Goodbye, Paris

by Anstey Harris

  The box is about the size of a paperback book. I know the livery; it is from a jeweler in Paris who David and I have known for several years. I have had earrings, necklaces, all kinds of gifts delivered in this same sort of box, midnight blue with a pale gold ribbon. On the top it says, Grace Atherton, luthier.

  “I haven’t time to open it, I’m afraid,” I say to the receptionist. “Do you think someone could leave it in the safe until I come back tonight?” I know what this jeweler’s prices are like. “Can I collect it then?”

  She says it’s fine and calls someone to take the box.

  I walk through to the bar. I don’t know who looks best out of the three of us. Nadia has curled her hair and pinned most of it up, the rest falling like tendrils around her face and her long thin neck. She is wearing a plain black top and a vintage circular skirt; she looks adorable. She has washed and scrubbed my suede flats and, with her outfit and her long legs, they look fabulous.

  Mr. Williams looks like the gentleman he is. Some people are born to black tie, can carry it off with the nonchalance of a bathrobe. Mr. Williams is one of them.

  “Ladies,” he says, and bows low before offering us each an arm. “May I escort you to our carriage?”

  * * *

  We get out of the taxi outside the Theatre Ponchielli; we are not overdressed at all. We mill around with the other concertgoers. There are all sorts here; music students in their squeaky new tuxes and gowns, violin-making students in jeans and T-shirts, people dressed for the theatre, people suited and booted for business. There are Italians and Brits and Koreans and Kiwis. It is a hive of networking.

  Marion and the big sousaphone player are in the foyer.

  “You look incredible,” she says and kisses my cheeks. “All of you.” She greets Nadia and Mr. Williams the same way.

  “Would I be inappropriate in saying that I think so too,” says the big guy, and I remember that his name is Rob.

  I mumble a thank-you.

  “Where are you sitting?” I ask them.

  “We’re not sure yet,” Marion says. “We just assumed we could hover backstage, but so far we can’t seem to get any sense out of anyone.”

  “I have seen calmer foyers,” says Mr. Williams. He’s not wrong. There are people everywhere. Ladies with furs draped over their arms call out to men they have sent to queue at the box office or in the bar. It is a crush.

  “We’ve got a box,” I say, “and I can’t sit in it, so there’s one spare seat. Maybe we could drag another chair in.”

  “Or the person who didn’t arrange the tickets for his best friend’s gig could stand up for the whole thing?” says Marion, and raises her eyebrows at Rob.

  “I can do that,” says Rob, and grins.

  * * *

  The door of the box is covered by a heavy red velvet curtain, its hem frayed and its folds dusty. The narrow door behind it seems to be made entirely of cardboard and old carpet.

  “Er, not quite what I’d imagined,” says Nadia in a loud whisper.

  I push open the door and she peers past me.

  “Holy shit,” says Nadia, and we all crane our necks to see.

  The inside of the theatre looks like an illustration from a child’s storybook. There is a theme of red and gold through the entire cavernous space. Gold leaf streaks up and down across the carved columns and red banners hang like Christmas swags along the hundreds of boxes. The boxes are like the cells of a beehive; edge to edge around three sides of the theatre and stacked four deep on top of one another.

  The outside of this theatre looked like every other small-town cinema or local music hall; the inside is a staggering exercise in neoclassical opulence.

  “Gotta love the Italians,” says Marion.

  At one end of the theatre, directly opposite the stage, the royal box splits the symmetrical arrangement. A vast curtain of scarlet hangs over it from a classical arch, twice the height of the other boxes and molded in gold that points towards the ceiling.

  There are two chairs and, behind them, two high stools.

  Nadia leans over the edge of the box. “How many of these boxes are there?” she asks. “This is flippin’ amazing.”

  “There’re thirteen on each side, I think,” says Mr. Williams. “Jolly rough count, though.”

  “And four deep,” says Rob. “Where are we, third layer?”

  “So just looking from here, there’re over a hundred individual boxes and they’ve all got four people inside,” says Nadia. She points downwards. “And all the people in the flat seats.”

  “The stalls,” I say. “They’re called the stalls.”

  “Whatever they’re called,” says Nadia with a huge grin, “they’re all going to be watching you.”

  “Go, Grace,” says Marion in that transatlantic way, and Mr. Williams applauds gently, each clap the rhythm of British reserve.

  The houselights, bold lamps sticking out like horns on each column between the boxes, begin to dim and the judges start to arrange themselves behind a long table just below the edge of the stage.

  “Shit, I’d better go.” I scatter out of the box and leave their shouts of good luck behind me. I find my front-row seat just as the houselights turn off and thousands of tiny bulbs, like a night sky, switch on above me. I turn and introduce myself to the other winners; I don’t recognize any of them.

  There are five of us: one maker each of violin, viola, and double bass; and two for the cellos—the tone prize and the overall prize. There are silver and bronze medalists dotted around us, but we stay together; just five.

  There are speeches, in Italian and then in a translation so heavily accented it may as well have been Italian. The other four winners and I grin at one another. The viola winner is Italian; he leans towards me and whispers, “It was boring, anyway.”

  We go up, one by one, and receive our medals. I have never been so overtaken by nerves in all my life. Up in the boxes, I swear I can hear four voices screaming congratulations, and whooping, definitely whooping.

  I manage to walk up, squinting in the stage lights, shake hands and mutter my thanks, and walk back; all without tripping or fainting. I am so relieved to sit back down.

  After the presentation, the concert begins. The quartet are playing the instruments of the winners around me. One by one, they come onto the stage. There are two violinists, a cellist, and, of course, Shota on viola. They are joined by a bass player, and she stands slightly to one side of them.

  The quartet leader explains that the second violin being played belongs to the silver medalist. Apparently the tone prize has always gone to a violin and traditionally that has been the instrument played as second violin in the quartet. This is the first year it has ever been won by a cello and that has somewhat thrown the program. He adds that they will be playing a special piece, not listed, to show the capabilities of the winning cello at the end. I blush to the roots of my hair as the yells of my support team echo around the building.

  I hide my embarrassment by studying the program in my lap. The quartet will play Ravel, Mozart, Brahms, and Bartók; pieces specially chosen to accent each instrument and then show off its talents as part of a group.

  Shota has grown into the viola player I always knew he would be. I’ve seen him play on television, but I’ve not seen him live since we were at college. He is amazing. The quartet plays to a hushed hall and two thousand people hang on their every note.

  Finally it is time for my little spotted cello to take the center stage. I know the cellist; Mathieu Scharf. I have admired his work for a long time; last time I saw him play was when David took me to Salzburg for one of his concerts. I cannot believe that Scharf is holding my cello in his hand, talking the audience through the reasons it was chosen, explaining the qualities that made it the winner. I can barely look.

  He sits and starts to play. Bach’s Adagio in G Minor from the Sonata for Viola da Gamba and Harpsichord soars through the room. I couldn’t have picked anything more perfect if I’d been aske
d to choose myself. The notes dance around my head and fall like snow onto all of us. The silences between the notes quiver through the auditorium and I have never heard anything as profound in all my life.

  Finally, I allow myself to cry. These are warm, happy tears.

  * * *

  The after-party is a triumph. If I were to sell my cello, I could have done so thirty times over. I seem to have the card of every violin dealer in Europe and a good clutch of Asia and the Americas too.

  The bar of the theatre has been cordoned off and we are all behind the ropes with the great and the good. It is like a dream.

  Mr. Williams is flagging. He is sitting in a red leather chair and his head is dropping forward. He has beads of perspiration on his forehead and he is fanning himself with a paper napkin.

  “Are you all right?” I ask him, dropping into the chair next to his, suddenly feeling the weight of the day like lead in my legs.

  “Grace, dear, I am utterly overwhelmed. What a wonderful time I’ve had.”

  “I’m exhausted. I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

  He closes his eyes and leans back in the chair. “I’m going to call it a night, I think. Discretion is still the better part of valor and all that.”

  Shota and Marion are deep in conversation with Nadia. I try to catch her eye. She mistakes my gesture and all three of them come over to join us.

  “We’re all going back to our hotel to watch the VT from this afternoon.” Nadia is bubbling but I cannot tell whether it’s alcohol or excitement.

  “The ‘VT’?” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  She rolls her eyes at me as if she’s been a professional musician for years, not just talking to two for half an hour. “The videotape. Of us three this afternoon. Fancy it?”

  “Yes.” It’s the perfect solution. “Mr. Williams and I will go first, get the first free cab. And I’ll meet you guys in the bar. Yes?”

  This time it’s Mr. Williams who takes my arm. His age is showing this many miles from home and after such a crazy day.

  We call the first cab we see and it pulls in. Mr. Williams opens the door for me and I give the name of the village he’s staying in to the driver.

  Mr. Williams does up his seat belt and leans against the headrest. He gives a big sigh.

  “Are you OK? Really?”

  “I’m fine,” he says, “I am.” He puts his hand on my arm. “But there is something I need to tell you. I’m not going to be around, when you go back to England.”

   Chapter Twenty-Four

  I can’t breathe. I can’t ask him to explain because I don’t want to hear what he has to say. I am not ready to let him go: the space he would leave in my heart would be an inconsolable grief.

  And then I think of Nadia; it would be worse for her. She is in the middle of her worst year, a year where everything is crashing around her and every stability, every firm ground, is threatened.

  The pulse in my ears is so loud that I do not hear what he has to say. I block it out.

  “Grace?” he is asking me a question. “What do you say, dear?”

  He has the wrong expression on his face; he isn’t panicked or sad. He isn’t worried.

  “Do I have your blessing?”

  “Mr. Williams, I’m sorry.” It sounds so stupid. “I wasn’t listening.”

  “It’s been a long night, dear,” says Mr. Williams, and turns to watch the buildings rush past us behind the cab windows.

  “No, I need to hear it now. I’m listening now.” I realize that I’m pawing at him and take my hand off his arm. “Sorry.”

  There are trees lining the road we’re driving down and people outside every café, every restaurant. It is still summer here.

  “Laurence and I. We’re going to give it a go.”

  “ ‘Laurence’?”

  “My friend, in Venice. I’d just been staying with him for a week.”

  Mr. Williams has a boyfriend. I look at the taxi driver; he is impervious. If he spoke English he might have turned around and mentioned Mr. Williams’s advanced years, congratulated him even.

  “We had a thing a long time ago.” He is holding on to his seat belt with one hand, keeping it away from his chest. “Before Leslie, before his Paulo. We were in the army together.” There is a smile playing around his mouth. “But things were very different then. I came home, met Leslie. Laurence stayed on in the army and eventually retired to Italy, to Paulo. We were good friends, the four of us.” He clears his throat.

  I don’t know if I’m required to contribute or not, but I can’t get my thoughts into any order.

  “The army wasn’t for me, got out as soon as I could; but Laurence adored it and, frankly, it adored him. He retired as a major.”

  I manage a stock response but I’m still processing. “I’m really pleased for you, really pleased.” It doesn’t seem enough after all his kindness.

  “So, I’m going from here back to Venice. Probably tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

  “Is that a bit soon, I mean to be moving in together?” It’s out before I can catch it. “That was stupid,” I say. “You’re a grown man.”

  “Dear, I’m eighty.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Who knows how long I’ve got. The only thing I’m certain of is that it isn’t the length of a conventional lifetime.”

  I shrug, he has a fair point.

  “You have to grasp life by the balls, Grace,” he says, “and don’t bloody let go until you have to.”

  We are out on the open road now; churches stand alone in wheat fields, no discernible parish around them. Factories push up against the roadside and intermingle with farmhouses. There seems to be no order to the architecture and yet it looks so right, nothing feels out of place.

  “What will you do with your house if you stay in Venice?”

  “Ah, now, I wondered—and tell me if this is silly—I wondered if Nadia might take it for a while. Is that inappropriate?” He turns to face me. “I know she’s awfully unhappy at home and I just thought it might help. It would help me; I don’t want anything for it.”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know anything about teenagers. Sometimes I think I don’t know anything about her in particular.”

  “She adores you. Worships you.”

  “I adore her too.” And I realize how very much I do. I realize how valuable it has been to watch that little girl grow and blossom. I acknowledge how proud I am of her for coming through everything this year has thrown at her. “You’d—we’d—have to run it past her parents. And that’s assuming she wants to. I honestly can’t see them saying no, not with everything they have on their plates.”

  “It sounds to me like they won’t even realize she’s gone,” says Mr. Williams, and then we pause; the thought crosses both our minds that we don’t have children and can’t be certain we wouldn’t be doing the same in their shoes. “There’s a piano there, she can write, and no neighbors to irritate. Perhaps the space will do them all good.”

  We are both silent for a moment while we digest the plans.

  “And I don’t intend to die any time soon.” He smiles at me. “Or, for that matter, come back from Venice for more than the odd holiday.”

  “Good for you.”

  We are in the village where Mr. Williams is staying. He promises to take the bus in first thing tomorrow so we can discuss his plans with Nadia.

  “I’ll try not to be too early, dear,” he says, and kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you so much for all of this.”

  “No,” I say and hug him. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  By the time I get back the party is in full swing. There are musicians everywhere and something close to a ceilidh is threatening to take place.

  “Where’ve you been?” Nadia says. “I’m dying to watch the film. Shota and Marion said we had to wait for you.”

  A large television screen has materialized at one end of the bar; I’m sure it wasn’t ther
e before. These musicians look like people who know their way around hotel life and who are used to getting what they want.

  “OK, OK,” yells Rob above the din. “Grace’s here. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  The VT has been queued up to the right place and everyone settles onto banquettes and bar stools to watch. Shota passes me a huge glass of red wine and I drink it too fast.

  I’m dreading this; I don’t want to see my face when I realize that David is there. I really don’t want to hear my wishy-washy playing when I see him.

  It doesn’t look so bad. No one even asks me what I’m looking at. In the video—and perhaps it’s been very cleverly spliced—Nadia steps in only a couple of seconds after I stop. Watching this, it looks almost as if we meant it to happen this way, as if it were all planned.

  I look at Nadia on the screen, her beautiful defiant face, her warrior nature. There is something in the way she carries herself, in how she stands. The frightened angry child has gone. I have been privileged to watch this whole evolution, from girl to woman; it happened right under my nose and I missed most of it.

  Her spirit shines out in the video and her playing is incredible. For most of the rest of the clip, the cameraman is enchanted by this dark-haired girl and the way she makes her violin sing, the way she dances as she plays, the way her eyes light up. He focuses almost exclusively on Nadia, just the odd shot panning out to the crowd supporting us.

  “Oh God, how embarrassing,” she says under her breath. “I knew he was a perv.”

  “You look amazing, just incredible,” I say back to her. “You look possessed.”

  * * *

  Later in our bedroom, once the lights are out, the peace affords me time to think. Something has been bothering me since I watched the video; something different, something changed. The realization comes quietly, gently. It is made up of instinct and observation in equal parts. I finally see the link between the furious girl of Nadia’s diary and the bold, fearless woman of today. In the precious anonymity of darkness, I turn to her.

  “You’re pregnant, aren’t you, Nadia?”

  * * *