Hazel’s heart sank. That was it. When they began with something nice—when they began by praising you—that was when you knew they didn’t want to be with you anymore.
“It’s hard, though,” Hugh continued. “Because as much as I enjoy my time with you, as much as it feels comfortable, even tonight, even now, something’s off.”
“What do you mean, ‘off’?”
Hugh frowned. “I suppose it’s that I’m wondering if I’m truly able to do it.”
“Able to do what?” Hazel asked, though she knew perfectly well what he meant. But she refused to make this easy for him.
“To be with you.”
No matter how prepared she was, her heart still plunged. Now Hazel was trying to hold her face in place, her heart diving, falling. Thinking to herself: Of course. Really she had expected as much. Supreme disappointment was the only thing in life she knew she could truly count on.
“I don’t know why I’m saying this,” Hugh said. “I’m having such a nice time with you. I mean to say, I’ve been having a wonderful time with you. You’re a wonderful woman.”
Hazel looked down at the abandoned chestnuts. It hadn’t been this way back before Nicholas; before Nicholas, she had been the one brushing people aside, trying not to lead anyone on. But since her divorce, the power she had once had . . . it had slipped away. The few times she found herself at all interested in a man, it had been utterly different from when she was young, when she never had to wonder whether he would like her back. And though she could still, sometimes, turn heads, her old allure somehow always eventually failed her.
Hugh was saying more now. The truth was, Hazel barely heard him. Nothing could explain it in any helpful way. Hugh himself was saying so, right now, saying that he himself didn’t understand, he was confused. His confusion looked genuine, and Hazel supposed he truly didn’t understand how he could want to be with her and not want to at the very same time. He tried again to explain, more familiar phrases. To Hazel it was all a bit tiresome. She looked past Hugh, through the windows, into the blackness, thinking that so many other fateful things must be happening on this same night, things that had nothing to do with her, things that surely mattered much more than this. Significant, meaningful, perhaps wonderful things. When Hugh stopped speaking for a moment, and poked despondently at the chestnuts—as though he and not Hazel were the one being rejected—Hazel leaned over and lightly kissed his cheek. “I think I should go now,” she told him, before the explanations could continue.
REMY HAD THE SYMPHONY THAT NIGHT, AND JESSIE WAS OUT AT A party, leaving Nicholas home alone.
He sat, lethargic, at the grand piano. The room was dark, just one lamp lit, and the tall windows closed against the cold. Nicholas wished Remy were here—that they might play together, just for fun.
It had been some time, he realized, since the two of them had made music together. Those evenings were a chance for Remy to enjoy a turn as soloist, front and center, with Nicholas accompanying on piano. Her favorite was the Franck sonata, the one she had been learning the year they met, which Nicholas loved for its swaying beauty, and for the wonderful interplay between piano and violin. Nicholas made a good accompanist, knew when Remy might want an extra moment to fill out a rubato phrase, or hold a tenuto, knew to slow down, almost imperceptibly, in those brief moments where she had to slide into a glissando, or replace one finger with another. Conducting had developed in him an instinctual understanding of musicians’ needs—from having to be aware, at each moment, of what each one of them was experiencing.
He had learned from Remy, too, over the years—about the violin. She would point out passages that made the most of the instrument, so that Nicholas saw more broadly its range of capabilities. And over time he had come to understand, too, the sorts of technical challenges that could excite and motivate an experienced player like Remy.
She had a particularly good ear, could identify any borrowed phrase in a piece, even the smallest conceptual echo, and understand what that echo might be harkening to. Sometimes when Nicholas improvised he tossed in little riffs from other pieces, to see if she might recognize them. Now, though, alone at the piano, waking his fingers with a Bach prelude, he thought despondently of the big symphonic piece.
It was incoherent as a whole, was the issue. Kaleidoscopic changes within movements, this grand sweep from the earthy to the ethereal, the terrestrial to the spectral . . . He wanted his symphony to contain galaxies. Of course that was different, he knew, from just being all over the place. He needed to return to that first, most basic impulse, to see again in his mind’s eye—and hear again—his long-ago home.
Pu’ Scotland up,
And wha can say
It winna bud
And blossom tae
Yet he barely had the will to work on the piece. Was this what it meant to be “midcareer”—as he had found himself recently, gallingly, referred to? It was true that one grew tired of oneself, sometimes. That one wished, sometimes, to take some kind of leap, far away to some other place.
Perhaps this was what was happening with Remy, too. She had been standoffish lately, even about the associate concertmaster slot. Nicholas thought she ought to try for it, if only to avoid a slump. The other night, after a performance, she told Nicholas she felt she had played lazily. “Well, maybe not lazily, but at one point I realized I was thinking about which soup I wanted to make tomorrow, trying to remember which ingredients we had in the fridge!” Laughing. “I used to try to always remember what Julian said, that the rehearsal is the performance. But you know, sometimes, when you’re playing the William Tell Overture for the hundredth time, even the performance isn’t the performance!”
She had laughed when she said it. But when Nicholas suggested she try for the upcoming open slot, Remy seemed bothered, pointed out that the work would remain basically the same.
It was true, Nicholas knew. Remy’s work was physical, the constant wrist and neck injuries, and every summer the travel back and forth to Tanglewood, where they played outdoors whether it was forty degrees or ninety, and only the woodwinds were allotted space heaters (so that the wood of their cold instruments would not crack from their breath). Often Remy had to learn an entire symphony in just two or three rehearsals. “Anyway, lots of people have repetitious jobs,” she had added. “What matters is your attitude.” But Nicholas sometimes worried about Remy’s attitude, her self-deprecation. “I’m just one fiddler among the many,” she had said at one point. Well, it was one way of looking at herself, a mere pat of color on the orchestral palette—but that did not diminish her importance. Not at all. She was a necessary and significant member of what Nicholas viewed as the greatest musical instrument of all: the symphony orchestra itself.
Back when he met her, she had been so determined. But it was hard to sustain that degree of commitment, he told himself now. Success demanded the proper mind-set, and if one hadn’t the right attitude, well, even the most gifted musicians burned out. Like that girl Lynn, who had played first chair when Nicholas first arrived at the conservatory. Nicholas had looked for her to make waves as she matured, yet nothing seemed to have become of her. A few years ago he heard that she had abandoned music altogether and become a Graphoanalyst. Apparently she lived in Bali and had a job at a fancy resort, analyzing guests’ handwriting.
The recollection of Lynn, and of Remy sitting next to her, her hair pulled up into a big curly tuft, blew through Nicholas.
Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!
He pressed into the keyboard, a bright C major chord, that most simple and satisfying affirmation. The chord resounded, and gradually faded. Keep it simple, Nicholas told himself. That was what he usually did—what pleased him so elementally. Simple manipulations that created something new. Just keep it simple, the way you like to. . . . He knew that. He knew it. Why, then, did such a thing no longer seem possible?
HAZEL AWOKE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, FEELING HUNGOVER, AS if the previous night had been one of celebr
ation rather than disaster. Heavily she made her way to the bathroom. It was as she washed her hands, when she happened to glance at herself in the mirror, that she saw the splotches. Three new ones, large as quarters, on the right side of her face.
Hazel dropped the soap, didn’t even think to turn off the water as she leaned toward the mirror. She flicked on the vanity lights, to inspect the new pattern on her skin, while water fell uselessly from the tap. The spot below her eye looked like a fava bean. In the space that went from the side of her nose to the apple of her cheek there was the shape of an artist’s palette. And above her jaw was a white crescent, a waning moon reclining on its back.
Hazel’s hands were shaking now. She managed to turn off the water, then stood and stared. How had three of them come at once, overnight, right on her face?
She covered them up. It took a long time, but she was able to do it, her makeup thicker than usual, and a finishing coat of translucent powder from the big plastic tub with the twist-off top. All day at work she waited for Maria to say something, certain that the foundation would wear off and the splotches show through. But Maria spent the day as usual, talking about herself, humming loudly, eating pastries that she kept offering Hazel, as if hoping to make her fat. For a long time she was deep in concentration, tying maroon and green fabrics into elaborate holiday bows. Now she was singing a Whitney Houston song, pronouncing the words all wrong.
“How your Friday night was?” Maria asked, giving up on the song. She had begun weaving strands of holly and pine branches together for the new display.
“Oh, it was fine.” Hazel heard herself talking and was amazed at her voice—that it sounded the same as always, no trace of what had happened last night, or during the horrible hours between night and morning. “How about yours?”
“We saw a movie, you know that movie, what it’s called?” Maria began to attempt to describe it.
Hazel’s thoughts leapt back to the chestnuts, to what might have happened if they hadn’t caught fire. It seemed things might have gone completely differently if only the chestnuts hadn’t burned.
“The star, she so beautiful, what her name is? You know. That girl, the blonde.” Maria began to describe the other movies the blonde had starred in, since she couldn’t recall those titles, either. Now she was describing one that took place in California. “In San Francisco. You know . . .” Hazel had trouble listening. Her thoughts had fallen into the same old loop: How could he not be “able” to be with her? What did that mean? The more Hazel thought about it, the more it seemed that this had to be a lie, that in fact he was “able” but had somehow decided against her.
As Maria talked, Hazel readjusted the window display, dark curtains of a fabric imported from France. Only their wealthiest clients could afford such stuff. She glimpsed herself in the glass, made certain that her makeup had not faded, told herself that she was still prettier than most of the other mothers; as biased as she might be, this was still a fact. Sure, there was Sonia Fajed, who was half Pakistani, half Danish and so had that alluring combination of dark skin with fair eyes, but she was in another category altogether, and probably even Hugh wasn’t classy enough for her. When it came to single women in their circle, Hazel’s only real rival—if one wanted to use that word—was Roberta Plotnik, whose daughter was a year below Jessie. Roberta had been widowed when she was in her twenties and still wore her husband’s wedding band on a gold chain around her neck—a gesture Hazel found a bit precious. Yes, Roberta was younger than Hazel, she had that going for her, but she was small and dark-eyed and rarely smiled.
Hazel dusted off the folds of an Egyptian import. What was it that had caused Hugh to hesitate? All that Hazel could come up with was her skin. Wasn’t that what these new splotches were trying to tell her? Hugh had sat close enough to her, and spent long enough hours with her for her makeup to fade, kissed her enough for it to rub off, so that already he must have seen the mark where her neck met her chin, or perhaps the one by her ear. No matter how generous a disposition he might have, she supposed it was inevitable that Hugh would find such a thing repulsive.
“We was so cold!” Maria said. “I never forget, I thought it’s California, it’s spring. I bring with me my T-shirt! No sweater but the one I wear on the plane! Then they tell me, June in San Francisco is winter.”
Unless, thought Hazel, stepping back down from the window display, it was the same old thing, the most basic reason of all: that such happiness—the kind that came from love—simply hadn’t been allotted to her. Hugh must have somehow picked up on this, glimpsed it in her eyes, or in a splotch of white on her hand. The tattoo must be her bitterness, her grief.
The fury of this realization nearly caused Hazel to lose her balance. She leaned against one of the large bolts of fabric.
“You all right?” Maria asked. “You tired, I think.”
“I had a bad night,” Hazel told her. “But I’m all right.” That her old, old grief had gotten the best of her again was more painful than the feeling itself. Still, she believed what she told Maria, that it would all be all right. She had her own kind of happiness, a diluted one that was nonetheless real. She had a job that interested her, and friends to talk to. Jessie would be coming home with her tomorrow and would give her one of her long, warm hugs.
For a moment Hazel thought she might burst into tears. Sometimes things were hard, she reminded herself, that’s all: being told you were unable to be with, it was just a bit hard, especially when she had wanted so badly for things to work out, and thought they might, thought there might be a joy for her that was something beyond herself. And so it was a bit hard, that’s all, let’s just play.
Chapter 6
REMY PULLED UP THE COLLAR OF HER COAT AS SHE MADE HER way along the avenue, her steps brisk, as if to escape the weather. Instead of heading straight to the pool for her postrehearsal swim, she had decided to stop by the conservatory, to pay a surprise visit to Nicholas.
They needed to reconnect, to find again the easy rhythm of a shared life. These things take effort sometimes. She had been confused the other day, with Yoni, in the rehearsal room—but now she knew it was just hormones. What a relief. Vivian said premenstrual syndrome caused all kinds of odd thoughts and behaviors. And for Remy it was of course always an unpleasant reminder. . . . She could use some cheering up. And if nothing else, try to be nicer to Nicholas.
But when she arrived at the conservatory, Nicholas was not in his office. Momentary despair—as if not just her little plan but an entire future had been dashed. Well, she might catch him on his way out. Remy hurried back down the hallway.
“He just left. I don’t know where he went.”
“Oh, hi, Yoni.” She said it in her same old voice but felt strange as they kissed each other’s cheeks and stood facing each other. “Are you on your way out, too?”
He had looped his scarf like a noose and wore a knit wool cap tight on his head. Gruffly he said, “I’ll walk you out.”
They stepped out into the chill, the air moist and cruel, a slap from a clammy hand. “Where are you off to?” Remy asked, as lightly as possible.
“Heading home. I’m done for the day.”
“Me, too. I thought Nicholas might want a coffee break.”
Yoni nodded slowly. “Where were you thinking of going?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just take a walk. Though it’s not really walking weather, is it? Have a cup of tea, maybe.”
“May I join you instead?” he asked. “I’ll take you to my favorite place.”
Remy knew the place he meant, the cramped English tea shop that had every kind of tea leaf and not enough seats. “All right.”
The tea shop was full, customers huddled at the little shelf by the window and lingering on the damp bench out in front. From the sidewalk, Remy and Yoni watched all the people warm inside. Remy wanted, quite suddenly, to press her face to his, to feel the smooth cheeks he must have shaved just this morning. He said, “I know a better place.”
Remy followed him. She wanted to think of him as someone who understood how to handle such situations.
He was beside her, had taken her free hand. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before, but this time it was with a certain determination, almost as if she had become an annoyance. He turned a familiar corner, and she realized that they were heading toward his home. Her grip tightened in his hand. She was frightened, but not enough to turn in the other direction.
They arrived at the apartment she knew so well. Large abstract paintings on the wall, books stacked in haphazard towers here and there, an upright piano laden with sheet music, the many horns—trumpet, trombone, euphonium—in their various cases, the wall of stereo equipment, the half-kitchen full of cheap cooking implements. “It’s cold,” she said.
“Here, let me turn on the heat.” He put the kettle on to boil while Remy removed her coat and folded it over her violin case. She wrapped her arms around herself. She had made a mistake, she realized: the mistake of being alone with him.
“Here, have a look at all the teas I have.” Yoni’s voice sounded strained, as if trying to find its old tone. He opened a cabinet containing various tins and boxes, which Remy supposed must have been purchased by past girlfriends.
“You know,” she said, “I don’t think I need tea after all.”
“Okay,” he said, frowning. “All right.” He turned off the kettle. Then he stepped toward Remy and put his hands on her arms, which were still folded around her. It was a gesture he had made so many times in the past, in conversation, or to make a point. But now it felt acknowledged. The flame whipped through her, and she closed her eyes. If he kissed her, that would be the end of her.
“You’re trembling,” he said, with surprise.
“This apartment is an icebox.”
To her relief, Yoni stepped back. “Wait here.” He walked away, down the short hallway and into the bathroom. Remy heard the squeak of faucets, the crash of water. She stood and waited, pleased that at least now her pulse had slowed. She looked around the room, at the Indian fabric on one wall, the bamboo stalks by the window, the photograph of Yoni with his mother and his rifle, grinning and squinting at the world.
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