Playing With Fire

by Tess Gerritsen

  “We’re next. Let’s go,” said Laura.

  “Stop!” called Mr. Alfieri as they headed up the stairs. “You can’t go up there! You’re not on the program!”

  “Ignore him,” said Laura.

  “Miss Balboni, I insist you halt at once!”

  The first duo had just walked into the wings. Laura and Lorenzo swept right past them and emerged into the glare of stage lights. Lorenzo was so blinded, he could not see the audience. He could only hear their scattered applause, which rapidly died away, leaving him and Laura standing beneath the spotlights in silence. No official came out to introduce them. No one announced their names.

  Laura crossed to the cellist’s chair, her high heels clacking smartly across the wooden stage. The chair legs gave a noisy scrape as she sat down. Briskly she arranged the hem of her gown and sank the cello end pin into the anchor. Bow poised, she turned to Lorenzo and smiled.

  He forgot that hundreds of people were watching them. At that moment, he saw only Laura, and she saw only him.

  Their gazes stayed fixed on each other as he raised his bow. So attuned were they to each other, they didn’t need to say a word, didn’t need to nod an introductory count. They knew, with a musician’s instinct, the precise instant when their bows would simultaneously attack the strings. This was their world and theirs alone, the stage lights their sun, their language spoken in the key of G, their notes so perfectly aligned that it seemed their hearts must be beating in unison. When their bows landed on the final note, they were still looking at each other, even as that note faded into silence.

  Somewhere, a single pair of hands was clapping. Then another pair and another, followed by the unmistakable voice of Professor Balboni shouting: “Bravo! Bravo!”

  Under the stage lights they embraced, laughing and giddy about their flawless performance. They were still laughing as they carried their instruments down the stairs, so caught up in their triumph that they did not notice how quiet it was in the greenroom, where the other contestants waited.

  “Miss Balboni.” Mr. Alfieri appeared before them, his face an icy mask of rage. “You and your companion will leave the building at once.”

  “Why?” said Laura.

  “It’s the express orders of the committee.”

  “But the prize hasn’t been announced yet.”

  “You were not official contestants. You cannot win.”

  Lorenzo said, “You just heard us. Everyone heard our performance. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “Officially, it did not.” Alfieri thrust a sheet of paper in Lorenzo’s face. “Here are the new rules, issued yesterday by the committee. Since the September decree, your people may not attend this or any college. Since the competition is sponsored by Ca’ Foscari, you were not allowed to compete.”

  “I’m not of the Jewish race,” said Laura.

  “You too are disqualified, Miss Balboni.”

  “Simply because my partner is a Jew?”

  “That is correct.”

  “There’s not a violinist in this competition who can match him.”

  “I’m merely following the rules.”

  “Which you never question.”

  “They are the rules. You violated them and forced your way onstage. This behavior is abominable. You will both leave the building.”

  “We will not,” said Laura.

  Alfieri turned to two men who were standing behind him and ordered: “Remove them.”

  Laura turned to the other contestants, who’d been watching in silence. “We’re musicians just like you are! How can this be fair? You know it’s wrong!”

  One of Alfieri’s men grabbed her arm and began dragging her toward the exit.

  Enraged by the sight of that rough hand on Laura’s flesh, Lorenzo wrenched the man away and shoved him against the wall. “Don’t you touch her!”

  “Animal!” shouted Mr. Alfieri. “You see, they’re all filthy animals!”

  An arm came around Lorenzo’s throat and as he was hauled backward, a fist slammed into his belly. Laura shrieked for the two men to stop, but they kept pummeling his ribs and he heard the sickening crack of bone. Music stands toppled as they dragged him across the room to the exit.

  Heaved out the door, he landed facedown on cold pavement. Felt blood seep from his lip and heard the wheeze of his own lungs as he fought to breathe.

  “Oh God. Oh God!” Laura dropped to her knees beside him and he felt her hair, silky and fragrant, fall across his face as she rolled him onto his back. “This is my fault. I should never have argued with them! I’m sorry, Lorenzo, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t, Laura.” Coughing, he sat up and felt the street spin around him. Saw his own blood drip, black as ink, onto his white shirt. “Never apologize for doing what’s right.”

  “I stood up to them, but you’re the one they punished. I’m so stupid. It’s easy for me to take a stand, but I’m not a Jew.”

  The truth of what she said hit him like a fresh blow, this one straight to his heart. She was not a Jew, and that chasm between them had never seemed wider. He sat with blood dripping down his chin, as warm as tears, and wished Laura would go away. Just go away.

  The stage door squealed open and he heard the hesitant approach of footsteps. It was one of the musicians.

  “I brought out your instruments,” the young man said, gently setting down the cello and violin cases. “I wanted to be sure they were returned to you.”

  “Thank you,” said Laura.

  The young man started toward the stage door, then looked back at them. “It’s wrong, what they’re doing. It’s completely unfair. But what can I do? What can any of us do?” With a sigh, he walked away.

  “Coward,” said Laura.

  “But he’s right.” Lorenzo struggled to his feet and for a moment he stood swaying, fighting the dizziness. His head cleared and he saw everything in heartbreaking focus. This was now the way of the world. Laura refused to acknowledge it, but he saw the painful truth.

  He picked up his violin. “I’m going home.”

  “You’re hurt.” She reached for his arm. “Let me walk with you.”

  “Don’t, Laura.” He pushed her hand away. “Don’t.”

  “I only want to help!”

  “You can’t fight my battles. You’ll only get hurt.” He gave a bitter laugh. “And you’ll probably get me killed.”

  “I didn’t know this would happen,” she said, her voice breaking. “I really thought we would win tonight.”

  “We should have won. No one can match us on that stage, no one. But I took away any chance you had of winning. I stole that from you, Laura. I won’t let that happen again.”

  “Lorenzo,” she said as he walked away, but he did not stop. He kept walking, gripping the violin case so tightly that his fingers went numb. He turned the corner and he could still hear her voice echoing off the buildings, the sound of his name fragmented into desolate shards.

  No one was at home when he arrived; they were still at the competition. He peeled off his soiled shirt and washed his face. As bloodied water swirled down the sink drain, he stared in the mirror at a face that had swollen into a purple balloon. This is what happens when you fight back, he thought, and Laura had witnessed the whole humiliating spectacle. She’d seen his defeat, his impotence. He bowed his head, hands balled into fists, and spat blood-tinged saliva into the sink.

  “So now you understand how the world has changed,” said Marco.

  Lorenzo looked up at the reflection of his older brother, who stood behind him. “Leave me alone.”

  “I’ve been saying it for months, but you didn’t listen. Papa, Grandpapa, no one listened. No one believed me.”

  “Even if we did believe you, what were we supposed to do about it?”

  “Fight back.”

  Lorenzo turned to face Marco. “You think I didn’t try?”

  Marco snorted. “Hardly. You’ve been living in a fantasy, Brother. All these months I’ve
pointed out the clues, yet you refused to see any of it. Instead you were wrapped up in your little romantic daydreams. You and Laura Balboni? Do you really think that could ever amount to anything?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh, she’s pretty, all right. I can see the attraction. Maybe she has a thing for you, too. Maybe you hoped our families would approve and you’d get married.”

  “Shut up.”

  “But in case you weren’t paying attention, that will soon be illegal. Didn’t you see the latest bulletin from the Grand Council? They’re writing a new law that forbids mixed marriages. All these changes, and you never noticed it happening. While the world collapsed around us, you mooned over your music and Laura. If you really care about her, you’ll forget her. Otherwise, it’ll be heartbreak for you both.” Marco placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Be sensible. Forget her.”

  Lorenzo swiped at tears that suddenly clouded his eyes. He wanted to fling aside Marco’s hand, wanted to tell him to go to hell because sensible advice was not what he wanted to hear. Yet everything Marco said was true. Laura was beyond his reach. Everything was beyond his reach.

  “There’s a way out for us,” Marco said quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  Marco’s voice dropped even lower. “We leave Italy. Other families are going. You heard what Balboni said. We should emigrate.”

  “Papa will never leave.”

  “Then we have to go without him. Without any of them. They’re stuck in the past and they’ll never change. But you and I, we could go to Spain together.”

  “And leave them behind? You would do that, say goodbye to Mama and Pia and not look back?” Lorenzo shook his head. “How can you even consider it?”

  “It might come down to that. If we’re left with no other choice, if they refuse to see what’s about to happen.”

  “That’s not a choice I would ever—” He stopped at the sound of the door slamming shut.

  Their sister called out: “Lorenzo? Lorenzo?” Pia ran in and threw her arms around him. “They told us what happened to you! My poor brother, how can they be so mean? Are you hurt badly? Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’m fine, little Pia. As long as you’re here to take care of me, I’ll be just fine.” He wrapped his arms around her, and over her bent head he met his brother’s gaze. Look at her, Marco. Would you leave Italy without her?

  Would you leave our sister?

  9

  Waiting rooms and more waiting rooms. Since my daughter stabbed me with glass, that’s what our lives have come down to: Lily and me, sitting on a series of sofas in doctors’ offices, waiting for a nurse to call her name. First we see her pediatrician, Dr. Cherry, who seems a bit put out that he might have missed a serious brain disorder. Then there’s an afternoon with Dr. Salazar, the pediatric neurologist, who asks me the same questions I’ve heard again and again. Has Lily ever had febrile convulsions? Has she ever fallen and lost consciousness? Has she been in any accidents or hit her head? No, no, and no. While I’m relieved that no one thinks I’m the one who needs a psychiatrist, now I face a possibility that’s even more frightening: that there is something very wrong with my daughter’s brain. Something that made her twice go berserk. At only three years old, she has already massacred our cat and stabbed me in the leg. What will she be capable of when she’s eighteen?

  Dr. Salazar orders a battery of new tests and this leads to our sitting in yet another series of waiting rooms. Lily has X-rays, which come back normal; blood tests, which are also normal; and finally an electroencephalogram.

  It is inconclusive.

  “EEGs can sometimes miss a lesion, if the abnormal electrical discharges involve only subcortical regions,” Dr. Salazar tells me when I visit his office late on a Friday afternoon.

  It has been a long day, and I have trouble focusing on what he’s telling me. I don’t think I’m a stupid woman, but really—what the hell did he just say? Lily is out in the waiting room with Val, and through the closed door I can hear my daughter calling for me, and this distracts me even more. I’m annoyed at Rob for not being here beside me and my head still aches from that bump against the coffee table. Now this doctor won’t speak to me in plain English.

  He tosses out other words that sound like a foreign language. Neuro-developmental defects such as heterotopic gray matter. Neuroimaging techniques. Cortical electrical activity. Complex partial seizures.

  That last word leaps out and instantly grips me in its jaws: Seizures. “Wait,” I cut in. “Are you saying Lily might have epilepsy?”

  “Although her EEG appears to be normal, there’s still the possibility that both incidents were manifestations of a certain type of seizure disorder.”

  “But she’s never convulsed. Not that I’ve seen.”

  “I’m not talking about classic tonic-clonic seizures, where you fall unconscious and your limbs shake. No, it’s her behavior that might be the manifestation of epilepsy. These are what we call complex partial seizures, or CPS. They’re often misdiagnosed as psychiatric disorders, because the patients appear to be awake during the seizure, and may even perform complex acts. They’ll keep repeating a phrase, for instance. Or they’ll walk in circles or tug at their clothes.”

  “Or stab someone.”

  He pauses. “Yes. That could be considered a complex repetitive act.”

  I’m suddenly struck by a memory. Blood running down my leg. The sound of a voice, flat and mechanical. “ ‘Hurt Mommy,’ ” I murmur.

  “Excuse me?”

  “After she stabbed me, she kept saying two words. ‘Hurt Mommy,’ over and over.”

  He nodded. “That would certainly count as a repetitive act. Since these patients are completely unaware of their environment, they can get into dangerous situations. They’ve been known to walk into traffic or fall out of windows. And when the seizure’s over, they have no memory of what happened. It’s just a gap in time that they can’t explain.”

  “Then she can’t control it? She doesn’t mean to hurt anyone?”

  “That’s right. Assuming these are seizures.”

  How strange it is to feel so relieved that my daughter might have epilepsy, but that’s exactly how I feel right now, because it explains these last terrible weeks. It means Lily can’t help what she did. It means she’s the same sweet daughter I’ve always loved, and I don’t have to be afraid of her.

  “Can this be treated?” I ask. “Is there a cure?”

  “Perhaps not a cure, but the seizures can be brought under control, and we have a wide range of anticonvulsant drugs to choose from. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m not yet certain this is the cause of her behavior. There’s one more test I want to order. It’s called a magnetoencephalography, or MEG for short. It records electrical currents in the brain.”

  “Isn’t that what the EEG did?”

  “MEG is far more sensitive to lesions the EEG might miss, lesions located deep in the folds of the brain. To do the test, the patient sits in a chair and wears a type of helmet. Even if she moves around a little bit, we can still record the electrical currents. We’ll introduce various stimuli and see if that changes her brain activity.”

  “What kind of stimuli?”

  “In your daughter’s case, it would be auditory. You said that both times she showed this aggressive behavior, you were playing a particular violin piece. Something with very high-frequency notes.”

  “You think the music brought on these seizures?”

  “Theoretically it’s possible. We know seizures can be set off by visual stimuli—blinking lights or repetitive flashes, for instance. Maybe Lily’s brain is sensitive to notes at certain frequencies, or in specific combinations. We’ll play that piece of music through her headphones while we monitor her brain’s electrical activity. See if we can induce the same aggressive behavior.”

  What he suggests sounds perfectly logical and of course it must be done. But it means someone must record Incendio, and
I dread the thought of playing those notes. I now associate that waltz with blood, with pain, and I never want to hear it again.

  “I’ll schedule the MEG for next Wednesday. We’ll need a recording of the music before then,” he says.

  “There isn’t any recording. At least—I don’t think there is. It’s a handwritten composition I bought in an antiques store.”

  “Then why don’t you record yourself playing it? You can email the digital file to me.”

  “I can’t. I mean…” I take a deep breath. “I haven’t mastered the piece. It’s quite demanding. But I can ask my friend Gerda to record it. She plays first violin in our quartet.”

  “Fine. Ask her to email the file by Tuesday. And bring Lily to the hospital next Wednesday, eight A.M.” He smiles as he closes Lily’s chart. “I know this has been a rough time for you, Mrs. Ansdell. I hope this test will give us the answer.”

  10

  This time Rob also comes to the doctor’s appointment, which for some reason irritates me. In the days leading up to this, I’m the one who’s done all the driving, all the waiting, shuttling Lily to doctors’ offices and labs. Only now, at the main event, does Rob finally decide to show up. After the MEG technician takes our daughter into the next room to be tested, Rob and I settle onto a hideous plaid-upholstered sofa in the waiting area. Though we’re right beside each other, we don’t hold hands, we don’t even touch. I open one of the women’s magazines on the coffee table, but I’m too nervous to read, so I aimlessly flip through glossy images of leather purses and high heels and models with dewdrop-perfect skin.

  “At least this is something we can treat,” Rob says. “If one anticonvulsant drug doesn’t work, there’s always another one we can try.” He’s researched all the drugs, of course. My husband has compiled pages and pages of printouts on epilepsy medicines, their dosages, and their side effects. Now that he has a name for Lily’s problem, he’s prepared to tackle it like any man of action. “And if none of the drugs work, there are neurosurgical procedures they can try,” he adds, as if this is comforting news.