A Roman Rhapsody

by Sara Alexander

  Her hands stopped.

  She looked at Francesco.

  His eyes were moist. “I shan’t beg you, Alba, because that is cheap.”

  They held the pause, Alba surprised at her willingness to dip into that musical space, her body leading her toward the place her mind put up an abject, now losing, battle.

  “I’ll give you some time to think, of course,” he murmured.

  “I think my answer frightens me.”

  Francesco’s face lit up. He brought her glass over to the piano and they clinked to artistic terror.

  * * *

  When Alba returned to her darkened apartment the alcohol and food was shifting toward a headache of excess. She poured herself a large glass of water in the kitchen and returned to her living room to drink it. Another evening she might have dialed someone for company. Perhaps those escapes were avoidance tactics after all? Diversions. She’d always refused to see them couched in those terms. Her lovers satisfied a drive, which was her right to explore, enjoy, and then abandon. Now her head flitted toward the fascination of Francesco’s film. If she chose to go ahead would she be reaching more people like Francesco said, or attracting more attention for the sake of what? Adoration? Exhibitionism? Rampant extroversion?

  She picked up the phone. Dante answered after a few rings.

  “Yes, I heard he was going to wine and dine you into an offer you’d find hard to refuse.”

  She always loved the way Dante plowed into the middle of a conversation as if they’d just left one room and carried on talking into another.

  “He told you?”

  “He insinuated. But I’ve been around people long enough to sniff out a motive. Should have me on one of those TV detective shows.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it sounds amazing. Terrifying for you I’d imagine. But worthwhile.”

  “Did he feed you too?”

  Dante chuckled. “As always the ball is in your court. I know you’ve been restless these last few months. I can feel it. You like to tackle things that are going to stretch you. This will do this. And some.”

  “Isn’t it just vanity? A little ego dance for the concert pianist who fancies herself a starlet?”

  “Call it that. Or call it an impulse to explore, a dive into the unknown. What’s that word the Americans keep saying in their interviews now, oh yes, a challenge. If we face the facts, the record companies know you’re not keen on doing any more recordings for a while. You’ve been wanting to cut back on your concert schedules. I’m sure you’re not ready to ease back on the little luxuries you enjoy though, no? Perhaps taking this artistic gamble will bring you just what you need right now?”

  “I think I’ve had too much good food and wine to think tonight.”

  “I’m your digestivo.”

  “Thank you, Dante. I would be lost without you.”

  “You would be someone else’s favorite client is what you’d be.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice. “Now you’re talking to me like I’m one of those fragile opera stars.”

  “Sleep on it, Alba.”

  “Grazie, buona note, Dante.”

  She hung up and saw her answering machine blinking with messages.

  She pressed play. Raffaele’s voice sounded weak, his vowels more prolonged than usual. She listened to him asking when she’d next be in town. Would she come and see him sooner rather than later?

  Then he clicked off. Her apartment fell silent.

  Her regular visits to him in Milan had become erratic over the past few years, but they made time to talk on the phone at least one a month. She’d met his partner, Luca, several times. He was a beautiful banker who took pride in his physique and kept himself to himself. Raffaele did the talking for the both of them and Alba adored watching their gentle dance, Luca creating in the kitchen, listening to Raffaele’s stories with that Swiss-Italian reserve of his. Precision oozed out of Luca, his every movement deliberate, efficient. It was hard to picture him breaking a sweat, though it was clear the man spent hours training his body into an athletic form a professional would envy. They’d met on the trading floor, Raffaele had explained, and had navigated the same circles until entering into a relationship. Raffaele was besotted. He lit up when Luca was with them and when he wasn’t, a large portion of the conversation was devoted to relishing the delightful details about the well-planned romantic surprises Luca came up with, which to Alba’s mind involved a lot of spending and a great deal of outdoor pursuits followed by fine dining; one weekend in Paris, another in the Swiss Alps, escapades to Amsterdam, Seville, Barcelona. It was wonderful to see her best friend living his very best life.

  She looked at the flashing number on the machine. She’d catch a train the next morning. It would be the perfect opportunity to see her choices from afar and devote some well-needed time to her friend.

  * * *

  Luca answered the door. He wasn’t the resplendent male specimen Alba had come to know. His face was a shade of forgotten stubble and his cheeks lacked the inner glow he cultivated. He was wearing a light T-shirt which may have been pajamas. Off Alba’s look he apologized, “Thank you so much for coming, Alba. Raffaele’s going to be delighted.”

  “No need to thank me, Luca, I’m always happy to see you two, I had a few days free too, which was an added bonus.”

  Luca didn’t reflect her grin.

  “Come into the kitchen, will you?”

  Alba followed him down the wide corridor, past Raffaele’s original artwork acquisitions, strange bronzes, paintings that lured and repelled. She teased him for the fact. He’d call her a pleb. She’d call him a poser.

  “Luca, is everything okay?”

  “No.”

  He leaned against the counter, arms folded.

  “You can tell me anything, Luca, you know that.”

  “The drugs have stopped supressing the HIV virus.”

  The room became marble. Frozen in a singular breath of sculpted time.

  “Maybe weeks,” Luca said, tears fighting out now, dripping off his chin.

  Alba wrapped her arms around him. His tight torso pressed against hers now, shuddering tears. She was glad for it. Hers caught in her throat, stones in her chest, that couldn’t fight out even if she wanted them to.

  They pulled away.

  “Is he sleeping?” Alba asked.

  “He was. He’s so anxious to see you.”

  Alba nodded. The movement loosened something in her. She felt the heat of tears wet her eyes now.

  They turned back along the corridor and into the lounge. Her shoes clicked across the granite floor toward the bedroom. Luca opened the door.

  Alba’s best friend was disappearing into the bedsheets. His skeletal frame lifted and fell, the space between each breath erratic. His skin was gray, hanging on to the bones like thin paper. Beneath she could see the enlarged lymph nodes at his neck and along his chest swell with disease. His eyes opened in the half light, rays clawing in through the narrow cracks between the shutters.

  She sat down and took his hand. A wan smile stretched across his face.

  “Day, made,” he said, his voice weak, gone the babble she knew and loved.

  “Tesoro. Thank you for calling me,” she said, willing the tears to disappear, willing her panic to dissipate.

  “You can cry, Alba. Everyone else has. Me included.”

  She laughed then, tears spattering out the corners of her eyes.

  “Laughing’s good too,” he said.

  “You’re a jerk, Ra’.”

  He swallowed with difficulty. Luca dipped a small stick with a foam sponge on the end into some water and moistened Raffaele’s mouth. There were several sores in the cracks.

  “I’m not scared, Alba. I thought I would be. But I’m not.”

  “I am,” she whispered. “I love you.”

  “I love you more. Present company excepted.” He smiled at Luca. “I don’t know how I’ll feel when it’s here, but
I feel I’m already there, you know?” His arm waved into the distance. “I’ve done enough hallucinogens to appreciate where I’m going.”

  Alba let his words wash over her. He’d been so open with her about his life on the gay scene, the hedonist lifestyle of the rich traders in Milan, his freedom to enjoy every whim at no cost, until his diagnosis. She’d held him when he’d sobbed, some latent Catholic guilt searing through him, as if his HIV was some kind of retribution. She’d fought him out of it, sat with his bouts of depression over the phone wherever she was working, listened to lengths of silences, tidal waves of joy, of manic energy, high on life, or cocaine, or any other substance that was in vogue at the time.

  They breathed into the space for a moment.

  “It’s all such a beautiful act of surrender, Alba. We’ve talked about this before. Now I know what that means. In my bones.”

  Alba’s tears fell. She slipped her hand into his.

  “I’m going back home,” he whispered. His breathing became a little more labored then. His hand felt clammy. Alba and Luca watched him slip into sleep.

  She spent the rest of the day in that room. That night she slept in their spare room. The following day she did the same. She called Dante to rearrange a recording of Chopin’s nocturnes, but he could stall for another two days, no more.

  “He’s really serious about going home to his parents,” Luca said, resigned, over coffee whilst Raffaele slept.

  “You’ll go with him?”

  “Masquerading as his nurse.”

  Alba nodded, a familiar grief filling her.

  There was a noise from the bedroom. When they walked in Raffaele was seated up on the edge of the bed. They rushed to him.

  “I think I need to throw up again,” he croaked, struggling to lift himself off the bed. They hooked their arms under his and helped him toward the bathroom. Alba felt his bones against her, his spine poking out like scales along the hunching curve of his back. He refused to let them inside. “I can do this alone today, honestly,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  He came out after a few minutes and reached for her hand. They walked across the room on fragile steps, then she eased him onto the bed and lifted his feet up till he was comfortable again. It took a minute or two for his breath to return to normal.

  “I’ve found myself doing the proverbial list of regrets,” he whispered, his throat scratchy. “Not coming out. Not always jumping into the unknown. Not like you. I’m so very proud of you, Alba.”

  “I don’t want to go back to Rome.”

  “Don’t put life on hold, Alba. If I’ve learned anything these past years it’s that.”

  “I don’t want to say goodbye.”

  “So don’t, my friend.”

  She reached for his hand, then kissed his forehead. He felt cool to the touch.

  “You’re brave, Alba. Don’t leave it too late with your dad.”

  Alba looked at him without reply.

  “The blessing of dying—I’m free to say what I think, shift a few truths before it’s too late.”

  “Will this hurt, Doctor?” she asked, trying to match his glibness.

  “A little.”

  “I’m in no position to refuse you, am I?”

  He laughed at that. Alba noticed several of his teeth were gray with decay.

  “You’re pretty similar to him.”

  Alba ignored the bristling up her spine.

  “Fear runs your life in more ways than you think. Like your father you’ve been protecting a broken heart for too long.”

  “My father?” she said, trying not to argue and failing.

  “You saw him at his most vulnerable and he can’t forgive you that. Lover boy Vittorio saw you at yours, and since then you’ve made sure you’ve called the shots.”

  Alba shifted in her seat.

  “You can get angry even though I’m sick, Alba.”

  Her voice was glassy, brittle. “I’m nothing like my father.”

  Raffaele looked at her, eyes smiling. It was irritating and comforting in equal measure. There was no time for her to feel affront and he knew it. It was why he was saying these things in the first place.

  “Women are judged harshly when they don’t follow the rules, Raffaele.”

  “And men aren’t?”

  He looked over toward the picture of him and Luca framed on his bedside table. “No one is invincible, Ra’.”

  “You’re telling me?”

  Alba took his hand in hers.

  “Your dad asked me about you. The last time I went home.”

  Alba looked at him without blinking.

  “He didn’t want me to tell you. I guess I’m not holding my promises these days.”

  Alba’s chest tightened.

  “He showed me his framed picture of you. It’s of your concert in Venice in 1989. One of the ones that had been televised, no?”

  Alba nodded.

  “Maybe it’s time, Alba.”

  He struggled for breath. Luca rushed in and administered some pills. Raffaele seemed woozy after that. She watched him fall asleep, the gawky teenager she’d lain upon the forest floor with fighting for view, a stranger she’d known once. Luca stepped inside.

  “I’ll arrange a nurse to help you when he gets home,” Alba said under her breath.

  “His mother has already done that.”

  “Do they know?”

  “Everything.”

  “How are you?” She shook her head. “Stupid question.”

  He shrugged. “Strangely calm. Trying to hold on to the tiny moments. He’s teaching me how to deal with all of this, really.”

  Alba smiled, feeling the three days of broken sleep catch up with her. Her legs were hollow, her thoughts misting like a slow-rolling fog.

  “This has been special for both of us, Alba, thank you.”

  Alba stood and hugged him. “I don’t know how to be strong right now,” she whispered into his shoulder. The sobs jerked out of her. He didn’t move. Her tears ebbed before Luca spoke. “Everything feels momentous and simple. Death teaches us life.” He laughed at himself then. “Stop me before I sound like one of those hippie books, si?”

  “I’ll call every day,” she said, straightening.

  Alba pulled away, nodded her head, pretending her tears weren’t streaming, knowing that each moment near Raffaele made it harder to step away. She took a breath and walked out of the apartment. Luca closed the door behind her.

  The stairwell underfoot fell away with each sob, nothing but the air beneath it, the sensation of falling without the possibility of hitting ground, a purgatorial tumble, unending numbness, spiked by waves of tears that surged through her, tidal, brutal.

  Outside, the world rushed by her, like painted scenery. She felt Raffaele’s words course through her. She stopped in at a payphone and dialed Dante’s number.

  “Get me out of the recordings, Dante.”

  “Fine, how are you?”

  Alba’s breath sped up.

  “Are you okay, Alba?”

  “No. I’m awful. I don’t want to give some greedy record company one more minute of my time. I’m going to stay in Milan with my best friend because he’s dying, Dante.”

  “You know how this works, Alba. You pull out now and we’re in breach. It will cost you. Literally, not just figuratively.”

  “I’ll settle it with some of what I’ll get from the film?”

  “Some?”

  “My best friend is dying.”

  Alba heard him take a few breaths, easing them into calm.

  “You’ve already changed this contract twice, I don’t know how patient they’re going to be.”

  “So get your film negotiating cap on and help me out of this fix.”

  He fell silent.

  “Sorry, Dante. I’m a mess. Seeing him like that. I can’t leave. I know I can’t delay the record company either. And more than that, I’m going to play like an imbecile if I record now.”

  She list
ened to Dante take another breath.

  “You absolutely sure this is what you want?” Dante asked.

  “It is.”

  They said their farewells, Dante’s voice sounding more reticent than she’d hoped. When Luca opened the door to her a little while later he looked confused.

  “I’ll stay down the street somewhere if that’s easier. I don’t want to impose on your time with Raffaele. Put me to good use. I’m not great friends with a washing machine but I can learn? I can help with the preparation for his return home? Remind you to eat?”

  Luca’s face lit with a sad smile.

  She’d teased Raffaele for sounding like a monk in training, but his words were beautiful, lotus leaves floating on a still pond, delicate like its blossom, compelling, deceptive in its apparent fragility. In a few days she had tapped into a new world of fear. For the first time in her life she was forced to acknowledge that it may have been driving her more than she’d admit. Her music was unconditional love. Perhaps it was time to find a way to devote herself to other aspects of her life, with the same care and passion? Driven not by the quest to protect herself, or others, but by tapping into the courage to unfurl toward the unknown, embrace vulnerability, and, more than all this, to honor the example set by her best friend as he looked death square in the eye. She did have more of her father’s qualities than she would have had the bravery to admit until now.

  * * *

  Three days later Luca and Raffaele set sail for Sardinia. Alba accompanied them to the port of Livorno with a chauffeur-driven car she’d hired for them. The last memory of the boy she once lay beside under the spindle leaves of their pineta was his balding head tilted toward Luca’s hand, wrapped around the handle of his wheelchair as he pushed him along the gangway.