by Amy Poeppel
“Fantastic,” he said, checking his watch. “That’s really great. I can’t tell you how nice it is to hear your—”
“But the truth is that it’s possible, highly unlikely, but it’s possible, I guess, that you were the donor. But probably not. It was more likely the guy from the sperm bank. But it’s vaguely, remotely possible it was you. But probably not.” She paused so long Gavin wondered if they’d been disconnected. “I don’t know, that’s the thing.”
He laughed, sort of. What was she even talking about?
“I read up on it. Science,” she said, as if she were ending with good grief. “In any case, I want nothing from you,” she said. “I’m just relaying information.”
“Science?”
“I wasn’t going to say anything at all, but my sister told me I was being… what did she say?… an unethical asshole not to let you know it’s a remote possibility.”
He said nothing, thinking she would start laughing and say, April Fools! He picked up his tie.
“Look, I’m fine sticking with the anonymous-donor line,” she said. “It’s easier for me, frankly. But if you prefer, only if you want to, of course, we could find out for sure. The twins are due in four months.”
“Twins? We only had sex once.”
“That’s all it takes,” she said with a short laugh. “And it was three times actually, in one night.” And then, in a more serious tone, she said, “We can forget I called if you want.”
He was feeling dizzy, and he pulled his blazer off.
“You can think it over,” she was saying, “decide if you want a paternity test to find out for sure.”
“You actually think that I could be…” He didn’t see how any of what she was saying right now would fit into the life he was living. He was dating an oboist. They had dinner plans that night.
“I really don’t think so. You and I just casually, you know. Whereas when I got inseminated, the doctor wasn’t kidding around, like he knew what he was doing. Not that you didn’t know what you were doing, and I acknowledge that it is possible that—”
“Bridget,” he said, pacing to the end of the phone cord and running his hand through his hair, “this is a lot to take in, and I have a concert starting in—”
“I get it. It’s just that I didn’t think it would work on the first try, and by the time I found out that it did, you’d already left for Sydney. So how are you, anyway?”
“Dumbfounded.”
“Look, I’m ninety-nine-point nine… nine percent sure it was the donor. So, what are the chances it was you instead?”
“I hope zero.” It came out sounding harsh.
“Got it,” she said. “Well, okay then. Let’s keep this between us.” She paused, and then said, “This call is probably costing a fortune. Love you, Gavin. Be well.”
And she’d hung up. Gavin was convinced that this was the moment his hair started falling out.
The “love you” at the end had completely thrown him; it sounded sincere. It didn’t strike him as a romantic declaration; rather, it was the “love you” of a dear old friend. It made him even more homesick. It made him want to start the conversation all over again. Instead he put on his tie and left his apartment.
A few weeks later, after he’d had time to process what she’d told him, he called Bridget back.
* * *
Gavin had walked all the way to the foot of the Monopteros, a round Greek-style temple in the middle of the park, and he checked his watch. Sitting down on a bench, he searched his mail to find the message he’d gotten from Will two weeks earlier and finally hit reply: Nice to hear from you, Will, and sorry for the delay in responding. Thank you for thinking of me, but unfortunately, my schedule is booked this fall. He looked across the park where he could see blue-and-white Bavarian flags in the distance and picnickers and sunbathers, some nude, in the field in front of him. He had everything he needed in life; why complicate things? He looked at his phone again and added, My warmest greetings and heartfelt apologies, and he signed his name.
But he didn’t hit send. Instead he put his phone away, leaned back on the bench, and closed his eyes, trying to hear the music in his head that he would be playing that evening.
* * *
The Munich Philharmonic concert that night was in honor of the life of Johannes Lang, a man who had been the executive director of the concert hall for thirty-five years. Gavin was told by the event organizer that Mr. Lang’s widow, Charlotte, who had once hosted a popular Sunday program on a Bavarian classical radio station, and her son would be in attendance, along with much of Munich’s most cultured society.
At seven that evening in the Gasteig, Gavin played the Fauré Requiem, a piece with a beautiful violin part and a most surprising, rousing moment in the Sanctus movement, which enlivened the audience. The orchestra was outstanding and the conductor was a friend, and Gavin was able to push all of the memories of Will and Bridget out of his mind.
After the concert, he was invited to a private reception with the family and friends of the late Herr Lang in a gallery not far from the Gasteig. As he browsed the art, spooky paintings depicting misty, mythological forest scenes, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“I see your glass is empty.”
Gavin turned around to find a man in an expensive-looking dark suit offering a bottle of champagne. “Hans Lang,” the man said, extending his other hand. “The concert was very good tonight. Not the program I would have selected, personally, but it was well done.”
Uhh, thanks? thought Gavin. As Hans filled his glass, Gavin realized that he was the son of the man being honored. He considered saying something obvious, like Sorry for your loss, but he couldn’t muster enough sincerity to make it believable. It wasn’t like he’d known the guy. “Wonderful party,” he said instead.
Hans shook his head sadly. “My father was a kind and loving man. He lived ninety-four wonderful years. I would have liked to have five more with him.” Hans handed the bottle of champagne to a woman passing by in an apron, holding a tray of appetizers.
“Häppchen?” Hans asked. “Or as you Americans call it… ‘finger food’?”
Gavin took one of the little bites, a miniature ham quiche, off the tray, and popped it in his mouth. Hans waved the server away before he could take another.
“My mother is doing well,” Hans said.
Gavin hadn’t asked about her and felt almost as though he were being reprimanded.
“She has never been one to wallow in sadness. She loved my father, but I suppose she has too much respect for life to waste a single day feeling sorry for herself.”
This statement had a familiar ring to it. “My wife’s a big believer in living every day well and gratefully,” Gavin said. “She wrote the book on it. Literally.” He wished she were with him. She was a better conversationalist, and people always liked her right away.
“Marriage,” said Hans bitterly. “It is a tragic day when a man finds out he is disposable.”
Even in trying to process this disagreeable proclamation, Gavin noted what impeccable English Hans spoke.
“How long have you been married?” Hans asked.
“Quite happily for seven years,” said Gavin. “We had a beautiful wedding in Napa Valley.”
Hans raised his eyebrows. “Vineyards, yes?”
“That’s right,” said Gavin enthusiastically. “California makes some of the best wine in the world.”
Hans made a doubtful face and looked away. “You see,” he said, pointing to his mother. “She’s in good spirits. Perhaps your music was invigorating. Or maybe not.” He shrugged. “Maybe it is something else entirely bringing her joy.”
The widow was standing with a circle of lively people around her. She was dressed elegantly, her bright red lipstick and silver hair making her stand out from across the room. Juliette would call her a knockout.
Gavin thought this exchange had gone on long enough that he could make a graceful exit. “It was a pleasure to meet�
�”
“Lottie has reconnected with a lot of old friends recently. I think that’s quite nice for her. She loves to be part of things, circulating.”
“Lottie?” Gavin asked, trying to keep up.
“Charlotte, my mother.”
Charlotte must have said something funny then, as the group around her erupted in delighted laughter. She sipped her champagne and took in the admiration of the room. She caught Gavin’s eye and waved at him gracefully, like a queen.
“She’s planning to visit someone in New England soon, a man,” said Hans. “I remember the family vaguely from childhood. I’m worried about my mother traveling on her own, but I can’t accompany her at the moment.”
Gavin felt the jet lag kicking in now and suppressed a yawn. He wanted to go back to his hotel. “She seems to be doing very well.”
“Oh, yes, she certainly is. May I ask you something, Mr. Glantz?” Hans said.
“Of course.”
“It seems my mother is remarrying. The news has come as quite a shock, as perhaps you can imagine.”
Gavin looked at Charlotte Lang again and didn’t find it especially shocking. She was sparkling and lovely. Gavin wasn’t sure what to say. “Congratulations?”
Hans took a step closer. “I’d like to get your opinion of Mr. Edward Stratton and his family. I understand you used to be in a trio with his daughter some years ago, yes? How well do you know her? This Bridget?”
* * *
Gavin took a cab across the Isar to his hotel. As he walked into his room at the Bayerischer Hof, he placed his violin case on the desk and sat on the foot of his bed.
There was something at work here, or, to use Juliette’s vocabulary, there was something the universe was trying to tell him. Miriam had dropped Bridget’s name. Then Will, after appearing on the street in New York as Gavin’s Uber drove by, had reached out, inviting him back into their lives. And now along came Hans, bringing up Bridget, along with some very odd questions about Edward, to be sure.
One thing he was certain of was that these points of contact could not go unanswered.
He got his phone out and opened Will’s email again, deleting the draft he’d written.
“Secrets,” Juliette always said, “damage the soul.” In that case, he decided, as soon as he got home, he would tell her absolutely everything.
13
Bridget could swear there was heat emanating from the fireplace, even though it had been out of use for six months. Sitting with a book in front of the gray ash heap, she remembered now why she avoided coming to the house when the temperature hit ninety. The back of her neck and her face were sweaty, and she was missing the air-conditioning of her city apartment. It was early Saturday morning, and although she had fans whirring in every room, all they were doing was moving the hot, heavy air around.
Will, Isabelle, and Oscar had yet to make an appearance, so she started reading again, when Sterling’s Dutch publisher interrupted with a text:
After one month residing here, we find the situations not good. Problems are 1. Sound of rapid stomping (bam bam bam - maybe a child?) coming from the apartment above, sometimes as late as 22:00. 2. Unappealing smell of cooked onions in the hallway at all hours. 3. A cockroach remains dead on the trash room floor this morning. Given the high rent, we need you to provide for solutions.
This list of grievances made Bridget slightly less homesick for New York, but also angry at the gall of these people. “High rent”? She’d charged them next to nothing as a favor to Sterling. If they only knew how much Manhattan apartments actually cost, they’d be thanking her instead of bitching. The apartment was in a prewar doorman building, small, yes, but quintessentially New York. They were lucky to be there.
Onions and footsteps were not problems she could fix, so she texted back:
I’m sorry to hear you are disturbed by the sounds and smells of New York City. Please understand that in our building, we do not tell each other what to cook, nor do we dictate how late people can walk around in their own apartments. Furthermore, thank god the dead cockroach “remains dead” in the trash room, the alternative (zombie cockroaches) being too horrific to even contemplate. That being said, if you want to find other accommodations, feel free, and we can terminate our arrangement.
The upstairs neighbors were, in fact, annoying, as were the occasional cockroaches, dead or alive, but what could one do?
Connecticut was too hot, and New York was smelly and loud. Where, given a choice, would she escape? Resting the book on her face, she closed her eyes and imagined standing in an airport, scanning the screen of departures, flights heading to Berlin, Chicago, Dubai, Honolulu, Lima, Paris, Reykjavik, Tel Aviv, or Tokyo. London would be her pick, easy. It would be cloudy and cool, with architecture that complemented gray skies. She often fantasized about renting a small flat, going to the London Philharmonic, taking a guided tour at the Tate, attending a sherry concert at Wigmore Hall. She would walk around Regent’s Park, past Buckingham Palace, and through Covent Garden, and travel by train to all the beautiful places her parents had taken her as a child: Stonehenge, Canterbury, Bath, and Brighton. She hoped it would be rainy; she would wander the Cotswolds, wearing a belted Burberry.
* * *
Unable to focus on her book, she calculated the time difference between Connecticut and Germany and tried calling Lottie again.
“Endlich, Bridget!” Lottie said. “At long last!”
Bridget congratulated her on the engagement.
“Your warm wishes mean more to me than I can say. Edward says Marge is organizing the wedding plans. Do you sink she’s up to zis challenge, to do what I am imagining for the flowers and food? I remember meeting her many years ago…”
Bridget wondered how Marge was going to feel about taking directions from this woman she barely knew. “Is the wedding going to be just family or—”
“Ach, nein, Edward’s guest list vill be even longer than mine,” Lottie said with a laugh, “knowing your father.”
Yes, she did know him, but did Lottie?
“I’ll be inviting perhaps… seventy or seventy-five friends from all over the world,” she said.
That number was about four times what Bridget was expecting her to say.
“Edward sent pictures of the house,” she went on, “and I’m glad to know we can accommodate such a large number. Ozzerwise, I would have suggested having it here in München. We’re celebrating and want to include everyone, Bridget, ja?”
“Ja,” said Bridget, wrapping her head around the scale of the party. With Johannes so recently deceased, Bridget couldn’t help but wonder if a big bash was in poor taste.
“And here is somesing else, actually: I vant you, Gwen, and your children to be in my vedding party, and I’m sending somesing special, just for the occasion.”
“Oh, that’s unneces—”
“I need your sizes.”
Sizes? “When are you coming here?” Bridget asked, wishing she could say that having bridesmaids seemed way over the top.
“I’ve had to put my trip off again,” she said, “leider. I have too much to do here, many sings to prepare and less than two months before the vedding.”
How much did an octogenarian have to do to get married? Was she shopping for her trousseau?
“How is Hans?” said Bridget. “Gwen and I were remembering the times we spent together as kids.”
“So sweet of you to ask, dear. He’s, what can I say?” said Lottie. “He will come, natürlich. But I don’t sink Hans understands. Bridget, I vant to say sank you.”
“What for?” Bridget asked.
Lottie didn’t answer right away. “You are so kind to support Edward and me. Hans, eigentlich, he finds our relationship… He’s not so happy about the plans.”
Bridget wasn’t completely surprised. She didn’t mention that Gwen wasn’t exactly thrilled either. “Well, I’m sure he’ll come around—”
“Anyway,” Lottie added with a sigh, “Marlene Dietrich
once said, ‘I do not sink we have a right to happiness. If happiness happens, say sanks.’ So sank you, Bridget.”
Bridget felt emboldened. “I, my trio that is, we’d love to play something for you and my father at the wedding. Would that be all right with you?”
“Wunderschön!” Lottie said. “What a lovely idea.”
* * *
After hanging up, Bridget took advantage of the quiet and got her cello out of its case. She’d bought the honey-colored instrument on a post-Juilliard trip to visit her father’s family in London, using a good portion of the graduation check he’d given her to pay for it. She went from shop to shop, landing at Tom Woods (her father’s recommendation) and decided on a Thomas Kennedy, made in the 1820s. Will never asked her what it cost; she would have lied if he had.
Her cello wasn’t appreciating the weather either. It was grumpy about the humidity and oppressive heat, and it took Bridget over five minutes to tune it properly. Practicing had become a challenge here. It was hard to concentrate with Oscar’s Skype meetings in the mornings, three-to-four-hour sessions where he would sit at the dining room table with his laptop, wearing a dress shirt, tie, and blazer on top, nothing but boxers underneath, and talk loudly about energy policy and legislation. When he was done, he would change into shorts and a T-shirt, pop open a beer, and lie down on the couch to watch Netflix. Or he would sit in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal, leaving the milk out on the counter. She couldn’t figure out how much she should parent him. He was too old to be assigned chores, and too young, apparently, to do them properly. Having him as a roommate was both a joy and a nuisance. Just that morning, when she’d gone to the laundry room to hang up her favorite clothes to dry, she found that Oscar had put a load in the washing machine and thrown her wet things in the dryer, shrinking her favorite shirts to toddler size.