lonely man grasping at a straw. He wishes he were rich, so he could whip out his checkbook and write her a nice fat one.

  Here’s five thousand dollars for you to apply to this semester’s tuition. No, no, don’t thank me! Please accept it as a token from one music lover to another. As a longstanding patron of the arts, I understand the necessity of nourishing the body as well as the soul. The only favor I ask in return is that you drop the “Nadi Valor” moniker and use your full name, which I find syllabically beautiful.

  Between sips of soup and juice, she continues to talk about herself. It’s as if she’s giving an interview now, playing wunderkind to the hilt. The scene strikes him as generic Morisot or Degas: a gentleman leaning across a table toward a damsel. A portrait of a timeless transaction: he’s buying lunch and she’s prattling prettily. She is telling him about one of the more difficult Variations, #23, glissandi of chromatic scales flying upwards and downwards but resolving in the end. It’s a short roller coaster of a piece—only two minutes and six seconds—and as she describes its intricacies, her fingers unselfconsciously flutter as her bare arms swing the breadth of an imaginary keyboard. Budge is utterly charmed, so much so that her verbal descriptiveness goes wasted. His mind whirls in febrile reaction.

  She lives and breathes music, it’s becoming clearer to me. Her devotion to craft is absolute. My own devotion is wavering; I see that I might lack the wherewithal to intrude in her world. How could I possibly keep abreast of such an intelligent creature? A patron, yes—if it were possible—but a day-by-day facilitator, no. Decades my junior, she’s already light-years beyond me. I’d never be her equal. I’d be huffing and puffing and always trailing behind. She’d eventually run circles around me, and then I’d be shanghaied once again.

  But Budge’s private doubts don’t mean he is not enjoying himself. Nadia has been well worth the drive to Philadelphia. No such prodigy blooms in the culturally arid soil of Rock Hall. Looking around the restaurant, he also takes satisfaction in seeing that there is no other older man at a table with a young woman who isn’t too obviously his own daughter. Besides, the chicken salad wasn’t bad, although he could have polished off two servings.

  At this point, Nadia
is wrapping up the interview. She has finished three-quarters of her soup and put her spoon down. Likewise, the glass of pineapple juice is drained to a level where she no longer sips it. She is making broad observations about the dedication necessary to achieve the highest level of musicianship. Describing the rigorous demands of the classical oeuvre, she mentions how difficult it is to avoid the distracting tendrils of American popular culture. In her estimation, the Internet is a primary culprit, along with cable and satellite television. She gives her younger sister as an example: though she is a first-rate clarinetist, she has grown more and more interested in living the life of a normal teenager. If this trend continues, she will give up her music entirely to devote herself to—Nadia wrinkles her nose contemptuously—a boyfriend.

  “Are you saying that you don’t have one?”

  Budge can’t help asking the question; he feels he has a right to know.

  “A boyfriend? But of course I don’t!” Nadia gives an abrupt little laugh. “I haven’t the time.”

  As if on cue, she glances at her watch. “Well, I really must be going. Thank you for lunch and be sure to enjoy your visit to the museum.”

  He rises with her. Again, she extends her talented—possibly heavily insured—hand. Realizing that a kiss, even a tiny one on the cheek, may be possible, Budge spontaneously grasps her elbow. Nadia recoils visibly.

  She doesn’t want to be touched. I’m as shocked as she is. I wasn’t really thinking about what I did. I just reached for her in an entirely nonsexual way, but her reaction makes it seem otherwise. Indecent fondling! Call the vice squad!

  Could she have a phobia? Does she prefer contact with ivory and ebony exclusively? My husband-manager plan may not work out after all.

  It is just a blip, though, in their cordial, if brisk parting. Their final moments together mimic their greeting, much as Bach’s Goldberg Variations begin and end with the same aria (the difference being in the artistic interpretation of first and last). Then Nadia turns her shining headful of barretted black curls and walks away, clutching Debussy.

  Watching her disappear, Budge tries to remain optimistic. He tells himself that his plan will take more time—maybe years instead of months. He decides to skip the art museum and drive straight back to Rock Hall.

  That night he dashes off an e-mail.

  Nadia,

  Thanks for taking the trouble to meet me for lunch. I felt that we could have talked for hours, and hope we will have occasion to do so before too long.

  I admire you for being so committed to your artistry. You are right to resist influences that might distract you. Please remember that you always have a friend and supporter in me. Meanwhile, from the depths of my heart, I wish you all the best.

  Two weeks later, her reply arrives, impersonal in its salutation.

  Greetings:

  I have become extremely busy, and thus will no longer be able to communicate with you via e-mail letter. Please accept this not as a rejection of your friendship, but as an honest appeal to one who understands the demands upon a person in a laborious artistic career.

  She must have gotten a boyfriend, Budge thinks. Oh well, he tried.

  Chapter 9

  On a breezy afternoon toward the end of September, Budge is seated on a lawn chair and pondering the lonely direction his life is taking. Ragu, who seems more spirited now that the hot weather is gone, rubs against his legs affectionately, as if to console him for his latest romantic failure.

  “Times are tough,” he tells her. “You’re the only friend I’ve got right now.”

  Recently, he has been confining his one-way conversations to his pet, reasoning that it is more stimulating than talking to himself.

  This is the ultimate disgrace for the heartsick, I think—to grow tired of hearing one’s own voice. How often I’ve railed against fate for making the love in my heart so hard to dislodge! I loved without reservation, I loved implacably—and now I can’t get rid of it. All those years I took my fill at the trough of love, and now it’s a surplus commodity clinging to my body like avoirdupois. It permeates mind and sinew, this pathetic bloatedness that no pill or diet can reduce. I see my non-future with wretched clarity—my heart growing heavier and heavier with this useless love. Elephantiasis of the critical organ—soon I’ll be wheeling my heart around in a wheelbarrow.

  Obviously, Budge’s prose exaggerates the situation. In truth, he’s sitting quite contentedly in the back yard, jotting thoughts in his hardbound notebook, enjoying the afternoon and Ragu’s repetitive rubbing. He is writing for an audience, he imagines, that will want to hear some original metaphors on the subject of loneliness, and so he crafts them.

  In reality, then, life isn’t so bad. He’s staying fit and healthy, he’s well settled-in, and he’s easily fulfilling his daily writing quota. Most importantly, he’s continuing to reach out to other people. The Friday night potlucks at the Mainstay have been a blessing in this respect. By now, several of his unattached female acquaintances have actually gone to the trouble to read his books. Budge laps up their praise like Ragu laps up milk on a plate. The only problem is that none of these women ring his bell, so to speak. He’s not ruling out the possibility, however, that he may have to choose one at some point in the future.

  Is Budge being too picky? Given his state of sexual deprivation, it doesn’t make sense, but it happens to be true.

  Look at it this way (I tell my cat), the woman has got to appeal to me. I’m one day closer to a full, consensual, hands-on relationship—a crazy, happy, gasping, gripping connectedness on a bed that hasn’t seen action since I bought it—but I’m biding my time. One of those Mainstay regulars might do in a pinch—but which one? Asking this very question implies a harsh truth: I find none of ’em terribly appetizing.

  As Budge writes these lines in his notebook, he is aware of a pretty blonde in a blue swimsuit looking at him. Standing beside the nearest kiosk, she is dandling a naked baby and keeping track of a toddler. Budge smiles and waves. Nice people live here, he reminds himself. The woman—mid-30s, he’d guess—waves back in a friendly way.

  Well now! This calls for further investigation! Cute and compact, disheveled pixie hairdo, evenly tanned, excellent posture—the total package is instantly pleasing. Like so many young mothers on the beach, she’s got her hands full. The toddler comes running up from the water’s edge. “Mommy, Mommy, look what I found!” The platinum-ringleted explorette holds out an oyster shell. Patting the child’s head, the woman coos wonderment and approval, all the while bouncing the baby.

  This fetching maternal tableau causes me to rise involuntarily from my chair. I cross the drainage ditch and amble over. She probably just wants to say hello, maybe ask me a question.

  In his past life, Budge wouldn’t have gotten up from the chair. It wouldn’t have occurred to him to walk over and strike up a conversation with a strange woman just because she looked at him. Most likely, his wife wouldn’t have minded, but his sense of propriety would have held him back. Now, none of that matters anymore.

  I believe I’m becoming a better human being. Having crossed the ditch, I walk right up to her. Without flinching or feinting, we greet each other.

  “Hi,” she says. Or maybe I say it first. Either way, one echoes the other.

  “I was just looking at your house.”

  “Yeah, great location, isn’t it?” I reply. “I’m renting by the month.”

  Up close, Budge is affected by her loveliness. Her ful-some bosom, pressed tight by the swimsuit fabric, creates a dewlap at the corner of each armpit, and her bare feet, turned outward, are planted fore and aft in the beach grass so that she is able to balance the heavy baby.

  Her friendliness appears genuine. She doesn’t know me from Adam, yet she’s singling me out for special attention. I’d go a step further: she’s regarding me with admiration just for living where I do and being who I am—a beach-dwelling not-bad-looking middle-aged guy. Is this real, or am I imagining it?

  I
ntimidated by Budge’s proximity, the baby becomes temperamental, so the woman holds it at arm’s length, raising and lowering its chubby torso. She’s got excellent upper body strength, he notes. On her finger is an engagement ring and wedding band—how could he miss them?—but they’re extraneous to this moment of instant mutual appreciation.

  “I was just thinking,” the young mother is saying as she resettles the baby on her hip, “what a perfect place your house would be for somebody writing a book.”

  Budge is stunned. Is she clairvoyant?

  “The water, the setting, the sunsets—a writer could be inspired here, don’t you think?”

  He looks intently into her blue-gray eyes. “Well, as a matter of fact, I am a writer.”

  “No kidding, really?” Her eyes search his. “You’re a writer?”

  “Yes, I write books.”

  “Wow! This is amazing! You’re a real writer!”

  Budge nods affirmatively.

  “Before you came over,” she says, “I was looking at your house and thinking, ‘I’ll bet a writer lives there.’ Then I saw you sitting out back with that kittycat, jotting in your notebook. I didn’t mean to be nosy, but I almost walked over.”

  “Are you a writer, too?” Budge inquires.

  “I wish! I’ve taken some creative writing classes and sometimes I keep a journal.”

  “That’s a start,” Budge interjects helpfully.

  “But I just don’t have the time, not with these two!”

  She laughs, indicating her offspring. “By the way, that’s Naomi—she’s almost three—and this is Baby Anna, short for Marianna. She’s nine months.”

  “They’re both very pretty. I can see they take after their mother.”

  “And I’m Julie Kleczynski. Spelled just the way it sounds”

  “I’m Budge Moss. Budge as in ‘We Won’t Budge.’ Pleased to meet you.”