“Oh, dear,” said Nicholas.
“‘Oh dear’ is right. Some friends had to take him outside to cool off.”
Danny returned to request another dance with Paula. In her absence, an older woman approached Nicholas. She was dressed elegantly, with strappy heels and a skirt with a slit on the side, and her hair arranged high on her head. Her very walk was graceful, that of a professional dancer. Reluctantly Nicholas followed her onto the dance floor, holding her long, slightly veined hand as loosely as possible. As he danced, he turned his gaze elsewhere, in expert salsa style, feeling something like mild indignation. Paula, dancing with Danny, nodded at Nicholas in an encouraging way. With envy, Nicholas watched Danny spin Paula this way and that, her legs moving so easily, and a smile on her radiant face. She was a natural.
When the song ended, Nicholas thanked the older woman and quickly walked away. He didn’t want to dance with her anymore.
“You looked so absolutely free just now,” he told Paula when she came back from the dance floor. “The way Danny was spinning you around . . .”
Paula said, “Next time you’ll be spinning me like that.”
Nicholas was unconvinced. “I’ve never been a great fan of dancing. Until tonight, that is. My wife and I are sometimes given tickets to the ballet, and the dancers, well, compared to the music they just seem so . . . superfluous.”
Paula raised her voice over the music. “Your wife?” She frowned at him. “Why don’t you wear a ring?”
“Oh, we never did that,” Nicholas said, almost lightly. “I suppose we thought we were being different. That we didn’t need to do that.” Then he understood why Paula was frowning and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it.” The thought truly hadn’t occurred to him.
Now Paula squinted at him. “Does she know you’re here with me?”
Nicholas shook his head.
Paula raised her eyebrows. “We should go, then.”
Nicholas dropped his shoulders, irked.
“I’ll drive you to the subway,” Paula said.
Nicholas took his coat and followed Paula into the frigid night. The parking lot was nearly full. When Nicholas had again taken his seat in the Kia, and Paula had slammed shut her own door against the cold, she asked him, “And if your wife caught you cheating on her?’
“Is dancing cheating?” Nicholas was annoyed. He had done nothing wrong; she had misunderstood.
Paula looked at him coldly. “And if she thought you were cheating on her?”
“She would kick me out, I guess.” He reconsidered. “Or maybe just kill me.”
Paula rolled her eyes. Nicholas gave a little shrug, to show that it was all hypothetical. Then the car rumbled to a start and they were driving away, not speaking. When she dropped him off at a T stop, Paula sat back, her neck straight, her gaze proud. Nicholas decided to state his case. “Dancing isn’t cheating, you know. It’s a beautiful thing. It doesn’t have to be . . . sexual.”
Paula nodded. “I hear ya.”
Relieved to have made his point, Nicholas stepped out of the car and thanked Paula for the dancing.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and it sounded true.
“Well, good night.” Nicholas closed the door and waved good-bye through the window. When Paula gave a little wave back, he felt pleased at having brought things to a happy conclusion. At home, it took him a hot bath and a mug of tea to relax.
FOR A WEEK HE THOUGHT OF PAULA AND THE SALSA CLUB WITH A pleasantness that felt almost nostalgic. The following week his thoughts became something more like longing. At the conservatory’s music library, he looked up Joe Arroyo y La Verdad and in his office played over and over the CD he borrowed, until he thought he had even begun to understand some Spanish. By the third week, though, the image of Paula was beginning to fade.
That Saturday night, shortly after Remy had left for the Symphony, Nicholas sat down at the piano to tackle, yet again, his composition. Though he felt optimistic enough when he first lifted his pencil, he soon worked himself into the same corner as always. Truth be told, every so often a suspicion crept in: that the thing might never really come together. Sometimes he even suspected that what he needed to do was to start all over again, scrap entire sections and return to that original burst (though already he had had his graduate copyist formally notate two entire movements, thinking them complete). Lately an even more troubling idea had besieged him: that he might die before finishing it—this work that he had already begun, quite consciously, to think of as his magnum opus.
As he sat at his piano that cold Saturday night, he felt again the threat of defeat. He told himself he was in a rut, that was all. He just needed to shake things up. Find a new path. And so he rose, changed into a clean button-down shirt, black slacks, and leather shoes, and brushed his teeth and his hair. Then he bundled himself into his parka and drove past the city limit, to Nestor’s.
The club was much more crowded than before, and Nicholas had to search for a minute or so before he found Paula. She was standing near the bar, with a few young men and a plump, dark-haired woman. Philomena, Nicholas supposed, proud at remembering. He removed his parka—the room was already hot from so much dancing—dropped it on a chair, and made his way over to the bar, aware that the young men were looking at him. Paula saw him and raised an eyebrow. “Addicted to salsa after all?”
“I suppose so,” Nicholas said, relieved that she seemed about to laugh. He nodded hello to her friends. “How do you do.”
“Here, let’s dance.” Paula swept him away, and Nicholas was momentarily hurt. Perhaps she was ashamed of him. Perhaps he looked old and odd.
“Lucky for you José’s not here tonight!” she said, tugging him away by the elbow. “Those guys are friends of his. I didn’t want you to talk to them, in case they start something.”
Nicholas felt suddenly, delightfully, embroiled. But Paula looked serious as she pulled him over to a corner of the dance floor.
“Why do you even talk to them,” Nicholas asked, “if they’re like that?”
“We’re all a group here, you know? Dancing friends. It’s its own little world. You have to follow the rules while you’re in it.” Paula shrugged. Then she looked at Nicholas with wide eyes. “I can’t believe you found me.”
“I knew where to look,” Nicholas said.
“But you looked for me. All the way out here, and you came to find me.” Her eyes told him no one had ever done such a thing for her before.
At once Nicholas felt horrible. “You know I’m married. I just wanted—” He thought how best to formulate it. “I meant what I said last time, about dancing. Look, I’d love if you could teach me.”
“Teach you.” Paula raised her eyebrows.
“To dance. And about the music, the groups you know. I found a CD of the band you told me about. I’d love to learn more.”
Paula looked skeptical. “Is that all?”
“If it makes you uncomfortable . . .”
With a little toss of her head, Paula said, “No, no. Sure, I’ll teach you.” Then she laughed, in a close-mouthed way that made her nostrils flare. With her hand on his elbow, she pulled him out from the corner and took her place across from him on the dance floor. “Ready to rumba?”
“Is this a rumba?”
“Problem is, you’re the one who’s supposed to be leading.” Paula gave a look of mock frustration. “Here, I’ll show you the basics.”
Nicholas watched, and quickly joined in. Again he felt the absolute freedom of a novice, the relief of this place where no one knew him, where there were no expectations to uphold. Beyond Paula’s shoulder were girls clustered hopefully around tables covered in cocktail glasses, and young men at the bar eating fried mozzarella sticks, and women fiddling with the straps of their high-heeled shoes, adjusting their skirts so that the slits were just so on their thighs. And here in front of him was Paula, showing Nicholas the steps of a merengue. She moved, and Nicholas followed.
BY THE TIME R
EMY RETURNED HOME FROM VIVIAN’S, IT WAS EVENING and the rain had let up. Battered leaves and petals lay in puddles along Beacon Street, and storm dregs purled in the gutter. Turning onto her block from the T, Remy came upon another dead baby bird. Every day, it seemed, she found a squashed robin’s egg or some newly hatched creature so mangled it was barely recognizable. Well, that was May—the month of dead baby birds. Remy knew she was being morbid, but it suited her mood.
At the house, the front door with its old brass knocker, Remy paused, wondering if Nicholas had dared come back.
It was just this morning that she had told him to get out. If he wasn’t going to act guilty, then at the very least she could inconvenience him.
Vivian had laughed at that. But Remy still felt stabbed in the heart. That their home stood waiting as usual, lovely as always, seemed somehow wrong. Especially with its new fresh face. They’d recently had to remove all the ivy and repoint the bricks, so that the facade was clean and elegant, no longer hidden by vines. Seeing it now, Remy thought again of Hazel’s face, skin soft and white, newly luminous like a child’s.
Running into her on today of all days . . . As if she’d been sent as a reminder.
Vivian said not to read into it, but it was hard not to.
Inside, the house was silent. Remy placed her violin and bag on the floor. Already she had turned to check the answering machine and, seeing that there was indeed a message, wondered if it might be Nicholas. But it was Jessica, saying she and Josh would be coming to visit next month.
Remy pressed Save. She would have liked to call Jessica back, just to hear her bubbly voice. But she worried she might allow herself to say too much.
“Hellooo!”
Remy turned to find Cybil on the front stoop, peering through the screen door. She was carrying a large shopping bag, along with a closed umbrella and—snuggled into a patterned sling on her chest—a sleeping Ravit.
“Oh, hey, come on in.” Remy wondered if Nicholas had gone to stay at Cybil and Yoni’s. Perhaps he had sent Cybil as a messenger. She certainly looked the part, her always-neat hair in a short, severe pageboy. She stepped lightly inside and kissed Remy’s cheeks. Though it had been just six months since she had given birth, she was already back to her skinny, flat-stomached self. With long limbs and rosy skin, her eyebrows tweezed into a permanently bemused expression, Cybil was both naturally beautiful and carefully maintained. She had the straight posture of a dancer, a doll-like mouth, a perfect nose with small round nostrils, and each neat little earlobe punctuated by a stunning black pearl. Her wedding ring was a block of half-polished amethyst, like something just excavated from a mine. Holding her shoulders perfectly straight, she managed to convey ease and lightness despite the weight of her baby in the sling.
Gently, careful not to wake her, Remy touched Ravit’s soft, fine hair. She asked Cybil if she would like something to drink.
“Oh, no, thanks. I won’t stay long. Where’s Nicholas?”
“In the doghouse.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Never mind,” Remy said, as if it were simply a nuisance. “What’s up?”
“I was hoping I could leave something with you. This backgammon set—here, I have to show it to you, it’s absolutely gorgeous. I just bought it at McPherson’s.” The antiques dealer. Remy hadn’t been there more than once or twice, it was so unjustly expensive. “It’s for Yoni’s birthday,” Cybil explained. “This way he won’t find it before then.”
“Of course, no problem.” Of course it would be something like this, something for Yoni, of all people, something elegant and expensive, and for Yoni. There had been a time when Remy’s heart still winced at the thought of him and of the child they might have had, and then gradually she had told herself that was all behind her—and eventually it really was.
In a way, Remy still felt personally responsible for Yoni and Cybil’s union. At first it had seemed like a sacrifice of sorts, Yoni resigning himself to a future with Cybil—but he had embraced marriage wholeheartedly. And now, with Ravit, Yoni had turned out to be, as Remy had always suspected, a doting, enthusiastic father. That was the wild and wonderful thing; Yoni and Cybil’s life together was an unqualified success. Yoni, a man who might never have married, had become a faithful and loving husband.
Of course Remy had pangs of jealousy. She hadn’t quite realized the reprieve she’d been given, all those years when Cybil had put her career first and never even mentioned wanting a child. But so many women waited until their midthirties, or even older, these days. . . . Really, Remy should have known this was coming.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Cybil was asking. She had peeled back the bubble wrap, to reveal a folded wooden case.
“What a find.” Remy didn’t reach out to touch the smooth wood, as Cybil had. Never in her life had she been given a gift like this, something purchased with premeditation and a great deal of money, and hidden away as a surprise. Nicholas wasn’t that sort of spouse. Well, lots of husbands weren’t.
Thinking this, Remy said, “Oh, guess what? Jess is getting married.”
“Whoa, that was quick! Josh . . . right? What a sweetie.” Cybil and Yoni had met him once or twice last year.
Remy told Cybil about the phone call last week, how excited Jessica was.
“That’s fantastic,” Cybil said. “A wedding! My friends never have them, they just move in with their partners— Are you really all right, Remy?”
“Oh, I’m okay.” She wondered if she had the energy to tell Cybil. “Here, are you sure you don’t want a glass of water or something?”
“No, no, thanks, I should get going, actually. The princess could awake any moment and turn into a monster. Thanks for keeping this for me.” Cybil gave Remy a quick kiss on each cheek and told her to feel better. “Let me know if I can help.” Taking up her umbrella, she stepped lightly out into the drizzly evening.
The backgammon set lay against the wall. To Remy it looked reproachful, a reminder that she, too, had slipped. But she had paid for her lapse. That was the problem; paying for a mistake was nothing Nicholas had ever done.
Her mind whirred through the revelations of today. Hard to stop the whirring. Her fury came and went in bursts. The thought came to her again that she could leave him, leave here, start anew. She could, if she wanted. There was even a job she might try for, with a new orchestra in Barcelona. Her friend Christopher had been telling her about it.
Enough of this life—these secrets and lies.
She went back inside and dialed Jess’s number. She simply wanted to hear her voice, to be reminded of the other people she loved.
Instead there was the recording of their golden retriever barking and Jessica saying, “Hey, leave us a message,” as if it didn’t really matter to her one way or another.
“Hi, sweets, it’s me. Just calling you back. Glad you’re coming to visit. I’ll call again soon.” She hung up and waited, as if Jess might call back any minute. She was unaware of exactly how much time passed, just that at a certain point she found herself marching angrily through the French doors into the music room, as if she might find Nicholas there as usual. The room looked beautiful as always—more beautiful, now that they had finally pulled up the carpet and polished the parquet floor. Why had they waited so long? Remy saw that she had left the windows open, but luckily no rain had gotten in. She twisted a handle to open one of the windows wider. From the next block came the hooting of the trolley’s horn.
Remy turned to Nicholas’s desk. It was messy as always, covered with scattered pages of his manuscript—the manuscript, or “the beast,” as they had called it, for a long time now. How odd, to see it there without Nicholas hunched over in contemplation.
He had gotten on with it recently—gotten past whatever had blocked him. Remy had noted the change in him, the way his mood had lifted despite the increased hours at his desk. Lately, when she returned home from Symphony performances, he would still be up, working, but instead of fatigue in his eyes there
was a glow.
She looked down at a page of the score. It was in its final stage, she could tell, because instead of pencil Nicholas had used ink. He was old-fashioned that way, still wrote out his next-to-final copies by hand, on sleek staff paper with preprinted clefs, before handing them off to his copyist. Seeing his handwriting now, Remy felt oddly moved, at the thought of him having drawn all these dots and stems. The many staves were stacked one upon the other, rows and rows, for each instrumental voice. A single page contained so much; it was nothing a simple glance could easily make sense of. The only reason Remy was able, at all, to comprehend the thing was because of Conrad Lesser, all those years ago, insisting his students understand not just their parts but the orchestral scores, too.
She could almost hear him now, explaining how to approach new work: first look the thing over and suss out the piece as a whole, its form, its mood, its principal idea. . . .
But even this one single page—the woodwinds up top, and below them the rows of brass, and then the percussion, and on down the busy page—was really too much for Remy. Though she could read well enough the individual lines, she wondered at the fact that composers managed to hear internally how the piece would sound as a whole. Here was the oboe’s part; there was the trumpet’s. Here came a piccolo. Remy could hear individual parts in her imagination, but to synthesize these varied voices, to mentally weave them together all at once, was too difficult. It struck her now how odd it was, that this man she lived with had for years been listening to these harmonies and melodies in his mind, without Remy ever hearing more than a scrap here or there on the piano.
Her eyes continued down the page, to the string section. There was the first violin part, and the second. Above, tucked between the harp and the violins, was a word in capital letters: “SOLO.”
A violin solo.
Remy flipped backward through the movement, to see where the solo began. With only eight or so bars of score per page, the pages made a thick stack. Ah, here was the beginning of the solo; it was quite an extended one. But how was that possible? Nicholas had never mentioned it. Surely he would have asked for her input—or at least mentioned what he was doing.
Sight Reading Page 25
