by Chris Cander
“Okay,” she said. “Thank you.”
A moment later, he looked at her and smiled. “Though you know there’s always a chance that we’ll all end up together someday. You, me, and the piano.”
“Oh?”
He looked hurt. “Wait. Was that a one-night thing?”
She gazed out the windshield—not away from him, but not at him, either. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. Everything’s happening so fast. Five days ago, you couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”
“What can I say? You were quite a surprise.”
Wasn’t every romance a surprise in the beginning? She recalled how she’d been drawn to Ryan’s mysterious benevolence in that grocery store, then dazed when he left with a bag of produce after agreeing to take her on a private flight. “I live in California. You live in New York.”
“Two states connected by phone, text, and airplanes. Have you ever been to New York?”
She huffed. “I haven’t been east of Nevada.”
“Ever?”
“Nope.” Travel was something she had on a vague future to-do list, along with: learn to play the piano, get a college degree, learn at least one of the foreign languages her father knew, pay attention to world politics like her mother had, and several other seemingly impossible goals.
“Well, we have to fix that. You’ll love New York—and not just that. We could go anywhere in the world. I’ve never been back to Russia. We could go to St. Petersburg, where I was born, and hear the orchestra there. Or Zagorsk, where my mother grew up. Moscow. Maybe we’d stop over in Paris or Amsterdam. Amsterdam’s amazing. I once saw a guy Rollerblading half-naked along the Schinkel River in the dead of winter.”
She felt a dozen car engines revving in her chest, and it wasn’t a good feeling. “Greg. Tap the brakes a little bit?”
He glanced at her, obviously noticing that she’d shifted away from him in her seat, then nodded at the road stretching out ahead of them. “You’re right. It’s hard not to get a little carried away, though. You asked me before if I had a lover or a spouse, but the truth is I haven’t cared about anyone in a long time. I haven’t met anybody else who understands what’s really important to me, you know? And out of the blue you show up, and I think you might be the one who does. You get it. Now here we are, and with the piano…it all fits.”
She examined his pale face in profile, his severe grip on the wheel, his dust-covered magician’s clothing. He’d worn only black since they met, like he was in perpetual mourning. Or was that the uniform of artists and New Yorkers? She thought of the sturdy, navy blue work pants she and the guys wore at the garage, their comfortable utility. She liked it when the uniform company picked up the bag with a week’s worth of grease-covered pants, hers and theirs mixed together, and brought them all back clean, folded, and stacked. She liked finding the S’s amid the L’s and XL’s and putting them on at the beginning of a workday, the stiff cloth relaxing as she went along. That satisfaction of belonging.
“This all feels a little…sudden.”
“Look, I know it’s fast. But I like you, Clara. I’m not asking you to marry me. I just want to see where this thing between us might go. What do you say?”
She didn’t answer right away. His interest was flattering, and his reasoning mostly logical. Because of their parents, they shared a history that nobody else could understand. Somehow she was comforted by the fact that he’d met her father, even if only once—that Greg knew what he looked like. He was intimately connected to her past. And unlike Ryan and the others, at least Greg would never underestimate the importance of the Blüthner. He’d never suggest that she sell it or store it or let it get buried under the detritus of life: mail, keys, jackets, books. What did she have, really, that kept her in Bakersfield? Her crappy apartment? Her job? She could find one in a garage anywhere, even in New York if they made it that far.
The road evened out and Greg picked up speed. Clara checked the side mirror; the truck kept pace behind them, but she couldn’t see the guys’ faces behind the thin cloud of dust between the two vehicles. She leaned her temple against the window. There was nothing but empty cornflower sky.
Maybe, if they actually did become a couple, it would be like an arranged marriage between virtual strangers, a practical union at first. Love, if it came at all, might come later. Meanwhile, she would at least have the Blüthner.
When she turned to him, he met her eyes, and she smiled.
“Yeah?” he said, raising his eyebrows hopefully.
She nodded. He did, too, smiling, and held her broken hand for the rest of the drive.
KATYA WAS UP EARLY on Saturday morning—if not technically up, since she hadn’t gone down the night before. She hadn’t even tried. The past year had been the worst of all the many awful ones she had to choose from. The voice of the lost music spoke to her in dark whispers almost constantly. She was unable or unwilling to get out of bed on some days, and on those she could she would wander aimlessly through them. She had largely stopped cooking because she no longer enjoyed any of the flavors, so she fed her husband and son American fast food or something that could be delivered to their home, like pizza or Chinese. She staggered through the seasons like she was waiting for something, but she didn’t know what it was until the night she found herself driving past the new house that had been erected where her lover died. She imagined that a hopeful young couple, possibly newly married, would soon occupy it; they might spend their whole lives together in that house, if they were lucky. Thinking about this gave her an idea that, in turn, finally provided her with a sense of purpose. She nodded to herself in agreement. It didn’t make her happy, but it did give her something to look forward to.
Mikhail came home at five that Saturday morning, after driving a graveyard shift. He thought that what he’d done to their son the year before had taught her a lesson, and since then he’d left her mostly alone. He had no idea that her grief was far deeper and wasn’t simply about that outrage. When she saw his headlights’ beams slash through the living room window, she went to the sofa and pretended to be asleep. But once she heard his heavy, mouth-open snore from their bedroom, she returned to the score she had spent all night composing longhand at the kitchen table. Just about the time the treetops began to glow yellow-orange and the mockingbirds commenced their daily repertoire, she decided it was finished.
The breakfast she’d planned was excessive, she knew, but she felt very clearheaded and determined about it, now that the day was here. She hadn’t cooked for Grigoriy in so long that she wasn’t about to be stingy with the menu this morning. She remembered the decades of food shortages in Russia, of how often they’d broken their starving fasts with only dry bread and coffee. Katya hadn’t learned many of the traditional recipes until after they immigrated to the United States, because back home they never had enough money to buy all of the ingredients, even if they could be found in the shops. She thought of her mother, hoping that she, too, by the end of her life, had been able to enjoy a meal such as the one Katya was about to prepare. She would’ve liked to have been there to share it with her.
She started with cottage-cheese pancakes, syrniki, with caramelized fruit on top, and savory blini with a dollop of sour cream and a spoonful of red caviar. Usually she used smoked salmon or some other cheaper fish, but today she would not scrimp. Next was tvorog, also a kind of cottage cheese, with honey and berries, one of her son’s favorite dishes when he was small. And of course buterbrody, open-faced sandwiches with black bread, butter, cheese, and sliced doktorskaya sausage; this was standard fare, but hearty. Last, she made strong, sweet tea and arranged the feast on the table.
“Grisha,” she whispered into his ear, and brushed his hair off his face. “I made breakfast for you.” He groaned in protest and turned over to nestle into the covers. “Please come eat now, before I have to leave.”
“Wh
ere are you going?” was his muffled reply. When he sat up, she looked at his profile. By now it shouldn’t, but it still surprised her to see whiskers on her baby’s cheeks.
“Shopping,” she said, and the lie caught in her throat. She coughed to clear it. “I have many errands today. I will be gone for a while. Longer than usual, okay?”
“Why?”
“Chi-chi-chi. I will explain later. For now, come eat what I’ve made for you.”
* * *
—
Katya sat with him, watching him eat, encouraging him to take second and then third helpings, but of the abundant food she took only a few bites herself.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked. “Why did you make so much just for me?”
“I tasted it all while I was preparing it. I can’t hold anymore.” She twirled a piece of her hair, the gray now almost equal to the brown, and hummed the arpeggiated melody from her new composition.
“You seem nervous.”
“No, no. Everything is fine.” She smiled and poured herself more tea. “Would you like more of the tvorog?” she asked, already serving him another heaping spoonful.
“No more, please. I’m stuffed.”
She nodded and began to clear the table.
“Mama, are you okay? Is something wrong?”
Katya glanced at him over her shoulder, then turned her attention to the dishes. She wanted everything to be clean and put away before she left. “I told you, Grisha,” she said brightly. “Everything’s great.” What an American thing to say. It sounded strange coming out of her mouth. “I left some money for you in your room. Maybe you want to buy some new films and take pictures today. Or if you’d like to go see the movies. Anything you want. Or go someplace for dinner with your father.”
“You won’t be home before dinner?”
“Oh, I’m only saying just in case.” She cleared her throat again. This was difficult, but her decision had been made. Better now not to think about it too much. “There’s plenty of food here, yes? I’ll wrap everything. Leftover buterbrody is good for dinner.”
She could feel his eyes on her back as she worked, but he didn’t ask any more questions. He was a good boy, she thought, though he worried about her too much. She hadn’t meant to become the kind of mother that made her child worry. He wouldn’t even go away to university, he was so afraid to leave her alone. He deserved better than that.
When everything was spotless, she surveyed the room. It was still as white and light-filled as when they’d first moved in, but now had more personal items on the countertops and walls. It was a very nice kitchen. She wouldn’t miss it.
“Я люблю тебя, сынок.”
“I love you, too, Mama.” He eyed her skeptically. “Are you sure nothing is the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter,” she said, and pulled him close to her. “I promise.” Then she collected her satchel, where she’d put her new sheet music and purse, and left the house without saying good-bye.
* * *
—
She refused to feel any remorse, or sadness, or second thoughts as she backed out of the driveway. She drove north out of town, toward Lancaster, then northeast on 14, skirting the southern edge of Red Rock Canyon, and due north along the western slope of the Panamint Range. When she reached the turnoff for Death Valley National Park, she had a surge of exhilaration. Here she was again, alone this time, in this desert that to her still looked like the tundra.
She had once shown Bruce the photographs and tried to explain what they meant to her. The lost music, the abandoned girl. Of course in real life, Bruce had been the one to come along and save her from her frozen grief, at least for a while. She could laugh easily by the time she shared the made-up story with him. Upon hearing it he suggested they take their honeymoon in Death Valley, partly because it was interesting, and partly to dispel the myth of sadness. “My father took us there when we were kids,” he told her. “My sister, Ila, was terrified of the name. She thought we were going to die the minute we got there. I have a vivid memory of climbing up to this point called Coffin Peak, which was sort of off the beaten path. All the other tourists were walking out to Dante’s Peak, since it’s pretty well known, but my dad told us the best view was from the point off to the side of it. God, it was beautiful up there. You could look down and see the salt basin and wild desert and canyon scenery, and across the valley there were these snow-covered peaks.” He shook his head. “I’d totally forgotten how incredible it was until now.”
“I wanted to go there!” she exclaimed, then handed him the picture of her looking up at it from thousands of feet below. How strange to think they’d once been on opposite points of that enormous empty space.
Then he’d taken her hand and kissed it. “I have an even better idea. Let’s get married there. It’s a morbid name, Coffin Peak, but I bet nobody else has ever done it. It can be all ours. What do you think?”
* * *
—
It was nearly three o’clock when she got to the spur off CA 190 that led to Dante’s Peak, the car groaning as it climbed up the sharp incline. She knew nothing about cars—her friend Ella had patiently taught her how to drive, since Mikhail didn’t care if she could, but she’d never liked it much. When she’d stopped for gas, the attendant had topped off her engine with coolant and insisted she bring extra water along in case it—or she—overheated in the park. It was hot, nearly a hundred degrees, but she wasn’t worried. She’d been told it would be twenty degrees cooler at the peak. If her old Accord gave up before then, she could simply walk the rest of the way.
There was a pullout on the road leading up to the vehicle parking lot where buses had to turn around because the rest of the climb was too steep. She turned into one of the few parking spaces by a public restroom. The cars that had been ahead of her continued without stopping, as did the few that followed. Apparently, Bruce’s father had been right: everyone else seemed to be going to Dante’s Peak.
With another mile still to go on foot, she didn’t waste any time. From her satchel she withdrew the old Polaroids, wrapped in the linen tea towel, and a sealed envelope with her son’s name written on the front. Inside was a letter. It was shorter than she’d intended, because she hadn’t been able to find the right words. In the end she’d realized those didn’t exist, so she’d explained as best she could and then begged him to forgive her. She slipped the letter and keys beneath the driver’s seat, then emptied the contents of her purse onto the passenger seat—her wallet with only a few dollars in it, a pen, lip balm, a hairbrush, those useful damn sunglasses Ella had given her sixteen years before. She was holding the composition she’d finished earlier that morning in her hand, and left the satchel and her purse, both empty now, on the seat. That felt right. Let someone else have them. She didn’t need any of it anymore.
She followed the path eastward over a grassy hillside strewn with sparkling crystals and scrubby shrubs, and climbed over two false summits separated by ravines before reaching her destination. It wasn’t a difficult walk, though once she got there she was sweating and tired. She rested for a moment, then moved carefully through some loose rocks to the very top and stood on the edge of the rugged south face. Oh, it was indeed beautiful, so still and serene. The basin below was an endless expanse of salt and sand that looked like a snow-covered valley. That was where she had stood once before, at the lowest point in the continental United States. On the other side, far in the western distance, she could see Mount Whitney, which was the highest. It seemed entirely appropriate, especially today, that she could see both from her unique position.
A breeze bristled the nearly invisible hairs on her arms, and she lifted her face toward it. “Hello, my love,” she said. Her voice was swept away by the wind, but she knew he could hear her. “It was exactly one year ago that you had to leave me.”
She closed her eyes. St
anding at the edge of Coffin Peak was much better than visiting an empty grave. Though they’d never made it to Death Valley together, she knew he would come for her here. He was now all around her, and she could hear his voice and feel his embrace on the wind. She opened her eyes and gazed out from their would-be wedding altar at the empty space between earth and sky. If such a thing were possible, she would like to catch a small, shimmering cloud and carry it for a bouquet.
“When I used to play my piano,” she said, “this is the kind of place where the music wanted to go. Up high, far above the silliness of the world, and filling the quiet with beauty.” She hummed a little melody and checked to see if the birds nearby might be dancing instead of flying. “I like to think that you and my piano are together now, yes? Perhaps during the passage you were given a thousand lessons at once and now, on the other side, you can play even more beautifully than I ever could.”
The sky was changing, the light lower and gilding the mountain faces. They had talked about being married at sunset. She unfolded the score of her new composition, which was only two pages long.
“I have written the story of my life,” she said, and began humming again. “It is structured in two sections, and each one crescendos all the way through to the conclusion. Of course you have my Blüthner with you now, so I can only pretend to play it for you. But please listen anyway.” She hummed some more, her fingers moving, her expression changing as the music evolved from simple to complex, from curious to grieving. While there were moments of joy, too, they were small, like fireworks displayed only once every year. The pause in the middle was just long enough to qualify it as a crossroads.
“I’m calling it ‘Die Reise,’ ” she said. “It means ‘The Journey.’ My piano was made in Germany, of course, so I think it’s a good choice for a title, don’t you?”
The wind whistled past her and she tilted her head. “Is that right?” She nodded. “Yes, naturally. How did I not see that before? The parallels are very clear.” She laughed out loud, and to her sad ears it sounded as rich and colorful as the setting sun, as the music she’d lost and missed terribly. “Then it will be the journey of both our lives, mine and my piano’s. Thank you, my love. Thank you for keeping my Blüthner safe with you.” She nodded once more. “Yes, I like the ending, too. It feels exactly right.”
