“Hmm, hello, love.” He rolled over and kissed her neck and cheek and shoulder and one of her wrists. “Good morning to you.”
“Nicholas, who’s that little girl?”
Nicholas turned and, looking at the photograph, produced a smile that Remy understood to be one of infinite, inexhaustible love. “That’s my daughter.”
All around her, walls crumbled. “You didn’t tell me you had a daughter.”
Nicholas looked perplexed. “But surely you knew? I thought . . .” Then he seemed to understand that it was nothing she had realized. Remy was horrified at having failed to note such a crucial piece of information.
“I miss her,” Nicholas said lightly, as if it were not a particularly unpleasant thing to miss someone. “But luckily she’ll be back at the end of the month.”
The way his voice dropped told Remy that “she” meant “they” and that this was what being a mistress entailed—being with someone only partly, not entirely, not wholly. Just enough to make a mess of a family.
She wanted all of Nicholas. She wanted everything and despite what she knew of life still liked to think she might get it. “I’ve got to go,” she mumbled, trying to free herself from the muddle of sheets.
“Already!” Nicholas grabbed her and held her. “Is that it, then?”
Remy nodded, furious at him and at herself. Not just a wife, but a family.
“Don’t go,” Nicholas said. But he made no move to stop her.
She tried not to look at him as she plucked from the floor each item of clothing that with such care she had chosen the night before. Now she felt an almost sympathetic tenderness toward her roughly discarded jeans and her Live Aid T-shirt tossed carelessly in the corner, as if they were all that remained of the girl she had been—not this new careless one who had made a selfish mistake. She dressed silently, mournfully, and at the last minute let her eyes find Nicholas there in bed, the sheets in ripples around him. He looked as if he had seen a ghost.
HE WOULD FOLD HIMSELF BACK INTO HIS LIFE UNTIL EVERYTHING was as it had been before. After all, it was just one night, one brief lapse, he told himself as he washed and dressed and made his first decisions of the day: black coffee (since he had again forgotten to buy milk); toast with a swipe of margarine; and an egg cracked onto the one small skillet, gaping at him accusatorily until he finally swept it onto his plate.
Really, nothing earth-shattering had occurred—even if he did feel, oddly enough, quite altered. Terrible, actually. But he told himself everything would soon be back to normal.
He tried to focus on his work, on the progress he had made on the new composition. This seaside thing (as he had come to think of it) was indeed turning into a big orchestral piece, had grown to a full four movements. Though he had never written a symphony before, already in brief snatches he had glimpsed the arc of the work as a whole, the waves as they would reappear in each new incarnation, from the smallest ripples, like the wake of a cormorant, to great splashy conniptions, like the tide smashing against the rocks at Hopeman.
And yet in the days that followed he found he could not work. Nicholas blamed the apartment, this place where that girl had solemnly plucked her clothes from the floor as if the very wood might have contaminated them. Her presence in his bed . . . thorough was the word. She had bitten him, used her teeth on his shoulder, his biceps, his neck and earlobes, and had slept with her body draped over his. How natural it had seemed, so that he had forgotten, during the night, that what they were doing was unjust. The curls around her head were abundant. Nicholas had gently pulled the elastic from her ponytail, freeing her hair as if unleashing everything within her. With his forefinger he had traced the small red streak below her chin, where so many years of her violin had scarred her, and had kissed this perpetual scar, had tasted the sweet saltiness of her neck, before moving his head down to her chest, her small round breasts, her smooth flat stomach. Slowly he had done this, and slowly, in the days afterward, his mind repeated the motions, remembering how it had felt to place his hands on her breasts and bury his mouth between her thighs.
In his chest something bubbled gruffly, an unfamiliar sensation, he could not have said what, though it felt similar to fear. But what had happened that night was a slip, an aberration; Remy had confirmed this. Clearly it was nothing to look back on or be tempted by again.
He had always been faithful to Hazel. Probably he shouldn’t even be surprised at what had happened. And she would be here soon enough. That was all Nicholas needed to snap out of this odd state. Yet in certain moments panic seized him, and he had to follow the entire thought process yet again, in order to convince himself all was well.
On the third afternoon he went to campus, where he might better concentrate. Reading through the printer’s proof of his duet for flute and clarinet kept him busy for a bit. It was a pleasure to work like this, fast, without pressure, not allowing any other thoughts in. And yet there was that other feeling beneath it, like a rough current under still water . . . and Remy silently retrieving her clothes from the bedroom floor.
One could really speak one’s mind, with a person like that. One could really be, fully—really fully be—with a person like that. This was how Nicholas phrased his thoughts, how he positioned himself each time she reemerged in his mind. “One feels something, somehow. One feels a connection. . . .”
“Ah, good, you’re here!” It was Yoni, leaning into his doorway. “Please, do me a favor. Come box my ears.”
“It can’t be that bad.” Nicholas laughed. Yoni was teaching a summer session for gifted high school students.
“They left their passion at home in their bedsheets! Their souls they forgot along with their nail clippers!” But then Yoni’s tone brightened and he said, “I’m happy to say, though, that I’ve just taught my last lesson of the summer. And I demand that you come celebrate with me.”
Nicholas was grateful for the distraction.
“There’s something else I’m hoping you can do for me, actually.” Yoni slipped into the office and took the chair across from Nicholas. “You know the Leoni festival next month.”
It was the summer music festival Nicholas had attended a few times, a small yet prestigious one held every August in Tuscany. He told Yoni, “I’ve been there, yes.”
“Right, of course you have.” Yoni gave a fatigued look. “I had to cancel on them, unfortunately. But I happened to mention you, and they wondered if you might fill my spot.”
“I already told them no for this year, actually,” Nicholas said. “I’ve spent so much time apart from Hazel, and if all goes as planned, she’ll have just gotten back that week.” He felt guilty just saying her name.
“Right.” Yoni nodded. “I just thought I’d ask.”
“Well, perhaps I could go for just a few days.”
“I’d go, too,” Yoni said, “if this other thing hadn’t come up.” It was a memorial service back in Israel, he explained—and Nicholas was surprised to see him become visibly distressed. His uncle had died of a heart attack. Only fifty years old. “So, anyway, if you can cover for me . . .” His voice trailed off until he regained composure.
“Hazel would probably understand. Well, I’ll see.” Saying it aloud nearly convinced Nicholas that what he said was true. He wanted to help Yoni, felt quite bad for him, actually. Not only had he lost his uncle, but clearly he had been looking forward to the Italy trip; he didn’t get as many invitations as Nicholas did.
For now Nicholas agreed to go with him to the jazz club. It was early yet, and the place hadn’t quite filled up. The musician, a guitarist, was playing soft breezy pieces that wafted around the room. Directly in Nicholas’s view an older man and woman, their arms linked, leaned on their little table together, swaying to the music. Nicholas recalled sitting in this same room with Remy at the corner of his eye, watching the blues singer.
He had managed, during the walk to the club with Yoni, not to think about her for entire stretches of time. But now, as he watched
the couple with their arms linked, he allowed himself the thought that if he didn’t see Remy again, he would perish. If he did not see her, did not see what became of her, what she was becoming, he wouldn’t be able to continue living. He had no idea where this notion came from, but there it was; he would topple over and die. Then again, if he did see her again, he decided just as quickly, surely that, too, would be enough to kill him. No, he assured himself, these thoughts were ridiculous. He barely knew her.
He ordered a second gin and tonic. It occurred to him to ask Yoni where Samantha was.
“Oh, she moved to New York.” Yoni took a slow swallow from his beer. “They all have to do that, you know. They graduate and go to New York.” He gave a smile. “Actually, there’s a very good music therapy program she’ll be attending there.”
Yoni didn’t look as if he missed her at all. Well, Nicholas supposed, he must go through this sort of thing often enough.
“I’ve seen her friend,” Nicholas ventured to say.
“Which friend is that?” Yoni asked. Then he laughed. “That Samantha. She always needed a sidekick, didn’t she?” He swallowed more of his beer.
Nicholas found himself unable to say Remy’s name. Instead he toyed with a few phrases that might allow for an impersonal discussion of the topic. But in the end he simply asked Yoni, “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Negotiate your relationships.” Nicholas swallowed the last of his drink. “It sounds like you have quite a bit of experience.”
Yoni began laughing.
“What?” Nicholas asked.
Yoni, laughing, said, “You’re asking me?”
“Well, yes, what’s so funny?”
Yoni shook his head, still laughing. “I assumed your cluelessness was an act. Don’t tell me it’s true.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“All the women trying to catch you, and the way you appear not to notice! I thought it was an act, that you were an old pro! Like that woman who came here that time. The conductor.”
“Who? Oh—Anna?” Nicholas wondered what had given Yoni that idea. “Now, there’s a funny one. Has what she calls ‘perfect tempo.’ I’ve never quite understood. . . .” As he prattled nervously, a lanky teen with spidery eyeliner, deep red lipstick, and buzz-cut hair approached their table. She gave Yoni a nip on his ear.
“You’re here,” Yoni said, returning her bite with his own. The girl wore tight black jeans and a thin white tank top, no bra, just the smallest upturned peaks for breasts. She introduced herself to Nicholas, and he told her hello. He decided it probably didn’t matter whether or not he remembered her name.
CONRAD LESSER HAD THEM PLAY CHAMBER MUSIC THAT DAY.
He did this every so often, wanted the students to grow attuned to the demands of this more intimate form—an in-between form, as challenging as playing solo, yet requiring the listening skills and self-deprecation of group playing (without hiding among a large orchestra). “It helps develop a certain sensitivity that not all of you possess. Because it’s about give-and-take, about listening to another person, really listening, without compromising your own virtuosity.”
It was four days since her night with Nicholas. Remy lifted her violin listlessly. She and the twins and the boy who played like Heifetz had been given Telemann’s Concerto for Four Violins. The first violin part went to the Heifetz boy, probably as a concession; he hated sharing the spotlight and had even said (out of earshot of Lesser) that only if he failed in a solo career would he ever deign to play in a group. Lesser seemed to sense this and, after handing them their parts, said, “One cannot remain self-involved when playing in a quartet. You must pay very close attention to each other. If you have a whole note, count out second notes, not just your own. Attend to one another!”
Though her heart still hung low from the fiasco with Nicholas, Remy found she was able to free her mind of its sorrow by listening to the others as the four of them played. Together they concentrated—on the notes and on one another. It was not the first time she had managed to cheer herself simply by playing her violin, yet it astounded her, all over again, that she could be so content and so heartbroken at the same time.
Was this what it meant to “know how to love music”? That this feeling might overtake her other emotions?
When class ended and everyone packed up to leave, Conrad Lesser pulled Remy aside. “You played extremely well today,” he said. “It seems you have a real talent for small group work.”
Remy told him about the quartet she had been playing with all summer, that she must have been training her ear all this time.
“Not just your ear. It’s a mind-set, I think. You seem to excel when playing closely with others. It’s something to consider, I think. For your future.” The way Lesser said this, gently, caused Remy’s heart to sink all over again. She understood what he was saying—what was being said between the lines.
She would never be a star violinist, that was what he meant.
Remy had known it already, probably, knew it each time she watched Barb play, had known it all year, sitting next to Lynn—aware, always, of being not quite as good, and that the difference between them was not a matter of dedication or effort but of some intangible quality that Remy simply did not possess. No, she would never be a virtuoso performer with a recognized name, with a manager to negotiate contracts with promoters, and a double case to carry two violins at once. There would be no audience in awe of her trills and double-stops, no reason to practice how to walk on and off the stage, or how to properly take a bow or accept a bouquet. There would be no recording career; she would not see her name on a record label nor be asked for her autograph. She would just be Remy—a girl who had learned how to love music.
“Some of the very finest musicians are chamber players,” Lesser said, and gave her a conciliatory pat on the back before going to confer with his assistant.
Returning her violin to its case, Remy wanted simply to go to sleep and never wake up.
She left the building feeling such heaviness, she was sure she was moving more slowly than usual. Was that what this summer was about, then? Striving so hard toward that one goal—only to realize that it had never even been within her grasp?
Maybe it wasn’t really so bad; maybe it was just that her mistake with Nicholas made everything feel worse. After all, Remy was still a violinist, an excellent one, with a fine future ahead of her. There were some very successful chamber groups. She could still make a name for herself.
Why, then, did she feel her life was over?
Because it wasn’t enough.
Loving the violin, knowing how to love music. Remy understood what Conrad Lesser meant, but it wasn’t enough.
The thought came to her, clearly, as she crossed Boylston Street. Her dedication to her violin meant she could love something complicated and demanding and extremely difficult, and that she could do so with enthusiasm and without resentment. It meant that she knew what devotion was, and commitment, and the sublime satisfaction of working hard at something until she had accomplished it. She knew how it felt to achieve what at times seemed like miracles; she had witnessed beauty that left her speechless. She had known amazement up close, knew the glorious things this world held for anyone who chose to stop and listen. But it wasn’t enough.
Because music wasn’t a person. Her violin was not a living thing. Her talent was not a human being. She wanted to love someone, to love another—and for that other person to love her, to love Remy, back.
This was the thought in Remy’s mind when she saw, walking toward her, Nicholas.
She wanted to shout and hold him and slap him all at once, to kick him and bite his neck. That this feeling was love she had no doubt.
“Remy!” he said when he noticed her there. “Hello!”
So, already he had forgotten that she was angry with him, that they had done something contemptible together. She stood silently, unable to speak, as the expression on his face cha
nged to a look of worry. “Remy,” he said again, this time in a low tone.
Remy reached out and took his hand. For a moment they simply stood, quietly. Then Remy said, “Come with me.”
With Nicholas at her side, she continued toward her apartment, turning the corner and walking the two blocks to her street. Nicholas followed along as she climbed the narrow back stairs of her building, as she slipped her keys into the heavy lock, unclicked the pin, and felt the bolt snap open.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Nicholas said in a quiet voice, and followed her into the apartment.
Recalling the photograph in his bedroom, Remy felt again how utterly wrong something could be. She began to cry.
“Oh.” Nicholas seemed unprepared for this. “Remy, love.” He reached his arms around her, but she threw them off. “Okay,” he said, “all right,” and backed up a step. “Look, I . . . I’ll just . . .” Clearly he didn’t know what to do. He looked around the room in a worried way, and his gaze landed on Sandy’s record collection. He said, “I’ll put on some music.”
He went to where Sandy’s albums were packed tightly in a long low row against the living room wall, and bent down to read the spines. Remy wiped her eyes. For the briefest moment, as Nicholas hunched down to look through the records, she saw Nicholas as an old man, stooping.
Just as quickly the glimpse disappeared. And though there was nothing romantic in what she had seen—Nicholas old and hunched—Remy felt, eerily, powerfully, that she had glimpsed the future. Their future.
That was all it took. As Nicholas selected an album, tugging it out from the shelf, Remy removed her clothes, right there in the living room. Quietly she wriggled out of her T-shirt and satin bra while Nicholas carefully slid the record from its cover and placed it on the turntable. As the stereo released the opening strains of an electronic keyboard, Remy kicked off her brown leather sandals, her cotton shorts and underpants, and stood naked. It was not the pose of a seductress; she did not feel alluring. She felt sad and proud, declaring that this was all there was, the bare truth of her.
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