by Sarah Bryant
“Don’t worry, Eleanor,” he said. “All of it has an explanation.”
“I won’t. I’ll try not to, anyway.”
“I suppose that’s all anyone can ask. Good night, then. I wish you pleasant dreams.”
He lifted my fingers to his lips and then let go of my hand, disappearing into the shadows of the topiary garden. In his absence, the darkness had the vast silence and desolation of an empty cathedral. I looked toward the house on the hill, where all was black and still, and shivered despite the heavy warmth of the air. Turning my back on it, I retreated to the light of Eden’s Meadow.
It’s odd to recall that Eden was still a haven then.
NINE
MANY consider Chopin’s ballades the most beautiful of his compositions; certainly they are among the most varied and musically intricate. Until the night I heard Alexander play the G minor ballade at Symphony Hall, I had never thought much of them, nor of Chopin, for that matter. When I was a young girl, he seemed hackneyed to me. My grandfather called me hopeless when he heard this opinion, and Mary looked at me with pity. Despite them, I could not be swayed from the mathematical intricacies of Bach, the thundering passion of Beethoven.
After I heard Alexander play Chopin that night at the symphony, I began to discern the quality in the music that had such a hold on most people. I thought about the ballade a good deal after that. In the days following my exploration of the house on the hill, it began to occupy my thoughts obsessively.
A ballade is by definition a story told in music, and despite the fancy of it, I could not stop thinking that this particular ballade’s story must hold some clue to the strange occurrences of the past few days. Since Chopin never recorded the stories in words, I hunted down my old copy of the score and attacked it, dissecting it measure by measure for whatever meaning I could construe.
Typical of Chopin, its first theme carries on for pages at either end, haunting, illusive, and dark even for him. What captivated me about this theme now was the same quality that had originally irritated me: it is really nothing more than a phrase that keeps repeating until the second theme moves in to replace it. The more I played over the first few pages of the piece, the more this disturbed me. Chopin couldn’t resist a heart-wrenching melody, and he generally ended such passages with a final twist of the knife, particularly in major works. The more I thought about it, the more the ballade’s major theme seemed to miscarry rather than move toward any kind of conclusion. After an hour I shut the book in frustration and looked up to see Mary standing in the doorway.
“You know you can come in,” I said, more shortly than was necessary.
She moved in a trail of rose-colored gauze toward one of the couches. “It was so lovely, I didn’t want to disturb you.”
I fingered the right-hand melody absently, stealing glances at the bruised sky over the lake. Overcast days had always vexed me; in Louisiana, accompanied by humidity and heat, they were practically unbearable. “You wouldn’t have disturbed me. I’m disturbed enough as it is.” I stood up, pulled the cover over the keys, and went to sit beside her.
Mary smiled. “A bit more difficult than you remembered?”
I looked away from the leaden scenery, back at her myopic eyes. “What makes everybody love it? Don’t you hear the sickness in it? He couldn’t even finish that phrase, he just kept repeating it until he had to go on to something else.”
“Eleanor, what’s really troubling you?”
“That theme!” I got up and began to pace the perimeter of the worn oriental carpet. “It’s infuriating!”
“I’d never thought of it quite in that light,” Mary said slowly, “but I can see how it might strike you that way.”
“But not me,” I said, stopping in front of her. “It never used to strike me at all, yet now it sickens me. And most people seem to love it. You love it—how come? What makes you want to hear it over and over again?”
Now it was Mary’s turn to look at the brooding lake. “Maybe the same thing that bothers you: that it never answers the questions it raises. Such mystery can’t help but intrigue. I think quite a bit of Chopin is like that.”
“But not in the same way.” I turned away again, this time dejectedly, and resumed pacing. “He never leaves anything hanging in quite the same way. It’s as if he wanted his unanswered questions to drive people out of their minds.”
Mary raised her eyebrows but didn’t turn her face from the window. “Perhaps it was his way of keeping his own.” She reached out as I passed by her, gently caught my hand, and guided me to the couch. I sat down next to her.
“What do you think it’s about?” I asked.
She pressed her lips together, studying the grey and green landscape framed by the windows, and finally answered, “I’ve always thought that it’s about two lovers, one of whom dies.”
The succinctness of this answer left me at a loss for words. The two of us kept our silence for a time, watching a landscape we weren’t really seeing. After a moment I shook my head, looked back at Mary, and only then saw that she had two letters in her hand.
“What are those?”
She looked down at the envelopes. “I’d forgotten about them. They came for you this morning.” I took them from her. One envelope was institutional manila, the other of heavy, pale blue paper. My name and address were written on this second in a small, neat hand.
I opened the manila one first. Inside was a short letter from Dr. Brown. Its news was disappointing. He had written to Dr. Dunham in New Orleans, and though Dunham had answered his letter promptly, he had refused to give Brown access to the files. Brown concluded by saying there was little hope that a direct petition from me would be any more effective.
“What is it?” Mary asked.
I had never told her about that visit to Eden village. Now that I had reached a dead end, there seemed little point in explaining it all, and I told her that it was bank correspondence.
I opened the blue envelope expecting another complication of my grandfather’s scrambled estate, but what I found was entirely unexpected. I read it quickly once, then went back to the beginning and read it to Mary.
Dear Miss Rose,
My name is Dorian Ducoeur. My family originally comes from New York, but we are relations of the Ducoeurs of Joyous Garde, of whom you no doubt have heard. At one point I enjoyed an acquaintance with the family Fairfax, of which I am certain that you have heard—you are the daughter of one of the twins, Elizabeth or Eve, if I have figured correctly.
When I knew them, the Fairfaxes did not spend much time at Eden’s Meadow—only summers, as I recall. My own family often traveled abroad during the summer holidays. As a result, our immediate families did not have much overlap on the plantations. However, I do retain certain vivid memories of the Fairfaxes from one childhood visit.
We met at an informal recital, featuring your grandmother Claudine’s playing. When Claudine finished, someone called for her daughters to perform. They were children then, about my age. Elizabeth declined to play, being shy of the crowd, but Eve leaped up to the bench and plunged into the “Pathétique.” I was moved by her beauty and her talent. When she had finished the sonata and several encores, I went to congratulate her.
That was the beginning of our friendship. For the rest of that visit, the Fairfax twins were my playmates. Though I lost touch with them in subsequent years, I never forgot them. Sometimes I imagine it was Eve’s playing that set me on my own career: I now teach at an English conservatory.
But please excuse my long-winded reminiscences. I return now to the object of my letter, which is to say that I am sorry to have fallen out of contact with your family, particularly as I have spent so much time in Boston of late, practically your neighbor. You can imagine my surprise when I saw you take the bench at Martha Kelly’s November recital last year—excepting your fairness, the very image of the twins. Another engagement required my early departure from that recital, and I could not introduce myself to you as I had
hoped.
As coincidence has it, the last owner of Joyous Garde, an elderly cousin, passed away several weeks ago. As none of the Louisiana Ducoeurs cares to take on the responsibility of such a large old estate, Joyous Garde has fallen to myself. I travel to Baton Rouge in a few days, to set the estate in order. Afterward I will come to the plantation, and if it would not trouble you overly much, I would dearly love to see Eden’s Meadow again. Of course, it would also be a pleasure to meet you and renew my acquaintance with the family I have missed so long.
Yours sincerely,
Dorian Ducoeur
I looked at Mary. “It’s barely believable.”
“It is coincidental timing . . . but really, it would almost be stranger not to meet someone here who knew the twins.”
“But a Ducoeur!”
MARY picked up the pages, shuffled through them. “Well, indeed. Perhaps he knew the mysterious Louis. You ought to invite him for a chat. The letter’s dated a week ago, he could be in Baton Rouge already.”
I was still holding the envelope in my hand. I had been looking at it for several moments with the feeling that something was amiss. Now I realized what it was. “Mary—the letter wasn’t posted.”
I flipped the envelope to show it to her: the stamp wasn’t cancelled. “No, it wasn’t,” she agreed, apparently unconcerned.
“But you say it came with the rest of the mail. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe he meant to post it and forgot, and gave it to the mail-man directly.”
“Which would mean that he’s at Joyous Garde now.”
She shook her head, smiling. “Honestly, Eleanor, you’re jumping at shadows these days! There are far fewer mysteries in the world than you imagine.”
“Eden isn’t the rest of the world.”
“Well, Mr. Ducoeur isn’t here to tell us how he sent the letter, so it’s no use speculating.”
I nodded, still looking at the pages in my hand with the vague feeling that I was missing something obvious in their contents.
“Well, then,” said Mary, standing up, “I’ll leave you to your practicing.”
I shook my head. “I think I’ll lie down for a while. My head aches.”
“It’s the heat. Get something cold to drink before you go.”
I tried to smile. “All right. Ask Alexander and Tasha to tea, if you like.”
“Already done. They’ll be here at three-thirty. I’ll get you up at half past two, if that gives you enough time.”
“Plenty. Thank you, Mary.” I went upstairs, trying to ignore the heat pressing down under the lowering sky.
ONCE again I found myself in the ballroom of the house on the hill. Honey-colored sunlight poured in through the open French doors, stretched across the checkered floor. The twins, wearing their dresses from the portrait and flowers in their long, loose hair, danced an exaggerated waltz through the columns of light, to the music of the grand piano and their own happy laughter. The instrument stood at an angle against the wall of French doors that led to the rose garden, its open lid and long brocade scarf hiding the pianist, who played a waltz.
The twins turned in widening circles through the rich sunlight until finally they collapsed, panting, at the centre of the room. Elizabeth leaned back on her bare white arms, face to the sunlight and heavy lids drooping against it. Eve lay down with her head in her sister’s lap and began to disentangle the flowers from her hair. She pulled them out one by one, and their petals scattered across her bodice, the floor, her sister’s white skirt. The pianist played on, oblivious to the intimate beauty of the scene so close to him.
Then Eve disengaged a pink rosebud from a clump of curls, looked at it for a moment, and with a face suddenly serious she sat up and proffered it to her sister. The twins’ eyes met, and their faces all at once seemed older, their expressions more complex. As Elizabeth accepted the blossom, there was a sadness in her eyes that did not match the rest of the scene or the joyful impetuosity that had preceded it. Elizabeth held the rose for a moment, looking intently at Eve, and then, for no apparent reason, dropped it. It fell languidly, but when it finally touched the floor between the two girls, the sunlit ballroom vanished. It was replaced by the dark void that had ended my last dream of Eve. The same bitter wailing filled the darkness. It rose and crested, and then all was silence, leaving my ears ringing with its suddenness.
Softly, from far away, came a whispered word: “Remember.”
TEN
WHEN Mary shook me awake, it was after three.
“Are you all right, Eleanor? I tried to wake you earlier, but you were too soundly asleep.”
I shook my head in an attempt to clear it. “I keep having such strange dreams.”
“Of Eve?”
I looked at her, fear on the point of clamping down again, until I saw that she was smiling, undiscerning. I tried to smile back. “I suppose,” I said. The doorbell rang, and then Tasha’s excited chatter floated up the stairwell.
“Don’t hurry. We have plenty to occupy us until you’re ready.”
Once she had gone, I inspected myself in the mirror. I was pale, and there were half-circles under my eyes, as though I had not slept for days. I hoped I wasn’t getting sick; I had that slow, heavy feeling that precedes illness. I washed my face and changed my blouse, then rearranged my hair. Whether or not I looked it, I felt better.
“And how does today find you?” Alexander asked when I came into the front hall.
“Well, thank you,” I said, willing my smile to widen enough to cover the lie. “And you?”
“Lovely!” Tasha answered for him, dancing away from me, her pale dress streaming. “We’ve been walking in the gardens, and we saw the horses, and I’m going to ride a pony.”
Alexander raised his eyebrows, instantly sobering her.
“If Miss Rose and Mrs. Mary say it’s all right,” she added.
“Of course it’s all right,” I said. “That’s what we bought them for. We’ll take you tomorrow morning if you like. And please, call me Eleanor.”
“Thank you, Eleanor,” she said carefully, though the boundless joy at the prospect of a ride was clear beneath her composure.
“Come with me, sweetheart,” Mary was saying. “Colette’s baked cookies just for you. Let’s go to the kitchen and find them.” Tasha readily slipped her hand into Mary’s, and they disappeared.
“She’s at it again,” I said.
“I think both of them are,” Alexander observed. “Though Tasha will go along with anyone who seems ready to spoil her. Her Mrs. Mary is a prime target.”
I shrugged. “Maybe she needs to be spoiled for a while. Of course, if you’d rather not—”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “I think it’s wonderful that they get on so well. Anyhow, I don’t think that Tasha could be spoiled irrevocably.”
Colette had laid out a table with iced tea and lemonade and more food than we could possibly eat. I poured two glasses of tea.
“Let’s take it out to the gallery,” I said.
We went out and sat on two of the rocking chairs Mary had bought.
“Did you dream last night?” Alexander asked, looking toward the woods.
“Everyone dreams every night,” I told him. “Most of the time we don’t remember it.”
“Is that your way of telling me that you don’t remember?”
I sighed. “I remember. It wasn’t last night, though. It was this afternoon.” I told him about the dream. He looked not at me but at the dark trees, a grim and resolute expression settling on his face.
“What do you think?” I asked when his silence had become uncomfortable.
“It’s so vivid, it’s hard to believe that your Eve wasn’t trying to tell you something. What do you think? After all, it was your dream.”
I shook my head. “It was all so cryptic.” Alexander waited for me to continue. I swirled the melting ice around the bottom of my glass. “I don’t know. The sudden change in their expressions, the way that
Eve looked when she held out the flower, my mother when she accepted it—I agree, it must mean something, but I can’t imagine what.”
Alexander considered this for a time, then finally said, “Remember, the flower was a rose. Perhaps it represented you.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed. “But she looked too young to have had me yet. Of course, she met my father when she was very young. Maybe it was about him.”
“Did he die young, too?”
“I don’t know. He and my mother separated not long after she had me, and I never heard from him again.” Alexander looked perplexed by this information, so I added, “It’s all right. I never think about it anymore, and I don’t remember him to miss him.”
He was silent, apparently uncertain as to how to move past the subject.
Finally, I said, “I have some musical questions for you.”
We both smiled, and again the pall was shaken, though not so completely as it had been in the sunlight. I left the glasses on the tea table, and we moved to the music room.
“Musical questions,” he repeated, indicating that I should sit down at the piano. “The études?” he asked.
I thought for a moment, then nodded, deciding that the ballade was better left alone at present.
“The fourth of opus ten,” he suggested, opening the book that lay to the side of the music rack and studying the piece. “You said last night that it was giving you trouble.”
“Worse than that, I’m afraid.”
He pulled a chair up near the bench, setting the music before me on the piano. “I would ask you first,” he said, “why it is that you want to play these pieces.”
