A Roman Rhapsody

by Sara Alexander

  She watched her guidance land.

  “Take it from here,” she began, leaning over him to signal the section she wanted him to revisit. “This time I need you to clarify the pictures in your mind. We are reciting poetry here; you can’t just make a general poetic sound. You need to know what it is you are craving to express.”

  She could have spoken more but wanted to see how far he would go with just a little prodding.

  He began again. This time his feet looked heavier upon the wooden floor. His legs were active, she could see the muscular indentation through his jeans. His back lengthened and when he pressed into the keys, his touch was more descriptive. This time the rhythm was pared down and precise, this time the sense of an interior world was alive, inviting. Then he lifted his hands up, abrupt.

  “Like so?” he asked, his full lips scrunching into uncertainty.

  “Until you stopped, yes,” she replied. “You found the tension, Misha. That’s what every piece requires. These notes are like pearls, yes? We can’t admire the necklace without the string of tension that links them.”

  She surprised herself with the analogy. It was something she’d always thought about, but it was the first time to hear the words in the space. It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d felt so open talking to someone she didn’t know about music. Over the years she’d trained herself to do so with the string of journalists salivating over her words as if they were minute gospels. She hated the feeling of her thoughts being tied down into black and white. She avoided the sessions where possible and as the years went on became better at refusing to speak to many point-blank. Because of her fame, Dante now acquiesced, though they both knew he would rather she were more communicative. In the recording sessions she’d often leave during the breaks and get as far away from the studio as she could, where the hosts would have prepared food that was left to go cold. Now, in this quiet room, she could have spoken for hours. She heard her voice lift, in effortless waves, free, and Misha let every word land, not interrupting, not submissive. His active engaged listening was a quality she found more attractive than she would have wanted to. His hair was golden in the afternoon light and she wished she didn’t notice it quite so much, nor his athletic poise. A quiet embarrassment began churning inside her.

  “Try again,” she said.

  This time the nerves of his first playing had been stripped away. He found an unhurried touch. His tone had deepened. But what struck Alba most was the melancholy that rang through, the complex palette of wintry sensations, the darkening blue of a late afternoon winter sky, the swaying silhouette of iced cypress trees in a freezing wind. He captured it all. They were transported from the warmth of this room at the center of Rome to a land far away, inside a frigid landscape, the loneliness a result not of harsh surroundings but of punishing interior ones. He was no longer playing note by note, but shade by shade, easing from one to another with confidence. A low chord, rumbling the bass notes, heralded the start of the final measures. For his final touch, a chrome shiver filled the space; an icicle of sound.

  Alba let the silence fire the emptiness between them. They hovered in the quiet, lulled and lost by Debussy.

  “Yes, Misha. That is what I mean.”

  He looked up at her, the afternoon light dipping his pale skin into a warm sienna. “Thank you for not terrifying me into it like Maestro Goldstein.” His smile was unhurried, unguarded, the kind of smile that invited one inside.

  The feeling smarted. “I don’t want to be nice. I want you to develop the deepest interpretation you can.”

  She looked down onto the open width of his jaw. “You hold some tension in your central cervical spine. You’ll need to address that.”

  She placed her palm on his back, just below his shoulder blades toward his spine. Her fingers stretched to find the place where she could see his muscles were clamping into mild spasm. He let out a sigh.

  “I know this,” she said, “because I had to work on this too. We don’t just work with the head, Misha, we need to give as much time to the body. You know this, of course.”

  He smiled in recognition.

  “It has been a good first lesson, si?” she said, brisk, pulling her arm away. “I will see you next month before your final graduation concert. Keep chasing the quiet center of this piece, Misha, it is a great vehicle for you to show off your natural lyricism.”

  He stood up.

  She hadn’t realized how tall he was until now.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice warm, not sycophantic. He stretched out his hand. She felt it wrap around hers. If she didn’t know better she might have misjudged his touch for someone trying to say more than how grateful he was. The idea was ridiculous. She admonished herself for even entertaining it. When had she become a grown woman who let herself keel toward this kind of ridiculous vanity?

  He nodded and turned to leave. When he reached the door he looked back as if to say something. Their eyes met. He thought better of it and left.

  * * *

  Alba waited at the center of Piazza del Popolo, gripped by a sudden irrational fear of not recognizing her brother. They’d arranged to meet at this central point, which was often less crowded than other parts of the city. Offering him an aperitivo also meant she could manufacture plans for dinner if it was uncomfortable to be in his company, or stretch out to another local place if it felt like he was open to the idea. She looked around again. Caribinieri were parked at the entrance to the piazza. Tourists shuffled around the central fountain and Egyptian stone needle, more took photos from the Villa Borghese gardens that rose beyond. A steady stream of people promenading from Ottaviano and the Vatican strolled in from via that rose on the opposite side of the piazza. The arch of Flaminio bordered the commuter chaos beyond it, and behind her, her favorite spot for an aperitivo. The waiters knew her there and gave her a few special bites of the chef’s improvised follies that were never shared with the tourists. She decided to take a table ahead of Salvatore coming and trust she would spot him from there. As she approached one of the waiters waved at her and signaled for her favorite table.

  “The usual, Signora?” he murmured. She nodded. He left.

  Several more minutes past, each prodding her as if to say she’d made up the whole thing, that her brother hadn’t called, twice, to make the plans, that he wasn’t able to get out of his work commitments or some such. The waiter placed her Negroni upon the table. She swirled the large hunks of ice around the crimson liquid, then took a sip and let the bitterness calm her senses. That’s when she spied a familiar silhouette. She lifted her sunglass onto the top of her head. Then she stood up. It was him. She walked out in front of the bar. They met halfway. Salvatore took her hand and gave her two kisses. All fear of awkwardness evaporated.

  His expression hadn’t lost any of that little boy lost masked with as much zeal as he could muster. His clothes were grown up, well ironed, sleek, and expensive; he smelled of aftershave and he’d lost all the chubbiness of his youth. His face too was slimmer, clean-shaven, his hair was coiffured into obedience. He looked like someone who’d come into wealth and was very much at peace with it.

  “You look like a movie star!” he said, his voice with the same bubbling enthusiasm and mild jealousy of their childhood.

  “Thank you?” she said, deflecting the apparent compliment. She’d never felt at ease with people commenting on her appearance. It made her feel like a cutout, imprinted with the other’s judgments and standards of beauty. It had little to do with whatever was inside. She wanted to know if people could see beyond a picture. Of those, there were few. Alba led him back to her table. He lifted a hand and ordered a beer from the waiter.

  She took another sip, more to fill the hiatus than anything else. How were they to navigate this conversation? She fought the need to steer it, or sink into silence, as she always did when nerves gripped her. Perhaps it would be best to lift the sails and just see where the wind would take them?

  “It
’s really good to see you, Alba. I’ve wanted to come for a long time,” he added, a twinge of teenage angularity in his voice, “but it’s not easy at home. A lot of changes since you left. Almost fifteen years now, no? Shall we not talk about home for a bit?”

  Alba smiled. He’d become more sensitive a man than she’d remembered.

  “Thank you for calling,” she replied. “It means a lot to me. I have a lot going on right now. I’m glad we could find this time.” She noticed herself flexing her regular defenses and get-out clauses. She’d already laid down an out, even though he had not mentioned anything about monopolizing her time. When might this habit die?

  “Un momento,” he replied, standing to his feet and waving in the direction of the fountain. “I hope you don’t mind, I asked Mario to join us. There’s only two of us over this time from the officina, and I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

  Alba followed his gaze to another man making his way toward them. His shirt was pale blue, his hair jet-black, his skin a deeper olive than Salvatore’s. The walk looked familiar, even the outline, but it was like a vague memory, a pencil drawing smudged with an eraser. It was only when he was almost at her table that she recognized him.

  Mario took her hand and kissed her on each cheek, hints of citrus and musk.

  “I had no idea,” she replied, hoping it didn’t sound as feeble as she thought.

  “Me neither,” Mario answered, “I told him to call every time we’d come but you were always abroad working.”

  Salvatore waved at the waiter again signaling they wanted another beer.

  Alba looked at her brother for an explanation, but he averted her gaze.

  “He’s working as a partner now,” Salvatore said, slipping into easy chatter. “I need him with me on these trips. He’s got a knack with the folks on the mainland.” His voice was assured. Perhaps the swagger of his youth still spiked the fringes of his personality, it was difficult to tell what was charm and what was confidence. “Mario’s got us out of a lot of scrapes here and there,” he added, pointing toward a tight relationship beyond their professional one.

  Alba wondered what to ask next. It was clear the two would be able to steer the conversation around work and other less personal subjects, but she longed to cut through to the center of this reunion somehow. It was the thing she disliked so much about everyday conversation. Music required her to get to the emotional truth, but in everyday life, it was acceptable to skate on the crisp icy surface. It was why she felt lonely in the appreciative crowds who fawned on her. They didn’t care to share the emotional truth of a piece of the moments following it, thinking it had been her inner life that had ignited them when in truth it was always their own.

  “I was terrified of meeting you,” she blurted.

  “Mario is terrifying,” Salvatore teased, “you should see him in the mornings.”

  His expression softened with unexpected sincerity. “Truth is, a lot of us miss you.”

  The table fell silent for a moment. The waiters placed their beers down.

  “Papà is not doing well,” he began, his tone dipped darker, “forgetting things. Small stuff. But it’s not good. That’s another reason why Mario’s here with me. Marcellino has to make sure Papà doesn’t make any more mistakes at the officina. His brothers are causing hell. They hate the fact that he’s doing this victim rehabilitation crap. Some nonsense that hippies set up from the capital. They arrange regular meetings with bandits that kidnapped people. They say it helps both sides to heal. Can you believe it? I say it’s a load of rubbish but Babbo is evangelical. Seriously, he’s like those old biddies and their daily mass. You wouldn’t recognize him.” He shook his head, embarrassed for having confided everything too quickly and in one breath.

  Alba struggled to paint the pictures in her head that matched his descriptions of this new father. “Is it working?”

  “Who can tell? I’ve been at the house when Mesina, the main guy who led the attack, swans in to chat with him over some homemade wine. Awkward as hell. But Babbo’s happy so that’s okay, I suppose?”

  Alba let the idea ripple toward her, but it didn’t penetrate. Her brother seemed to intuit her reluctance.

  “Salute to that then,” he said, with a sardonic grin, raising his glass. They clinked. Mario’s eyes locked with Alba’s for a breath. She remembered that mischief. The memory of her swinging her fists at him burned into view. It was like watching a girl she once knew.

  “I know a good place for dinner,” Alba answered, knowing she couldn’t let these men go before filling in the silence of the years past in case they changed their minds about seeing her.

  25

  Agitato

  a directive to perform the indicated passage in an agitated, hurried, or restless manner; excited, fast, agitated

  The audience peeled into applause as Alba stepped onto the stage, the sound splattering the space like sheets of rain. She never tired of hearing the listeners, alive, bristling with anticipation, filled with energy she could tap into. Tonight was different though. Somewhere inside the auditorium were her brother and Mario; tonight she was not just performing the hardest concerto in any pianist’s repertoire but able, at last, to show her brother the reason she’d left, that he might understand her choice. She did not long for forgiveness. Her father, not her, with his temper and stubborn vindictiveness had broken up the family. Tonight’s performance would allow her to be heard. It filled her with something close to optimism, not a childlike need for approval, but the exquisite anticipation of taking the space to express, to share what her life had been up until this point and why. She was ready to let her brother in. It was the closest she’d ever get to reaching her father, connecting on some level, not hooked to him through their mutual disdain alone. Her music had distanced her from the family for so long now that, at last, it was washing them toward her. It was time for the tide to roll in.

  Gianni flashed her a warm smile, his body slipped inside a smart dinner jacket that emphasised his diminutive stature whilst outlining his fierce energy. She adored his playfulness, the way he stood on his podium with the wonder of a child and the strength of a lion. It filled her with confidence. A sliver of excitement twisted up her spine like a metallic helix, her skin tingled, her body hot, alert, and ready. For close to fifty minutes she would place all her trust in Gianni and the orchestra around her, hoping to express every shade Rachmaninoff painted, the fire of his virtuoso runs up and down the keyboard, the melancholy within the pensive piano solos, then the dazzling galloping finale, kaleidoscoping clusters of chords that challenged the greatest of performers.

  Gianni raised his baton. A silence filled the space, eating up every sound, every murmur. He took a breath. The orchestra played their first entrance. The violins began, their silvery murmur, purring couplets to create an inviting bed of sound for Alba’s piano to sing above. Her breath filled her body. Her feet tapped into the floor beneath her. Her hands lifted and eased down onto the simple melody that rang above the strings, pared down, concise, yet full of a yearning, the syncopated rhythm tripping across the bar line that always made Alba imagine someone lost, searching for a home they’d never find. Beneath the piano, an undulating build from the orchestra as the melody expanded, as they took over from the piano and she undercut with trickling notes, chrome waves of starlit longing, sepulchred memories, moonlight clawing through darkened Russian woods, twilight wanderings. The sound grew, fattened, and layered.

  Then the orchestra fell silent.

  Alba’s piano was alone, singing a passage without strict time. Gianni tuned in to her every impulse, watching with care to know when to bring in his orchestra once again. Her tempo ebbed—here was the section where Alba allowed her piano to take control, the melody humming through pensive glides from chord to chord. The flute player now joined in, twisting around the piano’s notes with his breathy lilt, weaving around her melody with the papery wings of a butterfly. As it fell away, an oboe took its place, woody now, dee
per, pressing. As it fell away, the French horn sounded, the pensive echo growing confident, not defiant but urgent. They swelled together, each led by the other, two lovers searching for each other from afar until the orchestra swelled and they sought once again in vain. The next forty minutes flew by on a breath. The adagio, mahogany and unhurried, the finale a potent last display of virtuosic playing, Alba’s arms fired with all her might, her feet deep into the ground, her back long and responsive to each impulse. She percussed the final chords, the horns echoed. Again and again the seesaw defiance, as the instruments fought for the last word. Gianni’s body cut through the space like a tornado, sweat dripping from his forehead. The players onstage were lost in one another, rushing toward the ending, a herd of wild horses charging downhill, unbridled, fearless, muscular, and free, making the earth tremble beneath their hooves till the final note filled the auditorium.

  Crackling applause electrified the space like a blinding white light.

  Alba rose to her feet, half propelled from the physical exertion of the ending and also to reach Gianni, clasp his hand, and thank him for the glorious ride through the hardest concerto she’d always longed to play. As he kissed her cheek he whispered, “An out-of-body experience, Alba. We did it!”

  She walked away from the podium and stood by her stool. The audience were on their feet now. The applause reached the ceiling, cascading down like sparks, and inside the shattering noise, an elusive quiet. Somewhere out there was her brother. Where did the music take him? Did he join her ride? How was his different? How would he describe this evening to the others? Would he even mention he’d seen her? At the end of their dinner that first evening he had asked her lots of questions about her life in Rome. She’d described what she could, but it was difficult to color her descriptions with a complete picture of her daily rhythms. Salvatore was part of such a different world, to him her life was precarious in some way, an unknown that unsettled him. She had quickly turned the conversation around to him and the family, gentle prods to paint a clear vision of what had befallen them all since she left. When he left, he’d seemed excited to watch her perform, though Alba knew he would not have expected to be seated in so large an auditorium with such a passionate audience. Perhaps it was a streak of vanity, but she was glad he saw how her playing was received with such profound love.