Nocturne

by Andrea Randall

  That was no affair ... it was ... like a safe place in a storm, a quiet, purposeful, beautiful duet in a silent theater.

  I don’t know what James said.

  I don’t know how he responded.

  Because for the first time in my adult life, I drank so much I blacked out.

  James slid several Tylenol across the table to me. “Take these,” he said. “And get a drink of water.”

  I took the Tylenol without comment, just staring at the table. I rubbed my forehead and looked up. “What exactly did I say to you last night?”

  James snorted a little and shook his head. “The question is what didn’t you say, Gregory. I’ve never seen you such a mess before.”

  “She won’t answer my calls,” I replied.

  James winced.

  I leaned forward and stared at my tea, then said, “I screwed up. Badly.”

  He shrugged. “We all screw up. Though I’ll admit, adultery ...”

  I shook my head, then looked up at him, irritated. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I screwed up five years ago. When I told you I’d drop her. I screwed up when I didn’t put her first. And ... I’m pretty sure she got that message when she called last night. I couldn’t have said it any clearer. God, I’m such an asshole.”

  I leaned my head in my hand. The Tylenol wasn’t helping. My head was pounding, and worse, I … I felt empty inside. Empty like I hadn’t felt since that day five years ago when I learned she’d left the conservatory. Just ... empty.

  I stared miserably into my cup. Then I took out my cell phone and dialed again.

  Straight to voicemail. Again. I tapped out a text message.

  I’m sorry. Please call me. Please. Forgive. Me.

  Then I hit send and looked up at my oldest friend. “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I just don’t know what the fuck to do.”

  That’s when I heard Madeline’s voice, behind me. “You go to her,” she said. “You tell her how much she means to you. You do whatever it takes.”

  James frowned. “Madeline,” he said, an edge in his tone.

  “Oh, shut up, James. You know they’re in love.”

  I twisted around in my seat. “And if she won’t take my calls? I don’t even know where the hell she is.”

  Madeline grinned. “I can help you with that. She’s staying with one of your former students, Marcia Taylor. In Andover.”

  I shot out of my seat, which was added to the list of my poor decisions for the last 24 hours. My head spun and pounded at the same time, but I got a grip on the table. “You know the address?”

  Madeline nodded.

  Ten minutes later I’d had the shortest shower of my life and was in the car on my way to Andover, wearing clothes borrowed from James with too short arms and legs and a waist I could fit two of me through. As I drove, I glanced in the back seat and froze.

  My cello was still in the back seat.

  I’d left a seven hundred thousand dollar cello in the backseat of my car, parked on the street in Boston, overnight.

  I frowned and kept driving. Right now I had more important things to worry about. I tried to call her as I drove, but the phone went straight to voicemail. Again.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to deal with much in the way of traffic. It was still relatively early on Sunday morning, the summer light still faint as I drove north out of Boston. The grey sky suited my mood. But I had one thing going for me.

  I had hope.

  It took forty minutes before I pulled up to the address on Chestnut Street Madeline had scrawled on a sheet of paper.

  I parked in front of the house and took a breath, suddenly terrified. A white two-story home, with three dormer windows cut into the attic. A small structure, originally separate, must have once housed a kitchen or garage. A knee-high stone wall bordered the edge of the property, and the breeze blew the leaves off several old trees towering over the house. Somewhere inside, Savannah had lived, briefly, after returning from Moscow and before we went on tour.

  I opened the car door and got out, then slowly walked up the front walk. My upper body was tense, my throat tight. Something told me this was my only chance to make it right. Because I’d been so fucking cold on the phone. I’d been so angry. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anything she’d said or done. It was just the timing. And my own carelessness.

  I don’t have time for this is not something you say to the love of your life.

  I found myself wondering what death row inmates feel like when they are walking toward their execution. Was it this tension? This fear deep in the gut? I swallowed my fear, reached up and knocked on the door.

  Nothing.

  After a full minute, I hit the knocker again. This time, from deep in the bowels of the house, I heard a female voice calling out, “Just a minute.”

  And so I waited.

  Almost a full minute later, the door opened, and I stood there dumbly confused for a moment. I’d so anticipated Savannah being there that I was confused when Nathan Connors’ girlfriend, the harpist, answered the door. A moment later Marcia, my former student and Savannah’s roommate, approached the door.

  “What are you doing here?” Marcia’s voice wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either.

  I coughed. Then I said, “I need to speak with Savannah.”

  Marcia’s eyebrows drew together. And then she burst out the front door, standing in front of me, and poked me in the chest hard with her index finger. “What the fuck did you say to her last night, Gregory?”

  I staggered back. I had nothing I could say. No defense. Because her reaction was confirmation of what I’d already known ... that my angry response on the phone last night had destroyed what little trust Savannah had in me.

  “Please ... just let me talk to her.” And I was horrified. Because for the first time in my adult life, my voice cracked.

  Marcia’s eyes widened. She whispered, “What the hell happened between you two?”

  I looked away, ground my teeth, and said, “I lost her. And … just ... please ...”

  She shook her head, looking terribly sad. “She’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone? Where did she go?”

  “Back to Russia. She … didn’t come home last night ... called early this morning to let me know she’s going straight to the airport.”

  I staggered back. “Back to Russia?”

  Without transition I found myself sitting on the edge of a flower planter next to the front walk. Potting soil and water soaked into the back of my pants as I shook my head. “Why?” I asked, my voice at a whisper.

  Marcia shook her head. “You tell me. I’ve never heard her sounding so distraught in my life. Whatever you said to her Gregory ... you hurt her. Badly.”

  “Fuck,” I groaned. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands.

  “Can you get off my flowers?” she asked, her voice edging toward annoyed.

  I sighed and stood. “Sorry for … wasting your time.”

  My shoulders slumped; I walked back toward my car. And just to cap the morning, as I unlocked my car, Nathan fucking Connors drove up and parked behind me. I almost got in and drove off before he could get out of his car, but something told me to wait.

  He got out of his car. His expression reflected disgust when he saw me.

  “Fitzgerald.”

  “Connors.”

  “What are you doing here?” He closed his door and leaned against it.

  I shrugged. “I came ... to see her. But I was too late.”

  He shook his head and walked toward me, then leaned back against my car. Presumptuous as usual, but I didn’t say anything. “I just saw her off at the airport.”

  “She’s going back to the Bolshoi.”

  He nodded.

  “She’s done with me. For good.”

  He nodded again.

  I leaned against the car, next to him, and said,
“I didn’t mean to break her heart. I’d do anything to take it back.”

  “Little late for that,” Nathan said. “Twice, Fitzgerald. Twice, I’ve had to put my friend back together after you tore her to shreds. Just ... stay away from her. Let her heal and get her life together and don’t … don’t hurt her again, all right? She deserves a whole man. You understand what I’m saying? The one thing you couldn’t ever do—put her first.”

  I closed my eyes and groaned. He was right. Everything he was saying was right. I never had. It has always been ... the conservatory. My career. The music. Karin. It was always something else, anything else, when it should have been her. No fucking wonder she felt the way she did. I had the arrogance to ask her to wait for me, to ask her to set aside her career, her entire life, to stay in Boston while I fumbled through whatever the hell was going on with my marriage.

  And I couldn’t even take her phone call.

  I gasped. “Don’t you ever say anything to anyone. But ... nothing else will ever matter again. Not after losing her.”

  Nathan made a disgusted sound and shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole morning dealing with the fallout from your carelessness, Fitzgerald. Don’t ask me to feel sorry for you on top of it.”

  I grimaced. The last fucking thing I wanted was Nathan’s sympathy. I glared at him and said, “Just tell me she’s going to be okay.”

  He looked me straight in the eyes, his mouth twisting up in a parody of a smile. “I don’t have a clue. This was … much worse than when you dumped her five years ago. I don’t know if she’ll ever be over you, and I hate you because of that. She’s better than this.”

  I closed my eyes. “When you talk to her. Please ... tell her I’m sorry.” I turned and opened the door, getting in my car as Nathan stepped back. Savannah had returned to Moscow.

  Then I drove away, with nothing but ashes in my soul.

  Savannah

  One winter in Russia is enough to remind you, forever, to always carry your scarf. That day was particularly glacial, though. The wind whooshed through my hair with such cruel rawness I was certain my brain would freeze.

  “Bella!” Aldo called from behind me as I crossed the street to head for my apartment after rehearsal.

  “Ciao, Al.” I smiled as he caught up to me. He was a short Italian cellist who had been at Bolshoi a year before me. All last year he’d walk me to my apartment after rehearsal, especially in the winter when the sun left long before we did. Given the incidence of street crime in Moscow these days, I was grateful for the escort.

  “You always call me Al. Why Al?” His broken English cracked me up. He knew I could speak fluent Italian, but also knew I longed to speak English whenever I could. My roommate was from Moscow and I spoke more Russian than she spoke English.

  Our apartment was a quiet place.

  I shrugged. “No reason. It’s cute.”

  “Ah, like you.”

  Poor Al … he’d been courting me from the minute my plane landed in Moscow in August. I haven’t a clue what gave him the urge to seek me out, but I was his target. He had no way of knowing I had little time or desire for Italians … or cellists.

  As we approached the stairs to my fourth floor apartment, Aldo spoke faster.

  “Savannah, you … do you want to come over for tea?” A nice request on the surface, but his hand had slid to my lower back over the course of our short walk.

  I hated to let him down, but I wanted to be fair. “Maybe another time? We should get everyone together to go to the teahouse down the road tomorrow after rehearsal, or on break or something.”

  He nodded, pulling his lips back in a sweet smile. He was only capable of sweet. “Another time. Essere sicura.” He gave my shoulders a tight squeeze as he told me to be safe.

  Despite our silence-inducing language barrier, I was still grateful that Sasha was part of a brass ensemble that kept her out late most nights. With a sigh, I made my way to the front window, where I saw Aldo Marietta heading down the road to his apartment two blocks away. Turning back to the front table, I sorted through the mail I’d picked up the day before but hadn’t gone through yet.

  Christmas cards from my friends in the States were starting to decorate the bare walls in my tiny bedroom. Christmas in Russia wasn’t celebrated until January 7th, so it was always a topic of conversation among friends that visited our apartment. They’d point at cards illustrated with a very fat and cartoonish looking Santa Claus and laugh, highlighting our deep cultural differences that went far beyond our celebration of this particular holiday.

  Settling back into Moscow and the orchestra was seamless. Some of my friends had kept tabs on the tour and congratulated me on the performances but, luckily, no one had heard about the end. How that never ended up in the artsy tabloids was beyond me, but I was grateful. After what I learned on tour about how people spread lies more than truths, I’m sure someone spent a lot of money to keep the backstage scuffle between Nathan and Gregory a secret, affair revelation and all.

  I felt comfortable with my position at the Bolshoi and was being groomed for the principal chair in the coming years, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to get to the top of my career there. The atmosphere at the highest levels was cutthroat, and a level of bitter intensity that I never wanted to associate with a professional career. I’d been keeping my eyes and ears open throughout Europe for auditions. In truth, I had my eyes set on the London Symphony Orchestra. While the BSO had filled every musical aspiration I’d had since I started playing, it was no longer an emotional possibility. I didn’t resent him for it, but I knew that the tethers of Boston’s Symphony Hall still had a grip on my heart, and I needed time and distance for them to wither away.

  I paused briefly as I got to the large manila envelope that came once a month from my dad. He’d collect news clippings from friends of mine from high school, or any he came across about Nathan or my other friends from the conservatory. I was relieved each month that he dutifully ignored my insistence that I could locate such information on the Internet. He said it just wasn’t the same as having a piece of it with me. He was right.

  Still, I set the envelope aside for the time being and wandered over to my laptop, pulling up Spotify’s Adele station and the Boston Globe’s website as I sat down. Automatically I clicked on Arts and scrolled until I reached the Theater and Art section.

  I hadn’t spoken to my mother since watching her walk down the steps of Symphony Hall four months ago with Malcolm by her side. My dad encouraged me to reach out to her any chance he got. I told him I would when I was ready, and he said he understood. His understanding lasted until the next phone call or email, where we’d have the same conversation. My promise. His understanding. The end.

  News on my mother had died down since opening night at the end of September, but I still scrolled through, peeking for glimpses of the life she chose. Maybe looking for reasons why. Before I had a chance to click on the Theater and Art tab to take me to the full list of stories, the headline smacked me in the face.

  Carroll and Carulli To Wed.

  ... Proposal during an after-show party earlier in the month.

  ... Wedding this summer at Symphony Hall.

  ... An affair that will cost well over fifty-thousand dollars and host the most prominent …

  Seeing it in print held a different weight than reading it in my father’s email last week. Things with them are getting serious quickly, he’d said. It was only quick for someone who refused to, or couldn’t, acknowledge a prior seven-year affair.

  “Well, there that is.” I sighed and worked my way out of the section, scrolling past the Music link I’d grown to avoid out of habit.

  Until this time.

  Prized Antique Cello Fetches $1 Million at Auction.

  My shoulders tensed as I hovered the cursor over the link. It had to be him. It was him. I knew it was him. But ... what? So, I clicked.

  At the annual New England Center for the Arts Gala, sponsored by Sotheby’s, w
orld-renowned cellist Gregory Fitzgerald auctioned his nearly 300 year-old Montagnana cello, netting $1 million dollars on the nose.

  Shit, it really was him. The article continued and, despite myself, so did I.

  The donation was sent, upon request by Mr. Fitzgerald, to the New England Conservatory. Fitzgerald is earmarking the funds to be used for a new program he’s helping to develop for music education students to be trained in specializing in working with children with disabilities.

  I pressed the heels of my hands into my forehead as I rested my elbows on the table. Months ago he’d confessed to me how thoroughly unprepared he’d been to take on the young blind cellist, Robert. This was for him.

  The rabbit hole wasn’t quite finished with me as I read and reread the last line of the article.

  Gregory Fitzgerald was the principal cellist of the Boston Symphony Orchestra until his resignation earlier this month.

  “What?” I shouted into the empty air of my apartment. “That’s it?” I scrolled up and down and clicked back and forth, but that was it.

  He stayed with Karin … and they’re having babies.

  That was the only reasonable explanation for such preposterous news.

  I didn’t know which to address first, the bile rising rapidly through my throat, or my dizziness. I was already sitting, but not, unfortunately, near a toilet. I only had time to make it to the kitchen sink, so my painted blue teacup from the morning’s breakfast bore the brunt of my resurgent heartache.

  After rinsing my mouth out, I cautiously returned to the Globe’s web page to find the answer.

  There was none. The article just … ended there.

  Gregory had left the BSO.

  And auctioned his cello.

  And nothing made any sense.

  “Oh shut up, Adele, what the hell do you know.” I clicked off her instructions to have me make someone feel my love and picked up my phone, scrolling to Nathan’s number. He’d know something.