A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  “Hmm. I cannot tell you. I promised I wouldn’t give away his location to anyone. I could give you hints and let you guess, but then I might be accused of game playing.” He smiled.

  “Oh, c’mon. That’s just—”

  “Wicked? Yes, I know.” He waved his fingers in front of him, like a dark sorcerer might. “It would be so easy to orchestrate these next moves, but I’m pledged to resist.” He exhaled heavily and opened his palms. “You’re the master of your own game, Gwen. Play it or not. It’s in your hands now, not mine.”

  “What?” She put her fists on her hips and shot him her most murderous look. “But how can I even take a step onto the board if I don’t know where the other player is?”

  “I’m certain you can track him down. Just keep your eyes and, um, ears open.” He tapped his right ear, gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and backed away. “Safe travels, Gwen.”

  “Thoreau—”

  He blew her a chaste kiss and returned to the safety of his girlfriend.

  She wandered out into the hall, just a few steps from the door. She didn’t see Emerson in the hallway or in any directional offshoot of it, so she tried walking several yards to her right until she got to a little open lobby area. No sign of him. She returned to where the party room was and headed down the hall the other way. Still, nothing.

  Then she closed her eyes, listening to the chatter of her tour mates as their voices leaked into the hall. That was when she heard it. A sound like the falling of summer rain.

  A piano.

  The notes called to her as if in prelude, not only an overture of the song to come, but of the melody attached to a long-awaited conversation, meant for two voices in duet. She smiled to herself when, as she drew closer, she recognized with certainty the tune. It was, naturally, from The Phantom of the Opera. “All I Ask of You.”

  He sat at the piano bench, his back to the door, playing those opening measures. More than once he stopped suddenly and started again from the beginning. He was, she realized, just learning the song. The music from the play was open in front of him. He flipped to a new page, paused to tinker with the notes, then returned to the beginning once more, playing the opening so well this time it brought tears to her eyes.

  She sniffed once, not loudly, but it was enough. Emerson had good hearing.

  He swiveled around and stared at her with those golden eyes of his. “Hello, Gwen. I hadn’t heard you walk up.”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt.” She took a few steps closer. “Were you trying to avoid me?”

  He sighed. “I was not anxious to say good-bye to you tonight, if that was what you meant,” he said, letting that thought rest in the air between them.

  “I wasn’t anxious to say good-bye either.” She paused. “I wish you’d keep playing, though. It was beautiful.”

  He shrugged. “Glad you liked it. I’ll admit—” He chuckled softly. “I’ll admit, I was thinking of you.”

  She smiled slightly, catching his joke. “Did you play that one, too? ‘Think of Me’?”

  Emerson lifted the songbook off the piano ledge and flipped back several pages. He held it up for her to see the title. “Yes. I’ve been going through it song by song. Some are trickier than others.”

  “Will you play ‘All I Ask of You’ again?” She pointed to the music. “I don’t care if you hit a few wrong notes. I doubt I’d notice with the way you play.” He kept looking at her, though, not at the songbook or at the instrument. “Please, Emerson,” she added.

  He swallowed, nodded and turned back to the piano. This time when he brought his fingers to the keys, the notes that flowed out were imbued with a passion that extended beyond the powerful tones of the music. They seemed to come from deep within him.

  Gwen thought about the words to the song. About two lovers pledging themselves to each other, promising they’d always be loving, sharing, truthful. This was what she’d hoped for in a relationship. This was her dreamed-for ideal. And whether or not Emerson was looking for the same things, she knew herself—and the inner workings of her own mind—a bit better now. If nothing else, she knew a few things she didn’t want.

  She didn’t want to be able to predict every experience of her life between now and age eighty.

  She didn’t want to always be in control, or to be organized, efficient, regimented.

  She didn’t want to keep an important part of her secret self locked away forever, for fear of it being ridiculed or misunderstood.

  Emerson may or may not understand everything there was to know about her, but he grasped one very essential core truth. He connected with her musical passion. And, more than that, he shared it.

  At first, Gwen just hummed a few bars of the song, and Emerson—surprised by her musical initiative—smiled at her as he kept playing. But the feelings the notes inspired within her welled up deep inside until she couldn’t contain the longing she felt at their harmonies. The Gwen of some other place or time—that less anxious, less closeted version of herself—was determined to make its presence known.

  Without consciously realizing what she was doing, until she was actually in the midst of doing it, she opened her mouth at the start of a new verse ... and began to sing. It was at the part of the song when leading lady Christine was imploring her boyfriend Raoul to say he loved her. As she sang the words aloud, Emerson gazed at her in mild shock, and then joined in. Joined at the moment where Raoul responds to his beloved Christine, saying to her that she knew he loved her. Then they finished the verse together, and Gwen stopped singing. Not because she was embarrassed about expressing herself. Not because she felt vulnerable. Simply because it was time for the piano to reign the sound waves alone. To vibrate around them as purposefully as oxygen. And, at that moment, Gwen wanted only to listen to Emerson play those ending notes.

  When he pulled his fingers off the keyboard, he didn’t get up. He just sat on the bench, his hands in his lap, and looked at her with an expression of gentleness, compassion and wanting. That look was her only signal, but the Gwen-of-the-less-inhibited-self took it as reason enough for genuine action. She may have traveled thousands of miles from home and walked for hours through ancient cities and modern European metropolises, she may have skipped down stone staircases and climbed up mountains to admire stunning natural vistas, but it wasn’t until she sat down on the piano bench next to Emerson and put her arms around him that Gwendolyn Reese took her first real step of the trip.

  She kissed him.

  Gently, compassionately, wantingly.

  He kissed her, too, for what felt like a mere instant. Then he pulled back and cleared his throat. “Uh, Gwen? What—er, what about Richard?”

  “You know how, in the middle of a song, if you were to alter the tempo and the key, the melody would sound like something else altogether?”

  He nodded.

  “And midway through a chess match, you could, if you wanted, select a few moves you’ve never tried before and the outcome of the game could be entirely changed?”

  He nodded again.

  “And in physics, theoretically, at least, there’s this possibility for multiple universes and each of them—”

  “What are you getting at, Gwen?”

  She took a deep breath. “I chose differently. I chose ... a different song, a different move, a different universe. Richard isn’t a part of any of them.”

  He blinked at her. “I see.” There was an unnaturally long pause. “You are all right?”

  “Yes.” She smiled at him. “A little shaken, perhaps, at the strength of my own decision. But, yes.”

  “Well, then.” He leaned in and touched the tip of his nose to hers. “Please continue. I’m rather liking this song ... this move ... this universe.”

  And they kissed again. For much longer. So long, in fact, that an epoch might have passed and neither would likely have realized it. Such was the way of finding one’s art, Gwen thought, when she managed to think for a moment in words. The very fabric of time had l
ittle meaning when one was in the presence of one’s passions. It expanded and contracted like a magical cloth, and Gwen could feel herself wrapped in its silkiness.

  Sometime later, Emerson and Gwen wandered out into the hallway, holding hands and more than a little light-headed and disoriented.

  They’d barely walked five yards when they were accosted by Aunt Bea and most of the S&M members, both British and American, who had formed a conga line and were traipsing through the hotel hallways chanting, “Who let the math geeks out? Who? Who?” Aunt Bea had somehow, somewhere acquired an orange feather boa in Gwen and Emerson’s absence and, being that she’d taken on the role of line leader, was twirling her boa and bobbing her head in time with the rhythm.

  Zenia had, naturally, gotten into the spirit of things, adding a fist pump or two when it was least expected.

  Possibly, most comical of all was Hans-Josef, whose hands were firmly fixed on Cynthia’s hips in front of him but who, also, had on a dark green alpine hat—like the kind German dancers wore at an Oktoberfest parade—along with lederhosen and suspenders.

  “You will join us, ja? ” their tour guide asked.

  Dr. Louie said, “C’mon! What’s stoppin’ you, kids?”

  Kamesh’s wife smiled at them and added a cheerful “Olé!”

  Emerson shot Gwen an amused look. “How about we take a walk instead?” he asked her.

  “Yes, please,” she said quickly.

  Bea piped up, “Well, we’ll escort you to the door then. Jump on the back and hold on!”

  So, Gwen laughed and took hold of Connie Sue, and Emerson grabbed onto Gwen, and the whole line made its way through the mazelike hallways in the direction of the lobby.

  It was funny. Gwen couldn’t help but think how very like Aunt Bea this was, leading her on yet another labyrinthine journey. But then, her aunt had taught her a little something about that on this trip. That humans—no matter what age they were or when they lived—were all on a similar quest. They moved into the maze of their life, picking up important skills and understandings along the way, getting into the very heart of the labyrinth.... But then, when they felt they’d learned the things most central to their own minds and spirits, they could begin moving outward. Sharing what they’d discovered with the newcomers wandering in. It was a form of generosity Gwen had only just begun to appreciate, but it moved her nearly to tears—even while she was laughing.

  Aunt Bea and the rest of the line paused by the front door long enough for Gwen and Emerson to disembark.

  Gwen hugged her aunt and whispered to her, “I love you. Thanks for everything.”

  “I love you back, Gwennie,” Bea said, squeezing her tightly. “And you’re welcome. Have fun tonight and stay out late for a change, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Then Bea turned to Emerson and hugged him, too, whispering something in his ear that made him laugh aloud.

  “I don’t know if she’ll go for that,” he called after Gwen’s aunt, as Bea flipped the boa over her shoulder and pranced onward, taking the rest of the conga-ers with her.

  “What did she say to you?” Gwen asked, as they waved farewell to the grooving S&M members.

  Emerson grinned and shook his head. He motioned for her to follow him outside and Gwen let him lead her around London, just as she’d let him lead her through Florence, Venice, Budapest, Vienna, Paris....

  “One of these days, you’ll be in my corner of the world, and I can return the favor,” Gwen said. “I can show you Dubuque and Des Moines and my Waverly.” It was, however, an odd, displacing feeling, trying to imagine Emerson in her hometown.

  “Hmm. Dubuque. It’s along the water, yes?” Emerson asked.

  “Yes,” Gwen agreed. “The Mississippi River.”

  “So, it’s a little like ... what? Miami, then?”

  “Miami,” Gwen cried before realizing he was just teasing her. “Fine, laugh at me. But don’t tell me you’ve been there, too. I know you haven’t.”

  He smiled. “I’ve been close. Chicago. Milwaukee. This American Midwest of yours. But, indeed, you are correct. I have never set foot in Dubuque proper. I ought to now. Now that I have reason.” He shot her a significant look. “Right?”

  She nodded first then grew braver. “Right.”

  He took a deep breath and glanced pensively at the underground station they were approaching. Victoria. “Any interest in seeing Scotland?”

  “Well, sure. Someday. I’m curious about the bagpipes and the kilts and—”

  “Tonight?”

  “WHAT?!”

  “That was what your aunt suggested, you see. That I take you by train up to Scotland tonight. To elope.” He cleared his throat. “She pointed out that we’re far more conveniently located here in London for such a jaunt than we would be, say, in Iowa.”

  Gwen laughed. “You’re kidding me? I finally get over the idea of needing to get engaged this year and she’s pushing for an elopement tonight? Sorry, Emerson! I’m not marrying anyone.” She glanced at him and noticed an odd expression skitter across his face. “Well, not yet, anyway.”

  He squinted at her. Speculatively.

  “What’s that look mean?” she asked him. “Don’t tell me you’re changing your mind. Not you. Not Mr. ‘No Commitment Ever’ Emerson. Are you?”

  He rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “I’m finding myself, strangely, not completely opposed to the idea. At least theoretically. In one potential alternate universe. The part of me who inhabits that particular membrane considers it one possible outcome now.”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle at that, recognizing their reversal of opinions. “Please tell me this isn’t part of some carefully crafted strategy to win me over on my very last night,” she said lightly, even though she didn’t really believe he’d be playing games now. “Ever since Florence you’ve had me wondering if, in fact, you could ever really commit to someone. Believe that you could find The One.”

  “Gwen,” he said seriously. “There’s no game tonight.” He motioned swiping a chessboard clean of its pieces with the back of his hand. “Amidst all of this traveling, something changed for me. That’s all. I stopped playing—oh, God—somewhere back in Austria.” He tugged her closer to him so they were facing each other and less than a foot apart. “Do I want to have a romantic last night with you? Of course. But we don’t have to do anything more than this tonight.” He squeezed her hand and gave her a tiny hug. “The tour might be over but, honestly, I don’t think our journey is. So, I can wait. Be patient. See what happens on the next trip. The one where I come to visit the States in a few months to see you.” He paused and cleared his throat. “So, when do you go on holiday next?”

  She thought about this. There was Labor Day weekend and Columbus Day, but these gave them only three days off. Thanksgiving break would only give them four full days together. There was two weeks at the end of December, but it was months away. She told him about all the possibilities. “Don’t you need to spend Christmas with your family, though?” she asked.

  “Don’t you?” he shot back.

  “Well, Aunt Bea would understand, although—if you were there with us—she’d want to celebrate with you. And I know my brothers would want to meet you, so ...”

  “So, we’ll get it sorted, then,” he said, his voice confident. “No worries.”

  “No worries,” she mimicked in a fake British accent, but she had to admit there was a relief in this plan, however vaguely arranged at present. A delight in simply knowing there would be a part two. That no decisions had to be made right at that very second. That there was no rush. That they could spend the night walking, talking and doing whatever they wanted, and that would be enough. Just that. That this was as far into the future as she had to see tonight.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay,” he mimicked in a fake American accent, and they both laughed. “Listen, I know we ate not that long ago, but London’s known for their excellent curries. You shoul
dn’t fly home without trying some. There’s a Tandoori place in Covent Garden, near my mate’s flat. He’s gone on business to Morocco, so I need to pop over there, pick up his mail and check on the place. I figured we could nab some takeaway while we were in the area and then decide what to do next. Interested?”

  “Definitely,” she said.

  “Right. Follow me then.”

  She and Emerson meandered through the bustling streets of London and, when they got to the little restaurant, Na’an For You, he ordered about five different kinds of Indian dishes.

  “I am not going to be able to eat half of that,” she exclaimed.

  “You don’t have to. Anything left over will be my breakfast. There’s nothing like spicy Tandoori to rouse your senses in the morning.”

  “I usually just have cold cereal.”

  “Then you don’t know what you’re missing, do you?” And with that, he guided her through the twists and turns of Covent Garden to the flat, which was up some metal stairs and above a bookstore on a fairly quiet street.

  “Liam just left three days ago,” Emerson said when they entered, stashing the food in the fridge. “He rang me when we were in Brussels and asked if I could take care of things for the week. He’ll be back next Monday. I was actually planning to stay here tonight, after the farewell dinner, so I could do some things in the city tomorrow.”

  Gwen raised an amused eyebrow at him. “And this is not strategy? Luring me here?”

  “No, no! I fully intend to take you back at whatever time you would like, love.” He motioned at the living room. “Have a look around. Liam has collected some unusual items.”

  She noticed the interesting art on the walls right away and took a few steps closer to get a better look. It was all very ... Casablanca. There was a Middle Eastern drum on one table, a brass demitasse coffee set on the kitchen counter, a decorative Moroccan water pipe on the carpet in the corner of the living room. This hint of a foreign world, even more removed and exotic from the foreign ones she’d been visiting, reminded her yet again what a vast place this planet was ... with so much left to explore. She’d only just scratched the surface, hadn’t she?