Maestro

by Samantha van Dalen

  Dominique, the woman who had opened the door, went off to make the coffee. The other, Maîté, sat next to Sara, the lines on her face, stretched into a wide smile.

  Sara smelled the coffee making its way from the kitchen. Dominique arrived at the table, three cups of the fresh brew and a plate of almond macaroons on a plastic tray.

  Sara opened the conversation by thanking the women for offering her coffee. They were very, very kind to do so.

  Maîté spoke first, asking Sara who she was and how she knew the Guillani family.

  "I'm....an old friend...my parents met them once on holiday..."

  "Ah but they don't live here anymore. They used to live in the house but the house was torn down ten years ago. To build these apartments for old people like us."

  "Can you tell me where they've gone?" Sara asked biting into a crisp macaroon.

  "They died," Dominique replied, somewhat impatiently, "ten years ago. That's why the house was pulled down. It was sold to a private contractor who built these."

  Maîté went on to explain that both husband and wife had died within three months of each other. She had known them for many years; the Guillanis used to own the charcuterie (pork shop) in the village.

  "And children? Did they have any children?"

  Sara looked at both women, an innocent expression on her face.

  Dominique patted her chest loudly and Maîté let out a weak groan.

  "Oooh là là! A son, a terrible son!" Maîté lamented, her coffee quivering in her hands, "Didn't you know that they had a son?"

  "No. I can't remember…" Sara replied weakly, "What was his name again?"

  "Guillaume! Guillaume!" Maîté exclaimed vociferously, her blue eyes flashing at Sara, "What a tragic story. The mother and father died without seeing their son."

  Too stunned by the thought, Maîté looked at Dominique imploringly.

  "No one knows what happened," continued Dominique, "One day they had a son, the next, pouf! they never spoke of him again. After a while, everyone understood, not to mention his name around them. It made them sad to even hear his name."

  "Did he...live here, Guillaume, with his parents?"

  "Not for many years before they died."

  "But he would have sold this house. Surely he inherited it?"

  "He didn't even come to his own mother's funeral! Can you imagine!"

  "Do you know of any family that still lives in Bordeaux?"

  "The Guillanis were from Italy. They had no family in France."

  Sara's cup was empty. She needed to find out more. An hour had passed and she was intruding. Asking too many questions, which neither woman had answers for.

  She thanked them for their time and assured them that they had alleviated a great burden from her mind. Dominique and Maîté kissed her warmly on both cheeks. Sara asked them for directions as they accompanied her into the courtyard.

  "How do I get to the village centre, to find a taxi?"

  Maîté smiled and took Sara's hand in hers.

  "Straight ahead. If you get lost, you would have ignored how simple it is, to follow a straight line."

  Chapter Sixteen.

  "Bonjour, Madame."

  Sara had returned to the Sofitel and was standing at the reception desk. Unwilling to linger any longer in Bordeaux, she stared at the receptionist blankly.

  "Please call the airport. I wish to return to London on the next available flight."

  "Your ticket Madame?"

  Sara fumbled with the clasp on her bag and searched for the ticket. It had slipped between the pages of her notepad.

  "Er..here it is. I'll wait over there." she said pointing to a sofa in the lobby.

  Sara sat down and lit a cigarette.

  "There is something about Frenchmen," she mused, watching the hotel guests pass through the lobby, "that distracts."

  And she needed the distraction.

  So Gillane had grown up in France, the only child of artisans. He had been estranged from his parents long before they died. And when they died, he did not attend their funerals.

  What could have happened that was so fetid, evil, wrong, to disunite the bonds of blood?

  Son of no one. Deep sorrow and heartache.

  "Madame?"

  The receptionist was looking down at Sara, ticket in hand.

  "Yes?" Sara replied, abstracting herself from her thoughts.

  "You are confirmed, Madame, on the flight at 16.00 hours."

  "Thank you. Please prepare my bill."

  Sara checked her watch. One o'clock.

  "What time is your check out?"

  "13.00 hours except Saturday, when it is 12.00 hours."

  "That works out well, doesn't it? I'll clear my room immediately."

  "Oui, oui Madame." acknowledged the receptionist, scurrying off without further ado.

  Sara went up to her room. She repacked the few items she had removed from her travel bag. Toothbrush, toothpaste, makeup. She returned to the reception and paid her bill. That transaction completed, there was nothing left for her in Bordeaux.

  ********************

  London 5.45pm. Bordeaux 6.45pm. Sara adjusted her watch as the taxi slowed down near her house.

  "There! That one. Number 34."

  The taxi stopped.

  "Thirty seven pounds Madam."

  Sara gave the driver forty.

  "Keep the change. Merry Christmas."

  She piled out of the taxi and looked at her house. A couple came out from the house next door, arm-in-arm and smiled at her. Sara realised that she didn't know any of her neighbours, their names or what they looked like. Embarrassed, she hurried in to number 34.

  There were three messages on the answer phone. David had called the night before, wondering where she was. Madame Colvin had left two messages, a few minutes apart, earlier that morning.

  The anxiety in Madame Colvin's voice was evident. Sara rang her back immediately.

  Madame Colvin answered her private line in the kitchen of the chalet.

  "Oh, Miss Perrins! Thank goodness you've called!"

  "What is wrong Madame Colvin? What was so urgent?"

  "Two of the maids walked out this morning. There are all sorts of people coming through this house. The Chef cannot keep up. My resources...I cannot cope..."

  Madame Colvin ended this last sentence wailing into the receiver.

  "Come now, Madame Colvin. You'll have to make do. I'm in London. Bring in other maids. The Maestro will not be there forever. He is your employer and mine, sadly: we depend on him for a living. As they say, it goes with the job."

  Madame Colvin breathed a long sigh, resigned to the wisdom of Sara's words.

  "I suppose you are right. Merry Christmas, Miss Perrins."

  Sara hung up the phone feeling guilty at the abrupt manner with which she had spoken to Madame Colvin. However, in all honesty, she had no sympathy for the woman. Six weeks of the Maestro was very little to compare to the other forty-six weeks which were left for Sara to endure. An example of which was the Maestro's insufferable behaviour prior to his leaving on holiday. Sara's antipathy towards him then had been aggravated by his seeming indifference to the mayhem he created.

  Since opening her front door, Sara had not moved from the hallway. She decided to banish all thoughts of the Maestro, bad and good, from her mind. She removed her heavy winter coat and hung it on the coat rack. Bending down to pull off her boots, she noticed a small white envelope lying near the door.

  "Bless his heart," she smiled, thinking of the postman who always managed to deliver the post on Christmas Eve.

  She stacked her boots along the wall and picked up the envelope. The narrow letters, crushed upright, in dead centre, was instantly familiar to her. She scrutinised the franked stamp. Goldarn 23.12. Yesterday. Just yesterday, this envelope had been in his hands.

  The longing, the fright, the knowing, the desire, scuttled her head. Her chest tightened, she leant against the dark oak cabinet in the hallway, t
he special delivery burning through her hands.

  "Why after all this time?" she heard herself ask.

  The phone started to ring. Sara looked at it in disbelief. It wouldn't stop. She yanked the receiver.

  "Hello? Hello?"

  "Hello stranger. Merry Christmas!" came the cheerful, happy voice.

  "Hello?" Sara panted, a thousand miles of running behind her. "Hello?"

  "Sara! It’s David! Are you all right?"

  "David, I'm fine. I've been away. Tired and all that..."

  "Been away? Well, why not tell me all about it over dinner? Shall I pick you up at seven?"

  David waited for her to reply.

  Sara smelled the envelope and pressed it against her cheek.

  "Yes, of course." she mumbled but in her head, all she could think of was Gillane.

  Yes I would go to the ends of the earth with you. Yes I love you. But who are you?

  "See you then. Bye!"

  The friendly voice signed off. The receiver fell back into place.

  Sara walked into the living room, clutching the envelope. She poured herself a scotch, lit a cigarette and sat down.

  Why, at last, had he remembered her?

  Curious to see what would emerge and equally terrified that the long, winding road to Gillane was perilous, Sara opened the envelope. It yielded a card, folded in two, a black and white sketch of the single street in Glymeer, on the cover.

  Inside, the words drained into the stark white of the paper. And there were only a few words.

  "My thoughts are with you at this time. Guillaume."

  A single, barren, remorseless sentence. A long awaited message that would have been more appropriate on a condolence card. No Merry Christmas, no wishes for health and prosperity in the New Year. Presumably, Gillane was practising telepathy by sending "thoughts." "At this time." Whenever that was.

  Sara threw the card onto the coffee table in front of her and leaned back in her chair.

  Self-sustaining Gillane. In need of no one. Selfish at worst, spiritual at best.

  Had she been wiser, she could forgive. Had she been younger, she could forget.

  Gillane's usage of the English language was judicious, economical. The man was neither a poet, nor a consummate romantic. The brevity of the message, its unambiguous meaning were loudest of all, like the thundering silence that had followed her back to London. Nothing left to be interpreted, no flushed, red cheeks.

  Gillane could have written "A rose is a rose because it flowers," signed his name underneath and it would have meant the same thing.

  Why bother to send it at all?

  Sara emptied her glass. 6.30. That left her thirty minutes to shower and put something nice on for David.

  ***************

  The following spring, Sara and David were seated on a plane, on their way to Florence.

  A week earlier, David had treated her to dinner. He had produced the two return tickets just as the waiter popped the cork of their second bottle of champagne.

  "What are those?" Sara asked, her mouth full of chocolate mousse.

  "Florence." grinned David, pleased with himself, "You positively, absolutely cannot refuse Florence in the Spring, Sara. She is calling your name. Can you get away?"

  David had grown on Sara like a cheeky, stray dog that chews its way into the house and refuses to leave. She felt genuinely fond of him and was grateful for his faithful companionship. It was he who arranged all their outings together - visits to museums, restaurants, the Saturday afternoons trawling the flea markets and antique shops. She was not surprised, therefore, to see the tickets on the table. She suspected that David was in love with her but would never say so, unless he could be sure she felt the same way.

  Waiting for her answer, David's dessert had melted into a puddle.

  Sara looked at him and laughed.

  "You'll have to drink that now! I'm sure the Maestro will let me go. I haven't been to Florence before..." she lied.

  David's face lit up again.

  "Brilliant, Sara. Brilliant."

  *************

  Florence was beautiful. Blessed with a mild spring, refined cuisine, fruity wines and ancient history, Sara congratulated David on his choice.

  "David, it’s all so wonderful! Thank you."

  David blushed and kissed her on the cheek.

  "Florence of the Medicis."

  "What did you say, David?"

  "I don't know. I just read that somewhere. Oh look! Here in this brochure..."

  He dragged Sara off on yet another sightseeing tour.

  Like an excited child, David pulled Sara by the hand, stopping every five seconds to gape:

  "Isn't that beautiful! Have you ever seen anything like it!"

  There were endless rounds of photo taking, practically every time they breathed. The funniest of them all, Sara thought, was David holding a live crab on his head in a fish market. Other opportunities for more photos included eating pots of zabaglione, slurping zuppa di pesce and drinking plain old cappuccino. And then there were the monuments...

  By the fourth day, Sara was well and truly exhausted. She went to bed early, leaving David to dine on his own. The next morning, she feigned a throbbing headache and begged off an all-day coach tour. David left her reluctantly, promising to be back for dinner.

  David gone for at least eight hours would provide some respite for her weary head.

  Sara went down to the lobby to find the concierge. She showed him the address of Gillane's parents on the deed and asked him how far it was.

  "I'm not sure Signora. Let me get the map and check for you."

  Sara had not forgotten Gillane. The silence and the strange Christmas card. It had been exactly one year since she had set foot in Glymeer. Looking back over the past twelve months, it seemed very little had changed. Her life had not really improved in any way. Sure, she was working at a less hectic pace and she had acquired a social circle. The Art Society, David. But to judge honestly, none meant very much to her.

  Sarah Lunn, vanished and forgotten, still represented something in her life that Sara could not come to terms with, lay her hands upon, touch, hold and say: "Yes! This is it!"

  She had accepted the holiday with the lawyer because he was persistently bright-eyed and a necessary diversion from her own state of being. What she did not want to face, he happily steered her away from. He asked no questions, he made no demands. To him, she was the magnificent butterfly whom he would forever behold. In awe and with grace. Afraid to compromise the privilege he had to gaze upon it.

  All this was why she was drawn to the one thing she could never fully comprehend. The lost soul whose life, she believed was joined to hers.

  The concierge returned holding a map.

  "I'm sorry Signora for the long wait. It’s not far, maybe fifteen minutes by car."

  "Is there any way we can get the telephone number for that address?"

  The concierge arched his eyebrows, surprised by the question.

  "Signora, without a name, I cannot find a number."

  "I'm sorry. I don't speak Italian. I didn't want to go there and not be able to understand what they're saying...." Sara replied sheepishly.

  "If you wish Signora, I can accompany you there. In half an hour?"

  "Thank you, thank you. That's very kind of you."

  To pass the time, Sara thumbed through a rack full of brochures and leaflets near the Concierge's desk. Wine- tasting galore. A tour of the Emilia-Romagna region to see and taste Lambrusco. A visit to Latium, just south of Rome to experience Frascati. Umbria, famous for the dry and abbocato wines of Orcieto. Dozens of tours to choose from.

  Next, it was the famous museums and galleries in Florence. Sara waded through a handful. Until she saw the name Guillani.

  "An abstract colourful theme runs throughout his works. This Italian painter, well known in his hometown, is worth-seeing. A novice collector will do well to visit this exhibition...."

  Sara turned t
he leaflet over. A photo of a man with dark hair and dark eyes. Gillane.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder.

  "Signora? Shall we go?"

  Sara looked at the concierge in astonishment.

  "Later! Later, perhaps. First, I must go here!" she pointed to the photo and dashed past the concierge out into the Florentine sunshine.

  The Galleria Darias was already open to visitors, a thin line of whom was advancing quickly through the main entrance. Sara waited her turn patiently, facing a photo, too large to ignore, of the exhibiting artist. Today was the second day of the exhibition. She had just missed meeting the artist himself. She paid for her ticket and passed through to see the fruits of his labour.

  She recognised the paintings that had adorned Gillane's house in Glymeer. The thin sleight of hand as the colours splashed against the canvas. It was him. It was all him. And he was here. Perhaps even observing her.

  One particular tableau, a portrait, caught her eye. A woman, her face hidden, tall, with vibrant red hair. Holding a harness. Wearing a white dress.

  Sara covered her mouth with her hands.

  "Sara. Sara."

  She turned to face the voice. Gillane stood smiling at her, his arm stretched out towards her.

  "Guillaume?" she said choking.

  Each captivated by the sight of the other, neither could speak.

  Gillane spoke first.

  "Yes, it’s me," he said. "You've discovered my secret."

  Chapter Seventeen.

  The man standing before her was beautiful.

  A sharp pain pierced Sara’s stomach and rippled throughout every cell, every inch of her body.

  Was he flawed?

  He was dark. His eyes flashed at her, a torchlight to her soul.

  Faith, love, glory, beauty, peace, earth, wind, fire and grace.

  Avenger.

  "Secret? What secret?" Sara babbled, her arms crossed against her chest as if it was an effort to stay standing.

  "Painting. I'm a painter."

  "I...I'm on holiday." Sara babbled on, unable to think, "Getting....some space. Thank you.....for the Christmas card..."

  Gillane's outstretched arm had come to rest on her back.

  "There, there, Sara. You're welcome. Shall we have a coffee? It’s that time of day."