by Dean Mayes
Zinski, who had followed the line of Lionel’s finger out through the window, turned back and nodded.
“Thank you Mister...?”
Lionel stepped forward and offered his hand. “Lionel. Lionel Broadbent.”
Zinski shook Lionel’s hand more confidently this time and smiled.
“I gather you know Miss Llewellyn quite well, then?”
“Yes,” Lionel answered, nodding towards Ruth behind the counter. “She is very dear to both of us. Almost like a daughter.”
“I understand,” Zinski acknowledged. “Well, I should call upon her, then. My time here is short.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Lionel said, scooting past him and politely opening the door.
After Zinski had crossed over to the other side of the street, Lionel stood beside the window, watching the stranger.
“What do you suppose he wants?” Ruth asked as she stepped up beside Lionel.
“I’m not sure, but I’ll wager it has something to do with those tickets Sonya received.”
***
Zinski clicked open the door to the cottage and stepped into a pleasant reception area.
Immediately a woman’s voice called out from another room: “Be with you in a moment!”
Zinski waited patiently, examining some framed sepia photographs of Hambledown street scenes from yesteryear that hung on the freshly painted walls. The reception desk sat unattended.
Sonya appeared in the doorway and greeted the new arrival.
“Hello there,” she smiled.
Zinski spun around and offered her his hand, almost too quickly.
“Good afternoon. Miss Llewellyn?”
Sonya nodded, eyeing the stranger curiously.
“Please accept my apologies for arriving unannounced,” Zinski continued. “I do not wish to take up too much of your time. We spoke on the phone. I am Jochen Zinski - from Melbourne.”
Sonya’s polite smile faded just a little. She was clearly caught by surprise.
“Oh, ah ... well, Mr. Zinski,” she stammered, gesturing for him to come into her office. “I have some time now. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Zinski entered the air-conditioned office, hesitating as he noticed a dog sitting in a basket behind the desk. It growled low in its throat as he stepped in.
“Don’t mind him,” Sonya said, gesturing with her hand at Simon to stop. “He’s a grump, but he doesn’t bite.”
She sat down at her desk and folded her hands.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“Well,” Zinski began slowly. “Again, my condolences to you. I had no idea that Denny was even ill, let alone gravely ill.”
Sonya nodded, closing her eyes momentarily to steady herself.
“Denny was a wonderful student and a wonderful friend. I lament that he was lost to us as a musician. It - took me a long time to understand his need to grow beyond it.”
“Denny did mention you once, Mr. Zinski,” Sonya replied softly. “I was aware that there was some - difficulty - between you two. But he rarely spoke of it. I think there was a certain amount of regret there, on his part, as well.”
Zinski cleared his throat nervously, and clutched his satchel in his lap. He looked down at it fleetingly.
“You may be surprised to know that he was actually one of the driving forces behind the original idea of an emerging talent concert series,” he continued. “When he was still a student, he participated in a number of committees to facilitate its birth.”
Zinski opened the leather satchel, taking out a magazine-like book and opening it for Sonya. He pointed to several images on the page. It was Denny playing his guitar on stage.
Sonya smiled wistfully at the photos of Denny that she hadn’t seen before.
“This was from one of the first gatherings we staged in Melbourne, when Denny was still attending the school. There were maybe a dozen competitors back then all from schools around the country.”
Sonya handed the book back to Zinski and he placed it back into the satchel.
“This year’s series will host 100 competitors from all around the world. Quite a change from just a few years ago.”
“So, what does all this have to do with me, Mr Zinski?” Sonya asked.
Zinski sat forward.
“I feel terrible for not keeping in touch with Denny. He was such a wonderful talent - a virtuoso of such rare and natural ability. He will be sadly missed. I would like to propose to you that this year’s concert series be named in his honor. And I would like to invite you to come to Melbourne so that you may present the award to the winning finalist.”
Sonya sat back in her seat. She blinked at Zinski, then down at Simon, unsure of how to respond.
“That is a very special thing to do, Mr. Zinski. I am not quite sure what to say.”
“Please say you’ll come and present the award,” Zinski responded. “I will arrange to fly you down and take care of your accommodation. I will ensure that your experience will be a wonderful occasion - a fitting memorial to Denny.”
Zinski reached into his satchel once more and took out a brochure, handing it to Sonya. She took it gingerly and examined the cover. On it was a photograph of a lovely, English-looking garden. The festival’s title was printed in a flowing script at the top, and the venue - The Fitzroy Gardens - was printed near the bottom.
The Fitzroy Gardens...
An echo of a memory floated across her mind’s eye...
Leaves that have fallen from a tree settle on a lush, green stretch of lawn. They blow gently across it, tumbling and turning, carried by the wind. The lawn is more green than Sonya had ever remembered. It is in a garden. Somewhere close to a city. She is captivated by the leaves and their gentle motion. She hears an echoing laughter of children nearby.
“Miss Llewellyn?”
Sonya flinched at the sound of Zinski’s voice and she shook the remains of the dream away. She got up from the desk and wandered over towards the window. The curious reverie tugged at the corners of her consciousness as she looked out across the street to the ocean beyond. It teased her fragile emotions, reminding her that her grief was still raw, even though she thought the bulwark against it was strong.
“Not a day goes by when I don’t think about him,” she said, her gaze fixed upon a point far off in the distance. “More than anything, it was his music that defined him. It was one of the things I loved most about him.”
Sonya turned back to face Zinski, who had stood and was listening respectfully. He was struck by a deep sadness in her eyes.
“Your offer is very generous and really quite wonderful,” she continued. “However, I can’t accept it. I have a busy practice that is still very new, and I don’t have any spare time available to me right now.”
Zinski sensed she was covering for a more truthful reason for not accepting his offer. He opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped himself and nodded simply.
“I understand. Again, I apologize, Miss Llewellyn,” he said. “I should have contacted you before coming up here. It was unfair of me to arrive without warning.”
Sonya smiled sadly and returned to her desk. “You had the very best of intentions, Mr. Zinski. I just - it’s very...”
She looked down at the framed photograph on her desk and Zinski followed her gaze, seeing her together with Denny.
“It’s still hard, him not being here anymore. I wake up every day hoping that it has all been a bad dream. But...”
“Miss Llewellyn,” Zinski said softly. “You don’t need to explain. I would still very much like to name the award in his memory, with your permission.”
“Of course, Mr. Zinski,” Sonya nodded holding up her hand. “I think that would be lovely.”
Sonya accompanied him as they walked back up the street to the Toyota. He took a card from his pocket and handed it to her as they stopped beside the vehicle.
“Sonya, take this. If you have a change of heart at all, please call me. I will ensure the n
ecessary arrangements will be taken care of.”
Sonya took the card from him and nodded. Then Zinski climbed into the Toyota, started it up and pulled away from the curb. Sonya watched him go. She considered his card in her hand and shook her head. She crossed the street again, back towards the office, without noticing that both Lionel and Ruth were peering out from the window of the general store.
As Zinski motored away from the pretty village he turned the radio on, then flicked it off almost immediately.
“Damn,” he said.
***
Sonya stood in the beach house’s kitchen, dressed in an oversized T-shirt and shorts, chopping some vegetables on a wooden board. It was evening. She’d had a good first day in the local court house and was feeling satisfied that she had what it took to be a good lawyer. In the rush to get herself and the practice into the swing of things, she’d harbored doubts as to whether she could pull it off.
She peeled a carrot, smiling, remembering poor Bernard Salt who had dropped off a large box filled with a bountiful supply from his garden as promised. There was no doubting his generosity. Sonya couldn’t bring herself to write up an account for him. He had single-handedly taken care of her nutritional needs for at least the next fortnight.
This was the thing about country life. It was the grace and conscientiousness of country people that attracted her to life here. Their generosity seemed boundless. It made her smile - made her feel worth something.
She tried not to think too much about the visit from Jochen Zinski. Every time she did so, she felt a knot of torment threaten to tighten inside her. His offer was lovely, wonderful in fact, but she simply had no stomach for a trip back to the city right now.
The city held too many memories.
Checking a pan on the cook top, allowing the aromatics of the curry to touch her nostrils, Sonya set the carrots aside and picked up some fresh bay leaves, rinsing them under the tap and patting them dry on a piece of paper toweling.
A breeze picked up outside and a short gust blew through the open window in front of her, picking up a couple of the bay leaves and blowing them across the counter top.
That simple action suddenly touched something off in Sonya’s mind, and she frowned, flinching momentarily.
Leaves that have fallen from a tree settle on a lush, green stretch of lawn. They blow gently across it, tumbling and turning, carried by the wind. The lawn is more green than Sonya had ever remembered. It is in a garden. Somewhere close to a city. She is captivated by the leaves and their gentle motion. She hears an echoing laughter of children nearby and she looks up to see where they are.
As she does so, she sees a hand in front of her.
She shakes her head, trying to focus. She is meeting somebody, being introduced.
The young man’s hand is outstretched, as if waiting to receive hers. She smiles curiously and begins to offer her own. She looks at the man’s hand, his forearm, and she sees an inscription tattooed on his skin.
She focuses, trying to make it out.
Sonya shook her head abruptly and experienced a moment of disorientation, before realizing she had been daydreaming. She was still standing at the kitchen sink. The bay leaves had scattered.
Setting the knife down on the counter, Sonya gathered up the leaves from the sink and the floor and rinsed them again, before transferring them to the pan.
The dream echoed in her consciousness, lingering for a moment, then dissipated as if it had never been.
***
Andy stood on the sidewalk in the cold morning air, holding himself with his arms and hopping from bare foot to bare foot on the freezing cold sidewalk. He wore only a pair of track pants and a woolen pullover, watching as Beck hoisted two large duffle bags into the back of a pickup truck. It was still well before dawn, but Andy wanted to see Beck off personally before he left for New York. There was a heavy sadness between them. They had been through a lot together, even though they’d led extremely different lives.
When everyone else had doubted Andy or prejudged him, or even saw him as simply a means to an end, only Beck had stood apart. Only Beck had seen Andy as a person, a troubled person, but one who had the spark deep inside of him to do good. Now Beck knew that spark had been ignited.
Somehow.
Andy couldn’t quite believe it had come to this.
Satisfied that his belongings were secure, Beck stood back from the vehicle and signaled for his friend in the truck to give him a moment. As he approached the curb, Andy could have sworn that he was actually a little misty-eyed.
Rubbing his gloved hands together, Beck blew frosty air into them and then smiled wanly at Andy.
“Well, I guess this is it,” he said sadly. “I gotta go. If we don’t get out on the highway before rush hour, we’ll be fucked.”
Andy nodded and offered his hand to Beck.
Beck brushed it aside gruffly and, uncharacteristically, wrapped his arms around Andy in a generous hug, holding him tightly for several seconds. Andy smiled gawkily, submitting to the embrace.
Then Beck drew back. “I don’t know what happened to you, Dev,” he began, “But whatever it is, man, it’s magical. The way you’ve pulled your shit together.”
Andy nodded silently, surprised by the depth of feeling Beck put into those words.
“You go down there to Australia and become legendary. I want to be first in line when that album comes out. OK?”
Again Andy nodded, fighting against becoming emotional in front of Beck.
“I will,” he whispered.
Beck turned and climbed into the pickup, slamming the door shut.
He looked at Andy one more time as his companion started the engine and idled for a few moments.
“You always had it in you, Andy,” Beck said, his words nearly lost in the engine’s noise. “You’re stronger than any of us gave you credit for.”
As the pickup slowly pulled from the curb and drove away, Beck held his arm out the window and pointed admiringly towards Andy; Andy did the same.
And then Beck cupped his hand to his mouth.
“Find her, Andy!” he shouted. “If she’s really out there - you gotta find her. Otherwise you’ll never know if those dreams were true.”
Andy watched as his friend gave one last wave and then closed the window against the cold. The truck turned at the intersection and disappeared from view.
***
The taxi pulled up to the curb and stopped for Andy to climb out. He fished his wallet out of his jacket pocket and handed the driver a bill, telling him to keep the change. He fetched his case and guitar bag from the trunk and stood back on the sidewalk as the taxi pulled away. Andy adjusted his scarf, then turned to apprise the domestic terminal of Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. He was alone.
Though it was bitterly cold, Andy didn’t feel cold. The jacket, scarf and gloves he wore were suited to the Chicago winter. They were the only heavy garments he carried with him, for he knew that by the time his journey ended, he would arrive in an Australian summer. Though Andy was still trying to get his head around that concept, part of him already knew what that was like.
He smiled, thinking of those adopted memories of home.
He checked the inside pocket of his jacket, close to his chest and felt the passport that sat snug inside there. He took it out and inspected the pristine document, with a sense of disbelief. His very own passport - the first he had ever owned. He couldn’t believe that he was about to embark on this long journey.
It seemed quiet, even though the terminal was already coming to life. Andy had got here in plenty of time, giving him the latitude to check his luggage in first, then buy breakfast and sit with the morning paper before the call came for his 9 a.m. flight to Los Angeles.
Andy noted curiously that he rarely read the paper. He hadn’t been interested in any form of news or current affairs. But now that he was leaving the city Andy felt a strange need to read the news, to know about the things he was leaving
behind. He felt an affection for this place - and a twinge of sadness - for he would miss it. Yet, at the same time, he was excited in the way one would be excited about coming home.
He knew, very much, that Denny was with him.
Things were different now.
Andy hadn’t done a lot of things before. Like set an alarm clock or cook his own meals or take the neighbor’s dog for a regular morning run or care about his appearance. But the change was complete now. Andy took pleasure in that early morning run with his canine companion, that first cup of coffee, that daily journey on the ‘L’ to the Conservatory. Though he attributed much of these habits to the influence of Denny, Andy had embraced them. They brought so much pleasure. The old life was most certainly dead.
Things were so much different now.
He sat alone in the Starbucks, every now and then looking up from the paper to observe people passing by. He wondered about their lives: what they might be like, what routines they embraced, what secret struggles they were grappling with. Were they alone? Were they like him? He saw couples seeing each other off onto flights, kissing each other tenderly. Families waving goodbye to loved ones, tears being wiped away. Smiles and laughter and sorrow.
Andy felt a familiar sadness. He was alone. No one had come to see him depart. Beck was gone now. It was too early for Samantha or even Gideon to come down - not that he expected either of them to show up, anyway. And his father was off on the road again, on another long-haul run to the West coast.
His father...
Andy put his hand down on the guitar case; his father’s gift. An attempt at opening up to his son again after so long.
Andy had spent the weekend at his father’s house. They drank beer, and Andy used the workshop there to work on the guitar. He had taken it apart, sanded and resealed the battered spruce and rosewood body, replaced the rusted and damaged turn screws, cleaned and oiled the worm gear and replaced the strings with a good set. The guitar had been transformed, and almost resembled its original state. The sound was perfectly balanced, with surprisingly bright trebles and deep, satisfying - yet not overpowering - basses. Andy had chosen to leave the hole in the upper surface of the guitar’s body. It seemed wrong to repair it. Bruce had watched Andy work, marveled at his attention to detail, appreciated his skill and steady hand. He had lamented the years lost to their estrangement.