Strings

by Megan Edwards

  “The bastard,” Karen said. “And I thought I knew him.” She took another slug of wine. “But what about you, Ted?” she asked. “I know you haven’t taken the marriage plunge, but don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  I looked at Karen. She’d probably heard about Valeria through the parent grapevine. There wasn’t any reason I shouldn’t give her a few details, but I just didn’t feel like it.

  “She moved to Italy,” I said, hoping it would be enough.

  “I met someone special after Blair,” Karen said. “My English lit professor at Smith. I went back for an alumnae thing seven years ago, and we really hit it off.”

  She paused and took another sip of wine.

  “We were soul mates, genuine soul mates.”

  She looked at me, and unshed tears glistened in her eyes.

  “Have you ever had a soul mate, Ted?”

  “No,” I said a little too quickly. “I mean—of course not, Karen. You know stuff like that is just an illusion. It’s just infatuation. It’s just hormones, for Christ’s sake!”

  She looked at me for a long moment.

  “You protest way too much, Ted,” she said at last. “And you’re wrong. Finding your soul mate is the most important thing in the whole world. It’s a connection like no other, a connection that unites you not only with the other person but with everything—the whole universe. I’ll never stop believing that. Never.” She paused to dab her eyes with her napkin.

  “He dumped me,” she finally continued. “Six months ago, and he didn’t even have the decency to do it in person. He sent me a letter from Rome.” She paused. “Nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change, into something rich and strange.”

  “What?”

  “It’s from The Tempest, but it’s also the inscription on Shelley’s grave in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome. Michael actually used Shakespeare to dump me, the son of a bitch.”

  “You were together for seven years?” I asked.

  “Yeah, as much as we could be. He was married. Still is. The bastard.” She drained her glass. “I wish to God I didn’t still love him.”

  I invited Karen to stay at my place overnight, but she declined.

  “I made a reservation at the Sacher,” she said.

  “The Sacher? That’s not exactly a youth hostel,” I laughed.

  “Oh, I know. I stayed at the Hassler when I was in Rome, too. Don’t tell anyone I’m a fake, okay?”

  “You’re no fake, Karen,” I said. “You’re about as real as they come.”

  “You’re no fake, either, Ted,” Karen said. “And I bet someday you will find a soul mate, and then you’ll know what I’m talking about. It’s too bad—” she paused, and our eyes met. “It’s too bad we could never be the couple our parents joked about.”

  “They were joking?” I said.

  “You’re right,” Karen said. “They weren’t. But it’s still too bad.”

  •••

  Later that night, after I had transported Karen and her backpack to the Sacher, I stood at my desk. My letter of resignation was still there, still waiting for my signature. On a sudden impulse, I picked up the phone and dialed Valeria’s number in Rome, even though it was well after midnight.

  “Pronto,” a sleepy male voice answered on the third ring.

  I hung up. I picked up the letter and tore it to shreds.

  Chapter 19

  At first I was troubled by Valeria’s exit from my life, but soon I began to notice that my music benefited from our breakup. Our stormy relationship had exacted a heavy price, but now all that energy could go directly into my violin. Though I kept my position with the Vienna Philharmonic, I sought and accepted invitations to perform elsewhere. It wasn’t exactly the solo career I had dreamed of, but it was a big step in the right direction.

  At the end of May 1987, I was in New York for a solo performance at Carnegie Hall. I had just arrived in the United States to spend the summer season at Tanglewood as a soloist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. I planned to stay in New York for a few days before heading to Massachusetts, but my only formal commitment was my concert.

  The afternoon before my performance, I retreated to my dressing room. My rehearsal had just ended, and I decided to take a walk to relax a little, something I often did during the hours leading up to a concert. I was pulling on a jacket when there was a rap on the door. I opened it to find a young Filipino holding a vase of red roses.

  The flowers surprised me, but there was no mistake. “Edward Spencer” read the cream-colored envelope nestled among them. The delivery boy waited patiently while I searched for my wallet. The smallest bill I had was a twenty, and he departed with a genuine smile on his face.

  As soon as he left, I tore open the envelope, wondering who had been so kind as to send me flowers. My mother, perhaps? But it wasn’t my birthday. As soon as I unfolded the note, I no longer begrudged the delivery boy his generous tip.

  “Dear Ted,” it read in strangely familiar handwriting. “I’m in New York for a movie shoot, and I read about your concert in the Times. I’ll be there tonight. Break a leg, or whatever it is you say to wish musicians the best of luck. Yours, Olivia.”

  Olivia! We hadn’t seen each other in nineteen years, and now she had sent me a dozen red roses. An unexpected mixture of emotions coursed through me, mingling with a powerful surge of curiosity. She had vanished from my life so long ago, and I had always assumed I would never see her again except in films and magazines. Why had she sought me out?

  Olivia’s note was written on stationery from the Plaza Hotel. Was it a hint? I wondered. Did she expect me to call her? As I thought about it, I was surprised to notice my heart rate speed up. Unexpected thoughts erupted in my head, memories from an ancient volcano I thought was dead.

  Calm down! I commanded myself. You’re thirty-six years old, which makes Olivia thirty-four. And she’s married, don’t forget, with a kid. She’s just an old friend from prep school. I sat down. My pulse may have slowed a little, but the tide of thoughts kept pouring forth. Olivia had contacted me after all these years!

  Convincing myself that calling to express my thanks was the only civilized action to take, I picked up the telephone on my dressing table and dialed, first information, and then the Plaza. Yes, Olivia de la Vega was registered, the hotel desk clerk informed me, but no, she wasn’t in. Yes, I could leave a message.

  It was nearly five o’clock. Would Olivia return to her hotel before coming to Carnegie Hall for a concert that started at eight? I had no way of knowing, but I left a message anyway, grateful that the clerk was willing to take down my words verbatim.

  “Dear Olivia,” I dictated. “The roses were such a surprise! Please come backstage after the concert tonight so I can thank you in person. Ted.”

  A wave of nervous regret rolled over me as soon as I hung up the phone. If Olivia didn’t show up in my dressing room, I’d never know whether it was because she hadn’t gotten my message or because she’d decided to ignore it. No sooner had that thought passed than another one arrived to take its place: You’re such an idiot, Ted. You’re not in high school anymore, and Olivia is only being polite. You’re nothing more than old friends who happen to have washed up in Manhattan at the same time. That’s all. That’s it. Shut up.

  I stepped outside into a cool spring breeze. Zipping up my leather jacket, I walked two blocks north to Central Park. It should have been relaxing to join the afternoon joggers and dog-walkers, but I couldn’t keep my mind off Olivia. So immersed was I in thoughts of her that I stepped in front of a bus on Fifty-Ninth Street. The bus driver slammed on his brakes and leaned on his horn, and a muscular young man standing on the curb behind me seized me by the arm and yanked me back onto the sidewalk. I mumbled my embarrassed thanks and headed immediately back to Carnegie Hall, rubbing my shoulder. I was obviously in no condition to be al
one on the streets of New York.

  Every seat was filled for the concert, and when I walked onto the stage, all I could think about was that Olivia was sitting somewhere in the darkness beyond the footlights. For a moment, I was transported back to a small outdoor platform in Santa Barbara, to that day long ago when I had wanted to run away. I almost felt that way again as I lifted my bow. A rush of anxiety swept over me, but just as swiftly, an ecstatic thrill replaced it. I was playing for Olivia, and my wonder increased as I realized that I had never stopped playing for her. She had departed from my life, but she had never left my heart. She had vanished, but not without bestowing a priceless gift. Olivia had given me my music, and as four Mozart violin concertos filled the hall that night, I wanted her to know it.

  I had planned to play Bach’s Partita no. 3 as an encore, but when I raised my bow, I knew my fingers—or was it my heart?—would never allow it. I’m sure the conductor and concertmaster were startled when they heard the first strains of Paganini’s “Last Caprice in A Minor.” I was a little surprised myself. I hadn’t played the piece publicly in years. I had consigned it to a mental vault of memories too melancholy to open, along with Olivia herself.

  But not tonight! This is for you, Olivia, my violin sang out. It always has been. It always will be.

  The last note was still hanging in the air when the audience leapt to its feet as one. As the waves of applause rolled over me, I gazed out over the sea of anonymous faces. Among them was the face I had never forgotten. Olivia was out there somewhere!

  My nerves returned when the applause died down. Would Olivia actually come to see me backstage? The usual group awaited me in the greenroom: some friends, a few music buffs. I pasted on a smile and began shaking hands. I kept an eye out for Olivia—what if I didn’t recognize her?—all the while hoping that somehow I’d be lucky enough to meet her in private, away from prying eyes and pushy fans.

  The post-concert flurry didn’t last very long, mostly because I didn’t encourage any lengthy conversations or give anyone an opportunity to invite me out. It was extremely helpful that everyone expects soloists to be self-centered eccentrics and, on this occasion, I was happy to hide behind the stereotype. It meant that I was alone in my dressing room no more than twenty minutes after my last bow. After stowing my violin in its case, I sat down on the bench in front of my dressing table. Once again, I studied the note Olivia had sent with the roses. She still dotted the “I’s” in her name with little circles, I noticed with a smile. It was such a sweetly innocent touch.

  Five minutes passed, and I was beginning to think about changing my clothes. I couldn’t just sit there forever, after all, and the concert had been over for nearly half an hour. Carnegie Hall is not a large auditorium. If she had really planned to come, surely Olivia would be here by now. I slipped off my black Ferragamos and tucked them in my suitcase. I had just stood up to retrieve my street clothes from the rack by the door when I heard a soft tap.

  My heart stopped, and I sucked in a breath. “Come in,” I managed to say.

  It was not Olivia. It was another delivery boy, and he had a message for someone else. With more than a little annoyance, I sent him on his way, shut the door and removed my bow tie. Five minutes later, I was clad once again in my standard offstage uniform: gray slacks and navy cashmere pullover. I had just finished zipping my tuxedo into a garment bag when there was another knock on the door. I was standing only a couple of feet away, and I opened it.

  She was wearing a simple blue silk dress and carrying a black coat over one arm. She also had on dark glasses and a scarf, which she began to remove as soon as I’d closed the door behind her. When I turned again to face her, I couldn’t believe I had actually worried that I might not recognize her. Her hair, slightly mussed from being captured in the scarf, still tumbled long and dark and full, and her skin had the same wonderful golden luster. And those green eyes. The girl I had loved was still there, but there was so much more, and it went far deeper than mere photogenic beauty. Her presence filled the room when she was still standing in the doorway. “Olivia,” I said, before I even knew my mouth was open. She smiled.

  “Hi, Ted,” she said softly as she tucked the sunglasses and scarf into her shoulder bag. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I had to make a phone call. I hope I haven’t kept you.”

  “Of—of course not,” I stammered. “And—thank you for the roses. They were such a surprise. A good surprise.” Olivia looked me right in the eyes.

  “Were they, Ted?” she asked quietly. “I couldn’t be sure.” She looked down. “For me, the surprise was to get the message you left at my hotel.”

  “I’m glad you got it—that you’re here,” I said quickly. “Have you had dinner? We could—”

  “Ted, I’m sorry—” My face must have taken on a look of obvious disappointment, because Olivia touched my sleeve. “No! I didn’t mean about dinner. I mean, I’m sorry for, for—” She paused and took a breath. I just stood there mute, and at last she looked at me again. “Teddy,” she said, and my heart leapt at the nickname, “as a matter of fact, I’m starving.”

  Chapter 20

  For the next hour, everything seemed weird in its ordinariness. Here I was, alone with Olivia after a hiatus of nearly two decades, and the first main topic of conversation was my luggage. I had to get my suitcase and garment bag back to my hotel, and Olivia had her own mundane concerns. She was eager to avoid being recognized, and she swathed herself in her scarf again before we stepped outside.

  “I hope I can get away without the sunglasses now that it’s dark,” she said. “What do you think, Ted? Would you know me if I passed you on the street?”

  I looked at her. Even after nineteen years, even disguised with a scarf, I would have recognized her. How could that be? I wondered. I thought I had banished her from my thoughts so thoroughly, and yet—she must have been there anyway, somewhere beneath the surface.

  “I don’t think your fans will have a clue,” I said. None of them knew her like I did, after all, and my own experience told me how easy it is to walk about unrecognized in public places. I wasn’t a magazine-cover celebrity like Olivia, but I was beginning to have a coterie from my recordings and solo concerts.

  “I hope not,” said Olivia. “I would really like to keep the evening all to ourselves.” She echoed my feelings perfectly.

  We didn’t have to put her disguise to the test as we left Carnegie Hall. The artists’ entrance is designed to shield performers from aggressive onlookers, and we vanished into a cab without incident. Olivia had a limousine at her disposal, and I could have called a car service, but we would attract less attention in a more plebeian vehicle.

  We went first to the Warwick Hotel, where I was staying. I left my bag and suitcase with the doorman, and slid back onto the seat next to Olivia and my violin. I never leave my instrument in hotels, not even in a safe. When I travel, my violin stays with me.

  This particular violin was new, at least to me. It was actually three hundred years old, a wonderful Amati I’d discovered in Austria just a few months before. I could have bought a nice house in a fine neighborhood for what it cost, but it wasn’t the price tag that made it valuable to me. Over the years, a good violin had become as necessary to my existence as my heart. I felt as though I’d need life support without one, and even that would ultimately fail. I truly believed I’d die without my strings.

  The case was between us on the seat, and my left hand was resting on it. I was sorely tempted to move it, to remove the barrier between Olivia and me. I didn’t, of course. I was afraid it might seem too forward of me.

  “I have all your recordings,” said Olivia, putting her hand next to mine on the case. “But they’re nothing like hearing you play in person.”

  She had all my records?

  “Thank you,” I managed to say. “I’ve been following your career, too. Ever since I first saw a pict
ure of you as the ‘Chopper Chick.’ I still watch Gunther reruns whenever I’m in the States, and I just got the video of Blue Diamonds. You were terrific.”

  We were silent again, but the space between us was warmer, closer. Suddenly I realized that the taxi wasn’t moving.

  “Oh—we better decide where we want to eat,” I said. “Do you know a place, or should I go back and ask the concierge for advice?”

  “I know a place,” volunteered the cab driver. It is probably the only time in my life I have been lucky enough to find myself in a New York taxi with a driver who not only spoke English but was also eager to be helpful. He suggested an establishment he was sure would be open late, a restaurant in the Theater District. “You’ll like Baccala,” he said, winking in his rearview mirror. “Very romantic.”

  Olivia glanced at me with a little smile, and I felt color rise in my face. Damn! How could this be happening? She was married, and she was really little more than a stranger to me. That’s what quiet reason told me, but my heart and my soul were screaming a different story.

  “I’ve heard of Baccala,” she said. “I hope we can get in without a reservation.”

  “Don’t worry,” said the cabbie. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  He was true to his word, and his advice was well worth the large tip I gave him. Within twenty minutes, Olivia and I were installed at a quiet table in a sophisticated restaurant finished in polished granite and decorated with bronze sculptures and abstract watercolors.

  “We’re celebrating,” I said. “Shall I order champagne?”

  We ordered dinner at the same time, and while we waited for a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to arrive, I gazed at Olivia in the warm light of the candle on our table. We didn’t speak for a few minutes, but the silence was far from empty. Somehow, communication was taking place without words. I couldn’t take my eyes off her face. She was so familiar, yet so mysterious. I felt so comfortable, and at the same time unbearably excited.