“Nitimur in vetitum semper, cupimusque negata,” Andrea said, reading the Latin phrase out loud. “What does it mean?”
“May the force be with you.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“It means, ‘We try to get what has been forbidden for us, and we always want whatever we have been refused.’ Or at least I hope it does. I might have been slightly drunk when I picked it out from the shop’s catalog.”
The Latin words summoned a memory of Isaac’s smile. Andrea forced a laugh to chase it away. “The Star Wars quote was better.”
“Without a bottle of tequila, I suppose it does seem a bit silly.”
“Not silly. It’s sad.”
“Sad? Why?”
“Because it’s true.” Andrea retreated into her coffee mug.
Nate chewed on his lip. “So…um…what are your plans for today?”
“Vacuuming. Laundry. Bills,” she said, trying to look miserable. Nate would not understand why she cherished her chores. They grounded her day in routine and set the limits of what was possible and what was not. Isaac fell into the latter category. “If there’s time, I might paint my nails.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Paint your nails.”
Andrea arched a brow. “Why not?”
“Because you’ll only ruin them.”
“Why?”
“Because of this.” He pulled out a small mint-green gift bag from behind the kitchen counter.
“What is it?”
“It’s an I’m-really-sorry-that-you’ll-be-alone-for-a-month-while-I’m-touring gift. I’m leaving tomorrow, remember?”
Andrea tried to laugh. “A month. Right. I forgot.” Andrea had done her best to push Nate’s upcoming tour with his band out of her mind. His was the last voice she heard before she went to sleep. Without him, her days were going to feel endless.
“Aren’t you going to open your present?” Nate asked.
“Yes. Of course. Thanks.” She took the gift bag from him and gave him a peck on the cheek. Heat flared over his skin, marking the line she took care not to cross. She and Nate had learned to be neighbors and friends, but it was a lesson she needed regular refresher courses on. She kept Nate at an arm and a half’s length. The border of love and lust was like the world behind her wall. It was a place old friends did not return from intact.
Andrea opened the gift bag and pulled out a miniature cello case made of wood. “It’s adorable.”
“Open it,” Nate said.
Andrea unlatched the wooden case. A dark amber cake, molded in the shape of a cello, lay inside it. “Rosin?”
“I won’t be around to bug you for a month and I figured that you might want to get some practice in while I’m gone. You haven’t touched your cello since you got here. You’ve neglected it long enough, don’t you think?”
Andrea glanced at the wall. “But—”
“No buts, Dre. I already picked out a song for us.”
“For us? What are you talking about?”
“Get dressed and I’ll show you. Bring your cello.”
—
The small bar was closed when they got there. Nate fished out a key from his jeans. “The owner’s a friend of mine.”
Andrea stepped inside, carrying her cello. “Why are we here?”
“The bar doesn’t open until tonight so we have the stage to ourselves.”
“You play. I’ll watch.”
“Come on, Dre. You already lugged your cello all this way.”
“Only because you promised to do my dishes for a week when you get back from your tour if I did. I brought my cello. That was our deal. You didn’t say I had to play it.”
Nate reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out folded sheets of paper. “This might change your mind.”
Andrea unfolded the sheets and saw a cello arrangement for Coldplay’s “Clocks” in Nate’s handwriting. The notes leapt from the page and sang in her head. “You wrote this? It’s beautiful.”
Nate smiled. “Believe it or not, I did manage to pick up a thing or two from the few cello lessons I had with your dad.” He pulled a second set of music sheets from his jacket. “And I made another arrangement for drums. It’s a duet. What do you say? Shall we find out what we sound like together?”
—
Andrea took her seat in the center of the small stage. Nate’s drum set was behind her. She looked out at her audience of empty tables and chairs and took a deep breath. She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans.
“Ready?” Nate asked.
Andrea answered with a long pull of her bow. Her heart was pounding too fast to let her speak. The haunting opening notes of “Clocks” flowed from her strings. Nate’s drumbeat joined them. Each beat throbbed in Andrea’s chest. They had kissed, held hands, and touched, but for the first time in all the years that she had known Nate, Andrea listened to the music they made and felt what it was like to have him inside her.
—
Andrea lay in bed, her spine still tingling from the song that she and Nate had played that morning and the kiss they shared when it ended. Nate would be on a plane long before she woke up. She dreaded the month without him. When she was with him, she could think clearly. She could hear his voice and breathe in the scent of his skin. She could run her fingers through his hair and nuzzle his cheek. Nate was made of flesh, bone, and logic, reason, blood. He didn’t come wrapped in mystery or magic, but his music entranced her as strongly as any spell. The world was simple and made sense when he was around. When he wasn’t, it grew silent enough for Andrea to hear the questions behind her wall.
She stared into the face of the vintage Omega on her wrist. There were so many seconds in a month and in any one of those seconds, a silver-haired man in a crisp gray suit and wing tip shoes could show up with a letter, or a crack could open in a wall. At any moment, she could split in two, torn cleanly in half by what she had and what could be. Andrea closed her eyes and slipped into a dream about clocks with two faces and hands that ran both forward and back.
—
A kiss on her cheek woke her. Andrea’s eyes adjusted to the dark. “Nate? What are you doing here? What time is it?”
“Ridiculous o’clock in the morning. Sorry. I just wanted to say goodbye before I left. The guys are waiting downstairs.”
“Don’t go.”
“What?” Nate frowned.
“Don’t go on tour.”
“Come on, Dre. You know I can’t do that.” He stroked her cheek. “I wouldn’t leave if I really didn’t have to. You’ll be okay by yourself here, right?”
Andrea searched the shadows for her cello and sighed. “Right.”
—
She rubbed Nate’s gift over her cello’s bow and set the rosin cake on top of the only table in the apartment. The table shook. She had not gotten around to fixing its uneven leg but had mastered the delicate art of arranging her coffee and laptop on it so that it wouldn’t wobble. She flipped her laptop open and reviewed the keynote presentation she had spent the morning revising. She turned the laptop’s screen toward the wall and opened her cello case. There were things that she needed to tell Isaac if and when she managed to open the wall between them. Nate had kissed her on the bar’s stage and she had kissed him back. She didn’t know what it meant or where it would lead them, but she owed Isaac the truth. She begged the wall to give her a chance to say it face-to-face. Living with a heart that was torn in two made her a cheater, but she refused to let it make her a coward.
Notes felt their way around the studio. A glowing hole opened on the wall in front of her in the midst of a frail staccato. Isaac’s hazel eyes greeted her from behind it. Blood rushed from Andrea’s head to her heart. She gripped the cello’s neck. The time that had passed since she had seen him had not dulled Isaac’s gaze. It pierced every layer that hid her secrets from the world. Skin. Muscle. Soul. Each shivered, naked and—though none would admit it—happy to be s
een.
She laid her bow down, making her table wobble. Her fingers fumbled over her laptop’s track pad. A black-and-white slide appeared on its screen and asked Isaac a question in bold sixty-point Arial type. Hello, Isaac. How have you been?
Isaac cracked a notebook open and held it up to the shrinking crack. I have been well, thank you.
Andrea jolted back from the ready answer on his notebook. Her laptop was more composed and automatically transitioned to her second slide. I have moved.
Isaac turned the page and revealed his waiting answer. I know.
Andrea blinked, trying to keep up with the thoughts streaming past her. Each tried and failed to grasp how Isaac had prepared his replies to her questions. Her third slide posed her next one. How did I give you my watch?
Isaac held his notebook closer to the crack. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55.
The series of numbers twisted inside Andrea just as they did at the end of each of his letters.
Isaac flipped to a new page. I have missed you, Andrea. Your eyes, your smile, the sound of your voice.
Voice? Andrea gasped. She slammed her laptop shut before the next slide appeared. The lopsided table shook. She grabbed the first piece of paper she could find and wrote a more urgent question on the back of a grocery receipt for milk, bananas, and instant oatmeal. She crumpled it into a ball and hurled it through the crack. Her wall closed behind it. She staggered back. Paper crunched under her foot. The note that she had just thrown glowed beneath her heel. Andrea smoothed it over her lap, unsure if Isaac had had the chance to read it. The page crumbled over her jeans, taking with it the only question she cared to know the answer to.
—
A knock on the door stole Andrea away from the In-N-Out burger she was picking at. Seeing Isaac had left her insides quivering too much to digest anything. She pulled the door open.
“Hello, Ms. Louviere.” Mr. Westin tipped his hat.
Andrea staggered back.
“May I come in?” Mr. Westin asked.
Andrea let him through without speaking. She had waited so long to see him again that she didn’t know whether she wanted to jump up and throw her arms around him or slap him for taking so long. She clenched her hands at her side, trying to decide.
“You have a lovely apartment,” he said, looking around.
Andrea found her voice and relaxed her fingers. “If you like shoe boxes.”
“I do. My wife feels the same way. Small homes make you feel safe.”
Andrea looked at Mr. Westin as though she were seeing him for the first time. Until then, she had never stopped to imagine the life he lived outside of delivering Isaac’s letters. He, his wife, and his little house were a part of a world governed by time and nature. She had never envied him more.
“Is there something wrong, Ms. Louviere?”
She shook her head. “I’m good.”
“Would you like me to give you your delivery now or after our lesson?”
“Lesson?” Andrea wrinkled her brow.
“My second cello lesson—that is, if you are still interested in continuing our little arrangement.”
“I…I am,” Andrea stammered, remembering her part of the bargain. “Where did we end last time? It’s been so long.”
Mr. Westin smiled. “Bow movements.”
Andrea nodded. “Right. Let’s get started then.”
Andrea ushered him to one of the two chairs in her apartment and gave him her cello. Mr. Westin drew the bow just above each of the strings, shifting the angle of his arm and wrist to keep the bow straight.
Andrea tried not to look impressed. “You’ve been practicing.”
He nodded. “Repetitio mater studiorum est.”
“ ‘Repetition is the mother of all learning.’ I’d be rich if I had a dollar for every time my dad said that whenever I groaned about my cello exercises. He’d be richer if he had a dollar for each time I complained. It’s his prescription for anything you want to physically control. Hands. Arms. Bows. The two of you would get along. You really should be taking lessons from someone like him.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But your father doesn’t have any questions for me.”
Andrea smoothed away the beginnings of a frown. Until she found another way to get answers, she was going to have to play by Mr. Westin’s rules.
—
The A string sang a slow note, ending Mr. Westin’s second cello lesson. Andrea took the bow from him. “Good. Keep practicing and remember what I’ve told you.”
He nodded. “Don’t play over the bridge or fingerboard. The ‘down bow’ stroke is from left to right. ‘Up bow’ is from right to left. A ‘slow bow’ is produced by moving the whole arm. Faster bows are produced by the lower arm, wrist, and finger strokes. Did I miss anything?”
“No. Just do these open string exercises as often as you can.”
“I will. Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “So, what answer would you like in return for your patience?”
Andrea sifted through her options. She had already learned that Isaac’s letters had been packed inside a box. She didn’t know where the box was or how it had come into Mr. Westin’s possession. Was Mr. Westin the sole caretaker of this box or was he getting his instructions from someone else? What other things did the box contain and when was he going to give them to her? Her head spun.
“Ms. Louviere? Do you have a question for me?”
“Mr. Westin…your job is to deliver letters, yes? And no, that does not count as my question.”
Mr. Westin smiled. “That is correct.”
“So if I wrote a letter back to the sender…would you be able to deliver it for me?” It was an impossible request, but so was her correspondence with Isaac. She had to try. She didn’t care whether delivering her letter meant that Mr. Westin had to get a degree in astrophysics and build a time machine from scratch or if he simply had to drop her letter into the box that all of Isaac’s letters came from. He just needed to agree to her request. She didn’t have to know what he did next. She was going to be able to take it from there. All she needed was half a sliver of hope to be able to make herself believe that her letter would somehow find its way to Isaac’s hands. If she did, she could empty out her heart onto a page and make it ache a little less.
“Deliver it?” Mr. Westin’s silver brows knitted as though he were rearranging a large living room somewhere deep behind them. “Yes, Ms. Louviere. I believe I could.”
—
The small table wobbled under Andrea’s elbows and the letter she had laid on top of it. The yellowed paper bulged behind Isaac’s seal. The wax strained to keep the letter closed. Andrea relieved it of its duty and broke it in two. The thought of finally being able to write letters to Isaac made her head spin with everything she was going to tell him and ask, but, for now, the only letter that mattered was the one in her hands. She unfolded it slowly, begging it to contain the answer to the question she had tossed through her wall.
A small, square piece of wood, as thick as two Scrabble tiles, tumbled out of the letter and onto the table. She set it aside. Isaac’s words were waiting for her and she did not have the time to figure out what the wooden tile was for.
My dearest Andrea,
Your note vanished before I could answer your question. I suppose this was for the best. Had it lingered but half a moment longer, I would have, without hesitation, revealed to you all that is to unfold. But our wall was good enough to remind me that the time for such revelations remains ahead of us. For now, I can only share with you what has already come to pass.
Stourbridge Fair
Cambridge
1665
Isaac is twenty-three.
The Leper Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene was glad for the company. When the leper colony the small stone church had served closed, its duties diminished to providing the town extra storage and to watching over the animals that grazed in the nearby pasture. But the arrival of the annual Stourbridge Fair brought it better
companions than cattle and sheep. One of the country’s most important fairs had seemingly sprouted overnight on the common grazing grounds, replacing stretches of grass with a small, temporary town overflowing with all manner of wares and trade.
Isaac walked past the chapel and waded through the fair’s narrow, well-trampled streets, struggling to keep his head above the flood of visitors, craftsmen, and merchants. He kept a firm grip on his coin purse, well aware of how stealthy and quick determined fingers could be. The scent of produce, sweat, and horses swirled beneath his nose. He tilted his chin up, searching for pockets of sweet air. He didn’t find any. He forged ahead, inhaling through his mouth. He couldn’t have been happier. The bustle of the fair drowned the constant chorus of questions in his head.
He had grown up with a swarm of queries buzzing in his ear, like the flies that annoyed the horses at Woolsthorpe’s stables, but louder. The horses were luckier than he was. At night, their tiny tormentors had the decency to give them a few hours of peace. Isaac’s questions gave him no such courtesy. They compelled him to figure out how the pieces of the world around him fit together and challenged him to discover how they worked. He did not care for their chatter. They distracted him from the only riddle that mattered. Andrea.
Isaac roamed the fair’s measured rows of wooden booths, savoring his respite. The stalls, bursting with produce and wares, doubled as accommodation for the traders that had descended on the town. Isaac spied their straw mattresses tucked in the back of their booths. He imagined that he might enjoy their transient, simple life, their happiness measured by the amount of goods they sold. He changed his mind midstep. Math equations, floating lanterns, and magic tricks weren’t things that would sell well next to the fair’s other offerings. To his left, goldsmiths competed with braziers and turners for his attention. To his right, milliners, haberdashers, and mercers puffed up their chests and boasted of the best deals. His skills would leave both his coin purse and stomach empty.
A wave of elbows and boots swept him toward the edge of the fair near the River Cam. Isaac kept his eyes ahead of him when he marched along the rows of freak shows. He took no pleasure in the misfortune of a stranger’s deformities. He was acutely aware that he would just as quickly be thrown in a cage and put on display if anyone learned of the secrets he kept. He saw glowing cracks in solid walls and ached for a girl that science said did not exist. He did not need twisted limbs to be the worst of the freaks.
Love and Gravity Page 12