“I’ll check my e-mail when I get home,” Christopher told her. “See if there’ve been any new developments. I’ll get back to you soon.”
The stage had emptied out, but a few other friends lingered behind and suggested lunch at a new noodle shop. “No, thanks,” Remy told them as she shut her violin case.
That was when Christopher turned toward the wings and said, “Hello, Nicholas!”
“Christopher.” Nicholas nodded hello as the rest of the little group greeted him.
“How are you?” Christopher asked, but Marina, another friend, said, “Come on, folks, I’m hungry.” The little group made their way out the door, the last to leave except for a timpanist who was still in the back, fiddling with something.
“Remy,” Nicholas said, making his way toward her through the rows of chairs until he was in front of the conductor’s stool. He looked tired, said again, “Remy.” His voice sounded different here on this stage renowned for its acoustics. He said, as he had too many times, “I’m sorry.”
Remy felt oddly bored.
“You have to know that what happened really was nothing,” he continued, “and that nothing like it will ever happen again.”
To have these lines delivered in such a place, center stage, made them sound like a performance—and like most performances, insincere. All the while, Remy could hear the timpanist fiddling at the back, like some sluggish stagehand late with a scene change.
In a low voice Nicholas said, “I know you don’t believe me when I tell you it was just dancing. But that’s basically the truth—”
“Basically!”
“Really, Remy, it was nothing, please believe me—”
“I do believe you! That’s just it! That’s exactly it!” For Remy the very notion that “it was nothing” made it all the worse, the fact that Nicholas could have betrayed without sacrifice—without giving anything up, not even a sliver of his heart.
When she herself had slipped, the connection meant something—and the pain remained with her even now. Whereas Nicholas could cavort with some “young woman” and then move on, without any trouble at all.
“Look, I’m really sorry,” Nicholas said, with a desperation that was new. He must have heard how hollow his words sounded; he went down onto his knees to say, “I’ll never hide anything from you again. I promise. Please, Remy.”
“Jesus, Nicholas, get up off the floor.”
Nicholas hunched his shoulders like an old man.
Remy said, “I think I’ve seen enough of you for today.”
Nicholas narrowed his eyes at her. The muscles of his jaw twitched. He stood, and for a long second waited, then turned and negotiated his way past the empty chairs.
Remy watched him leave. The timpanist dropped something, and a loud, clanging sound reverberated across the stage.
BY THE NEXT MORNING, NICHOLAS COULD NO LONGER STAND IT. ON his way to the Day Shift, he made a phone call.
“Hello!” came Yoni’s chipper voice.
“Oh, good, you’re there. Have you got a minute?”
“Nicholas, how are you?”
“I was hoping we might meet to discuss something, if you’re free.”
“I have time this morning. But I’m meeting Justin Fiori at noon.”
“Well, if you’re free now, how about breakfast?”
“That works.”
Nicholas asked him to meet him at the diner and felt both relief and apprehension when Yoni said, “I’ll be right there.”
At the Day Shift, Nicholas took a seat at the counter and slung his jacket over the stool to his right; there were no free booths at this hour. A plump, blond waitress said, “Hi, honey,” and asked if he had gotten a good night’s sleep.
“I did,” Nicholas lied, so as not to sound like a complainer. “And you?”
“Oh, on my feet all day, you know, I fall into bed like a log.”
The old man, Harvey, hadn’t arrived yet. Nicholas found himself glaring at a college couple nearby who addressed each other with a shy complicity, the girl smiling at the boy in a glib way, the skin under their eyes puffy from a night of drink and sex.
“Here you go, hon,” the waitress said, handing him his coffee.
Nicholas took a gulp and shook his head—at the couple, but also at himself. Never before had he been so judgmental. He had always been open to everything. Wasn’t that why everyone liked him?
“You again,” Harvey wheezed, easing his body onto the seat to Nicholas’s left.
Nicholas nodded hello. “How’s life treating you?”
“It doesn’t treat me at all. I treat myself. Otherwise I’d be completely neglected.” He gave the hollow snort that was his laugh. Nicholas could see the skin tags on his right eyelid, the deep wrinkle in his earlobe, the crease down the middle of his cheek.
“Hello!” It was Yoni, grinning.
“Yoni, thanks very much for coming.” With reservation Nicholas introduce him to Harvey.
“Pleasure to meet you.” Yoni shook Harvey’s hand firmly, and Harvey said, “Yeah, yeah.” Nicholas indicated Yoni’s seat for him, and swiveled his own toward it, away from Harvey’s, to show that this would be a private conversation. The waitress, understanding, briskly took their orders.
Settling onto the stool, Yoni leaned forward on his forearms in a gung-ho way. Nicholas couldn’t help admiring how successfully Yoni retained his youth, with ease rather than desperation. At fifty he remained dashing and fit, the lines in his face suggesting wisdom. Age had dignified him, outwardly as well as inwardly, and he brandished his little rectangular reading glasses with aplomb, squinting into the narrow slits of glass as if detecting secrets available only to the old and wise.
“So . . . ?” he asked Nicholas as the waitress filled his coffee cup. Nicholas saw her do a quick double take at Yoni’s stunted finger and the thumb with its patched skin. Yoni didn’t seem to notice. “What’s up?” he asked.
Nicholas made a long grumbling sound. He realized he didn’t know what to say.
“What is it, Nicholas?” Yoni’s brow creased.
“I’ve screwed up.”
Now Yoni frowned, like a parent accustomed to nothing but trouble. He didn’t speak, and it occurred to Nicholas that perhaps he would rather not know. And so Nicholas said nothing, just waited for Yoni to ask what had happened.
Instead there was a long silence—so long, it began to feel like a contest. Yoni spent a good minute looking down at the Formica countertop, and then the waitress was there with their toast and eggs.
Nicholas took a long, preparatory swig of coffee. The idea of not discussing this, of having no one to talk to, was too much. “I’ve hurt Remy’s feelings,” he finally let out, when he was sure Harvey was well into another conversation with the waitress and wouldn’t hear. “I don’t know how to make it up to her.”
Now Yoni seemed to be gritting his teeth. “Is it what I think?” he asked softly, barely moving his mouth.
“No!” Nicholas gave a frustrated shrug of his shoulders. “Well, there’s another person, but—” Quickly, seeing Yoni’s face, he added, “It’s not that! I mean, not really. The problem is, Remy still insists I’ve cheated on her or something.” He stopped, aware that it sounded awful. “Look, I realize I’ve made a mistake. Now I need to know what to do.”
Yoni’s face had reddened. “And you’re sitting here eating fried eggs?”
Nicholas let his eyebrows rise. He looked at Yoni imploringly. “I don’t know what to do.”
With a tight jaw Yoni said, “You have no idea, that’s for sure.”
“Yoni, look, I realize I’ve made a mistake. If I’d known it would hurt her . . . You know more than anyone how much I love Remy. You of all people know that I can’t live without her.”
Yoni’s nostrils flared. Very slowly, he nodded.
“Need a refill, honey?” The waitress poured more coffee, then swiveled her hips to squeeze behind the counter. Nicholas’s heart was beating fast.
&n
bsp; Yoni pursed his lips, shook his head. In a low voice he said, “Just how much damage can you do?”
Nicholas felt his heart sink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Here you are with the most amazing woman, and look what you do. To her and whoever else.”
Quietly, angrily, Nicholas said, “I’m perfectly able to berate myself. That’s not why I asked you to come here.”
“You want me to fix things for you, is that right?”
“No, I—”
“You want someone to clean up after you.”
“Not at all! I simply—”
“I can’t listen anymore, Nicholas, I’m sorry.” Yoni’s voice sounded almost weak. “I want to help you. I would love to be able to help you. But I’ve already done all I can.” He nodded slowly. “Believe me, there’s truly nothing more I can do.”
“I just wanted some advice,” Nicholas said feebly, but Yoni had already stood and thrown a few small bills on the counter. He turned and walked out.
Heart racing, Nicholas looked down at his plate of runny eggs. He heard the door swing open and then shut. The stocky waitress was saying something to Harvey in a teasing voice. Harvey said, “Don’t look at me. I’ve got one foot in the grave, the other on a—”
“Yeah, yeah,” the waitress said, refilling his coffee mug.
IT WAS A SLOW AFTERNOON AT THE SHOP, NO ONE THERE BUT ONE OF the regulars—an old woman who always spent hours examining every single object but had never bought a thing. Hazel lifted the telephone and called Nicholas at work.
She had been wondering how long it would take for him to contact her about the wedding. The two of them really ought to confer about it; they were Jessica’s parents, after all, plus everyone knows that the bride’s father is supposed to foot the bill. Jessica would be here in a few weeks, and Hazel wanted to make sure that when it came to wedding plans, they were all on the same page.
When Nicholas’s line stopped ringing and clicked over to an answering machine, Hazel decided to leave a message; someone had to get the ball rolling.
By the time he rang back it was evening and Hazel was on her way home, on Storrow Drive, in thick traffic. For safety, Hazel made a point of never answering her cell phone while driving. Not until she had arrived home and changed into more comfortable sandals and opened all of her windows wide to let in the spring air did she press the Return Call button.
Waiting for the line to connect, she fetched the feather duster and began—automatically more than consciously—to tidy up a bit.
Now the phone was ringing as Hazel flicked the duster here and there. Just when she decided that no one would answer, a voice came on: “Yeah?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve— I’m calling for Nicholas Elko. This is Hazel—”
“Hazel! Whe-he-hullo there!”
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“It’s Gary Schmid!”
“Gary. Well, what a surprise.” Hazel could feel her eyebrows arching. Gary was so far off in her past, she barely remembered him. A few times she thought she had glimpsed him on the streets of Boston, but if anyone had told her she would ever have to converse with him again, Hazel would have laughed out loud. He was simply a reminder of a time when Hazel had been too miserable to see any good in him, when his very presence made her own small world seem that much worse.
“How are you?” She heard how businesslike she sounded.
“Hazel. Now, that’s a surprise. How’re you doing?”
Already she felt perturbed. “Fine, thanks,” she said, surprised at how foreign Gary’s voice sounded in her ear. She wouldn’t have recognized it. “I just wanted to touch base with Nicholas about something.”
“Sure, no prob.” Hazel could hear Gary moving about, heavy footsteps, the groan of a testy old window being raised. She had completely stopped her tidying and was holding the feather duster limply. “But he’s not here right now.”
“Will he be back?”
“Seems likely.”
“Well, if he could call me, I would appreciate it.”
“Okay, I’ll pass that along.”
“Thanks very much.”
Then Gary coughed loudly, and Hazel held the phone away from her ear. She heard him say, “Listen, it’s great to hear your voice again. I hope you’re well.”
“Oh, yes. You, too. Bye now.”
But even after the call had disconnected, Hazel felt shaken. Something was definitely wrong.
Wasn’t that really why she had called? To find out if her hunch was correct? Her hand trembled as she ran the feather duster over the wooden plant stand and the large oval mirror and—she sighed—the fake crystal wave-girl. She barely allowed herself to glance at it.
She put down the duster and went out to the back patio, for a restorative breath of fresh air. She gazed out at the potted geraniums that presented themselves so brightly, and the flounce of nasturtiums lining the edge of the house, and the cabbage butterflies flitting about industriously. Her world continued on as peacefully as before. Robert would be home any minute now, and they would grill the pork tenderloin she had left marinating this morning, and eat out here on the patio, with the citronella candles lit in their clay lanterns, and go to sleep together in the big four-poster bed. This was real, this was her life, not that other, old, world she had breathed, so briefly, moments ago. She rose from her chair to go back inside, reminding herself that she could not—it was impossible—slip back into that long-ago place.
FOR HOURS THE SECOND NIGHT, AND AGAIN THE NEXT MORNING, Remy practiced the violin part. She knew the solo’s reappearance in each of the movements must mean something—this timbral presence, this protagonist of sorts. But what was its meaning, what was this voice saying?
The third movement required scordatura—quickly loosening the G string down to an E—so that the sound became as soulful as a viola’s. A mournful sound. Remy recalled what Nicholas had told her back when he was just beginning the piece, that first year of their life together, after his realization about his mother. Recalling the despair of that discovery, Remy felt again (she could not help it) a genuine sympathy. The violin solo had become so achingly sad, it shocked Remy to think this could have come from Nicholas, this man who loved to proudly declare his affection for the key of C major. . . . Remy experimented with the cadenza, taking greater liberties each time, finding within it a sense of freedom and improvisation, and concluded with a resolutely melancholic four-part chord.
The final movement was the most beautiful of all, very calm and still. The violin solo remained prominent, and Remy played without vibrato, moving her bow slowly, barely touching her fingertips to the strings so that they scarcely held each note. She wanted to convey a sense of peace that was real yet hard won. The purity of rest that comes from deep fatigue. A letting go of life’s effort and pain.
Even in this movement she heard, if ever so lightly, the scant reverberation of some familiar air. Not the air itself . . . At that first tickle—the shiver of recollection—she stopped and scrutinized those specific measures on the manuscript page. Just a small string of notes had done this to her, caused some deep auditory resonance, and yet even seeing the notes here on the page she could not think where they might have originated.
It did not matter. She lifted her violin again and played on. It had been a long time since she had worked with such intensity. None of the contemporary works the music director at the Symphony selected had ever struck Remy this way—le coup de foudre, her stand partner, Carole, sometimes called it. Yes, a long time it had been since she had fallen in love with a piece of music.
It was on the third day that she noted something even more surprising. She was improving. She could hear it and could feel it in her fingers (which had creases in the tips from playing so much these past days). After years of upkeep, and the never-ending struggle to maintain her technique, always trying her best despite that inevitable plateau, something new was happening. It wasn’t simply the mastery of a new p
iece, that gradual familiarization of the unfamiliar. No, something was growing within her as she struggled with various interpretive problems, making sense of Nicholas’s notations, creating her own reading of the work—not following that of a conductor or a teacher. It had been a long time since she had figured out something like this on her own.
She even found herself taking issue with a few decorative flourishes Nicholas had written into the third movement. She decided they got in the way—and after some contemplation, edited them out. As Julian used to say, a musician was more than an interpreter; the musician became its coauthor. It was the musician’s imagination that fully realized any new work.
Remy had never fully understood what that meant. But as she experimented with these notes Nicholas had written, she felt the full bloom of her imagination. For in Nicholas’s pages she saw, to her surprise—and unlike in real life—so many possibilities.
She thought of the Barcelona orchestra. A possibility, but was it what she wanted?
When, as she began the final movement once again, the telephone rang, Remy wanted simply to continue playing. But the ringing continued, and here came the recorded message, and now a familiar voice. “Hey, it’s me, I’ve been meaning to call you back but things have been kind of crazy at work and then by the time I remember to call it’s three in the morning your time and—”
Remy snatched up the telephone. “Hey, kiddo.”
“Oh, good, you’re there! Sorry to only just be calling now, but—”
“It’s all right, I was just calling to say hi. You’ve been busy, huh?”
“Good busy,” Jessica said. “I had to write a whole proposal, and you know how long that kind of thing takes me. What about you?”
It was clear from Jessica’s voice that Nicholas hadn’t told her anything, that she knew nothing of their stalemate. But somehow, today, with music still coursing through Remy’s limbs, the thought didn’t seem to matter so much. She heard herself saying, “Oh, you know, same old, same old.” She closed her eyes against the dissimulation. “Just one more BSO performance, and then I’ll be free.”
Knowing what those words might mean, she added, almost before she had thought it, “In fact, I had an idea I wanted to run by you.”
Sight Reading Page 29