A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  She would, however, miss Emerson. And Thoreau. And maybe even Louisa, Hans-Josef and Cynthia. Yes, even her—albeit just a little. It was hard to believe that in a couple of short weeks their trip would be over and she’d probably never see any of them again. Would it be enough merely knowing they existed somewhere in the world, even if they never spoke or even e-mailed each other? Would knowing her have any lasting impact on their lives in the way she was certain knowing them would have on hers—even if their paths never again crossed?

  She inhaled fully and tried to hold the fresh foreign air in her lungs for, perhaps, a few seconds longer than necessary. Long enough to tease out the memory of her breathlessness at being kissed by Emerson. The warm, floaty feeling of it. The peculiarity of it, too. It was a dichotomy she felt increasingly discomfited by the more hours and days that passed since it happened. She had never been one to weigh the kissing techniques of one lover against another (she had also never dated more than one man at a time in her entire life), so this odd opportunity to compare and contrast left her even more unsure of herself and her judgments than her deficiencies in European traveling experiences and her overall lack of sophistication.

  She desperately wanted to go back to feeling capable and proficient in some aspect of her life once more.

  As she released the last of the air and inhaled again, she became aware of a silky, languorous tune drifting down the block and caressing her with its melody. She could spot the man—a gypsy violinist—playing soulfully for himself and a handful of passersby on the street corner across the way. The song, however, she did not recognize, but she found herself swaying to it nonetheless.

  Then, he followed this offering with a more vibrant piece, a toe-tapping dance number that had a few members of the crowd singing along in Hungarian. Gwen smiled and took a few steps closer. He was good.

  He’d just finished to a round of enthusiastic applause and embarked on an even livelier tune when she felt the air currents whirlpool around her and another harmonic sound intermingle with the melody.

  “Gwen,” Emerson said simply. She turned to face him and he moved forward, his expression serious. “My brother said you were out here. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She pointed down the block, the gypsy musician in full swing, his body completely at one with his instrument. “String theory in action,” she said with a laugh.

  He raised one eyebrow and she saw his lips twist into a grin. “So it is.”

  They listened together through the entirety of the song, and Gwen could see Emerson visibly relaxing. Spending so many hours with his brother that day had clearly set him on edge. She was glad to see some of that tension ebbing away and found herself hesitant to say or do anything that might precipitate its return.

  However, as Aunt Bea used to say, “You can’t make a cake without breaking some eggs.” She was going to have to risk Emerson’s good humor for the hope of finding out what had been going on between the brothers, particularly as it related to her.

  “Thoreau is a complex person,” she ventured.

  Immediately, Emerson’s expression turned darker. “Yes.”

  “I was noticing the two of you ... interacting silently all through the day. Almost as if you were competing against each other in a live board game.” She paused. “You two seem to do that a lot, don’t you?”

  He inhaled as if for fortification and fiddled with a leaf he’d picked up off the ground. “Yes.”

  “And, maybe I’m wrong on this—” she began. “But it really felt like you guys were especially at odds today. I can’t help but feel as though there was a reason for that conflict, and that I’m a part of it. Would you say that’s true?”

  She could see him swallow as he nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry, Gwen.” His eyes were fixed on the musician, but she could tell that wasn’t where his attention was. She waited until he was ready to speak. “We did argue about you, and I apologize if that made you uncomfortable. We’re ... not always easy to be around, I’m afraid. But, today, you’re correct. There was a bigger problem than usual.”

  The gypsy violinist shifted to a new tune, this one more melancholy than any Gwen had heard thus far. Several people still stopped to listen to him, but others drifted away in the sad footsteps of the haunting melody.

  “You didn’t seem to want me along on the castle excursion,” she said, giving voice to her suspicions from earlier in the day. “You seemed angry at your brother for asking me to come.” She bowed her head. “I guess I wanted to know why.”

  “I was angry when Thoreau asked you,” he admitted, “but not because I didn’t want you to join us.” He crumpled up the leaf and tossed it to the sidewalk. “I wanted to be the one to ask you. Not him. I also wanted to make sure you knew what it would entail, who else was going, how long we’d be gone. And I’d been trying to respect your wishes. To give you space ... after Venice.” He sent her a significant look. “I didn’t like what Thoreau was doing, and I’m still not sure where your feelings are in all of this, so that doesn’t help.”

  “What my feelings are?”

  “Precisely,” he said, his tone bitter. “Your feelings about my brother.” He scored his fingers through his sandy hair, his expression very grave. “I’ll acknowledge that many women are attracted to him. He has, I suppose, the tall, dark and handsome effect, and he is very intelligent, annoyingly responsible and moderately witty. When he tries hard,” he added with a shrug. “I’ve seen the two of you talking a fair bit. I realize you have a boyfriend back home and you’ve set limits between us because of it. I might not like it, but I can accept that. It was a relationship that predated our meeting, and I appreciate that you wish to honor your commitment to him. But with my brother—” He stomped on the leaf a few times with his shoe, grinding it into the pavement. “He can be flirtatious without necessarily being sincere, and I’m sorry to tell you that if ... if you actually kind of like him. If you were trying to decide whether or not he was, perhaps, the better choice.”

  She stared at him in astonishment. He thought she liked his brother? And he was angry about it? “Emerson—” she began.

  “No, look, please don’t misunderstand. I love my brother. I want him to be happy. But anything he says or does here on this trip is just a game for him. I told him to stay away from you, but he wouldn’t listen to me, Gwen. I told him for my sake as well as yours, but there’s someone else involved, too. He’s in this messed-up, mixed-up relationship with a woman back in London and he—”

  “Amanda.”

  “Yes, Amanda. And he—wait—” He stopped, his jaw dropping halfway. “He told you about her?”

  Gwen nodded. “Before we even got to Florence. This is his tester trip. He’s trying to figure out how he feels about her and their relationship. She wanted him to stay in England this summer, but he felt he needed to take a break. He’s pretty hung up on her.”

  He swore under his breath. “He told me he had not mentioned Amanda to you. That the subject never came up. That he had no intention of sharing—”

  “He was playing with you. Thoreau likes mind games.” She cocked her head and studied him. “But you’ve always known that. He’s your brother. He lives to push your buttons and vice versa. What made you think this time was so different?”

  “I, well ... I’m not certain.” He massaged his temples with the pads of his thumbs. “I cannot figure why he’d lie about this. Why he’d go so far out of his way to screw with me and to use you in the process. I’m having a bloody hard time forgiving him for that.”

  Gwen bit her lip. Thoreau had been flirtatious, but he’d let her know almost from Day One not to take him seriously. As for why he’d lie about that to his brother, however, she was almost as clueless as Emerson. She could see Thoreau setting up his real-life chessboard and moving certain human pieces into place. She could tell there was a well-thought-out strategy behind his moves. But she really had no idea what outcome he was hoping to create, and she didn’t know why he wanted it
either.

  The biggest mystery, though, revolved around Emerson’s reasons for caring. Why on Earth would it matter to him whether or not she ended up with his brother? He wasn’t looking for commitment. He wasn’t going to be interested in her one way or another after the tour ended. Was it, perhaps, as simple as that Emerson didn’t want to lose to his big brother ... even when the “prize” was of little consequence to him?

  The musician had been playing a series of soft, flowing songs but, whether the earlier crowd preferred the more upbeat numbers or if the hour was just getting late, the listeners had dispersed into the night, leaving the man alone with his violin.

  In a sudden movement, Emerson thrust his hands into his pockets and took several long strides in the direction of the gypsy. “Follow me,” he whispered to her, that feverish, childlike excitement returning to his expression after several hours of absence.

  So she followed him, watching as Emerson greeted the man and complimented him in short German sentences. Emerson, still speaking, thrust a number of bills into the man’s violin case, making the gypsy musician grin broadly. Gwen didn’t understand what was being discussed, but there was much nodding, smiling and glancing in her direction. She expected an introduction to take place as soon as she got to them and she wasn’t disappointed.

  “Gwen, this is Tibor,” Emerson said.

  She said hello and shook his hand. “You play beautifully,” she added, hoping he would understand English well enough to glean what she meant. Then she took a step back. He would, no doubt, play again now that Emerson had given him such a healthy tip. Probably a song of Emerson’s choosing.

  But the man didn’t play again. He held out the instrument to her.

  She squinted at him and then at Emerson. What, exactly, was going on?

  “Take the violin, Gwen,” Emerson said, amused.

  “Wh-why? Did you buy it?”

  He laughed. “No. I just borrowed it for us for ten minutes. I’ve promised Tibor we wouldn’t destroy it.” He carefully took the instrument from the musician’s hands, held it up to his chin and, with the bow drawn across the strings, played a few experimental notes. They sounded very screechy. He laughed at his efforts and made her take the violin. “Your turn.”

  “But I can’t play—” she started to say.

  “Yes, you can.” He sighed. “It’s clear I can’t play this instrument at all, but even I tried it. You’ve at least learned a song or two, even if it was years ago. Play us something, Gwen. Anything. It’ll be all right. Just think of the last tune you remembered practicing and play whatever parts of it you recall.”

  “Oh, no. Really, Emerson, no. It’s been too long since—”

  But Tibor nodded with encouragement and said something in German that Emerson haltingly translated for her. “He’s telling you that his violin has a soul ... no, that’s not quite right. It has ‘a good spirit.’ It will guide you as you play. Help you along.”

  Gwen doubted this, but to refuse any longer might offend the musician, and she didn’t want to do that. He would probably be offended enough when she massacred the notes. But the violin did look ... for want of a better word ... friendly. Almost welcoming.

  She reached for it, feeling the smooth arch of the neck under her thumb, the tautness of the strings, the careful craftsmanship of the polished wood, the inward curl—like a seashell—on the end of the violin itself and the sunken indentations at the bottom of the bow when she grasped it. Her fingers slipped at once into the correct position. Muscle memory at work.

  Sliding her chin into the curving resting spot, lifting up the instrument and drawing the bow across the strings near the bridge, she made her first sounds in over a decade.

  She didn’t attempt to play any song she knew at first; she just tried to reacquaint herself with the notes again. Initially, she sounded as scratchy and screechy as Emerson had, but her hands soon readjusted to the pressure of the bow dancing across the violin, to her fingertips pushing into strings again, to the stretch of her palm as she reached to hit the notes.

  She ran through a scale or two and sounded, to her own ear, like a child. One rusty from having not practiced as she should. In some ways—musically, at least—she realized she was still a child. After her mom died, she tried to play on and off for a few years more, but her dad had lost heart in teaching her, and in his own music, too. Their lessons became increasingly less frequent and songs filled the air in their house only occasionally until, eventually, they disappeared altogether.

  Gwen couldn’t deny the embarrassment she felt in being listened to by both Emerson and the musician, but they didn’t appear to be cringing (yet) at her playing. She recognized that, while inexpert and uncomplicated, her notes were at least growing stronger, clearer and more freely flowing. She thought back to a song her dad had taught her when she was about nine or ten. Her mother had liked it and, so, Gwen practiced and practiced until she’d memorized the short Shaker tune and could play it for her sometimes.

  Even after all of these years, her fingers still recalled their positions, gliding into place without excessive concentration. A childlike performance set in 4/4 time, she knew, but it was error-free and she filled those six fleeting lines of music with as much heart as she could pack into them.

  Then she handed the violin back to its owner. “Thank you,” she whispered to Tibor.

  He murmured something back at her in German or, maybe, it was Hungarian this time. His warm smile told her that his words were kind.

  Emerson was quiet, but his eyes shined. He beamed his delight at her. “You didn’t play long, Gwen, but you played well. Thank you for trusting me... .” He let that thought trail off.

  It was true. She had trusted him. She had to in order to play. It might have seemed like a small thing to some but—for her—it was a big, heart-pounding leap of faith.

  They thanked the man again and wandered back toward the bar, listening to the beautiful gypsy music flowing behind them like a veil. Gwen almost couldn’t believe the same instrument could produce such vastly different sounds.

  “What was the name of the song you played?” Emerson asked. “The tune sounded familiar to me. A little like ‘Lord of the Dance.’ I quite liked it.”

  “You’re right to connect them. ‘Lord of the Dance’ was adapted from it. The song is called ‘Simple Gifts.’ I learned it as a kid,” she said. Then, “And I’m sure you could hear how very simple it was.” She tried to laugh off the awkwardness she felt. “I know what I played was pretty amateurish, Emerson. You don’t have to try to flatter me or humor me. I know I’m not a good musician like Tibor. Or like you.”

  He wrinkled his nose as if in disbelief and shook his head in emphasis. “The point isn’t always about being ‘good,’ which is subjective anyway. Playing music is about expression, interpretation, personal perspective set to a melody. There are lots of people who can play notes accurately, even really complex sequences. You know as well as I do that this ability is just a matter of skill, often based on years of practice. That skill isn’t a bad one to have, of course, but competence isn’t enough to create a transformative experience.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “You said we were hardwired as humans to respond to the music of the spheres, Emerson. I would think playing accurately would do that. The musician would hit all the right harmonics.”

  He laughed. “True. From a vibrational, string-theory standpoint, certainly. As listeners, we can’t help but respond to the beauty of the sounds in relationship with each other. But playing music and listening to it are different things. Complementary, but far from identical. You know that. It’s one thing to create a musical impression, another to merely listen to it. Listeners have the right to subjectively qualify a piece as ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ based on what they’ve heard before and how well trained their ears are. But players have to have a different criterion for judgment. They can try to gauge the reaction their performance has on their audience and base their appraisal of qu
ality on that ... or they can evaluate their performance on how close it comes to meeting their own expectations.”

  “Which are—what?” she asked.

  “Which are, among other things, whether the player expressed the feelings he or she wanted to share. Whether that simultaneous sense of release and connection happened. Whether the act of playing itself was an emotional one for the player. The world may call a man a ‘good’ musician, even a ‘successful’ one, but if he hasn’t expressed the truth in his heart, how good could the performance really be?”

  She thought on this for a moment. “I think it would be easier to express the truth if one hit the correct notes.”

  “Probably.” He paused, seeming to study her. “Your soul shined through when you played, Gwen. It meant something to you, and you were honest about expressing it. The violin itself means something to you. I saw a glimpse of the real Gwendolyn Reese just now. I can’t judge your performance as a creator, only as a listener, but—to me—it was good. You’ll have to decide for yourself if you expressed through it what you most wanted to. Either way, it’s obvious you have the spirit of a musician. You shouldn’t hold yourself back from playing.” He reached for her right hand and tenderly rubbed her fingers. “You’ve got a solid base. Why not take violin lessons again?”

  Why not, indeed?

  Only, perhaps, because she’d wrapped up her musician’s heart and soul in sentimental brown paper and unbreakable string, and tucked the package away with her other dusty daydreams, the memories of her parents and the carefree childhood that had gotten cut short when she was far too young. She did not mention this.