by Sally Mandel
The island was basically a mountaintop sticking out of the lake, so the town was built onto a steep slope. The houses were pale yellow stone with the battered, washed-out beauty only centuries of weather can produce. It was some climb to the Via Dandolo. I stopped once to ask a woman who was hanging laundry if I was going the right way. She squinted at me. “Stallone?” she asked. It was like a fortress. It made me wonder what they did with the remains of people who didn’t have permission to be there. Anyway, by the time I got up to the top, wheezing and gasping, I had quite the admiration for Terese. If you wanted to disappear this was a pretty good place to do it.
A woman was standing in the doorway of Number 72 in a faded dress, bulky sweater, and canvas shoes. At first I thought she was the housekeeper but when I got close I recognized her. There was no mistaking the perfect bones of her face and the blue eyes with their unusual square shape. You could see that this woman had suffered. There were lines beside her mouth and between her eyebrows, but she was so beautiful that she put the landscape to shame. She didn’t come to greet me, just stood waiting. Then she stuck her hand out. She had a strong grip for such a fragile-looking thing, but then, she’d been one of the world’s great pianists.
“Miss Stallone,” she said, in a whispery, almost childish voice.
“Bess. Please.”
“Then you must call me Terese.” Not her first choice from the sound of it. I followed her inside. The house was airy with lots of homey touches, but I didn’t see a piano anywhere.
“Would you like to sit here?” she asked, indicating a sofa by the fire. It was twenty degrees cooler than in Milan and I hadn’t worn warm enough clothing.
“That would be fine, thank you,” I said.
“Allow me to bring you something to drink,” she said.
Whew, this woman was as formal as they come. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine,” I said. “But only if you’ll join me.” Maybe if I could get her a little tanked, she’d unwind.
Terese came back carrying a little silver tray with a couple of crystal glasses. In fact, everything in the place was classy. That dress may have been faded but it was for sure out of some top designer’s collection. Nardigger popped into my head—Audrey Hepburn wasn’t such a stretch. And me, Courtney Love, I sat at the opposite end of the couch wondering why I’d come.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Terese said finally. She dropped her eyes but not before I saw the film of tears.
“It’s everybody’s loss,” I said.
She nodded and folded her hands.
“I have so many questions,” I said. I felt like she winced, not a good sign. But what the hell, she’d let me come. “Did you … was he … was David …?” I knocked back the wine and pulled myself together. “Mr. Balaboo says that David had problems before, with depression. Did you see any evidence of it when you were performing together?”
She nodded. “David was a very troubled person.” It gave me a little stab of jealousy to hear her call him by name. “But he had a sad life, a terrible childhood. His mother … oh, a wicked woman.”
“David seemed to adore her,” I said.
There was another silence. It seemed like every sentence had to travel a long way before it got to her lips.
“First he was abandoned by his father and then Aimee sold him to Beauchapel.” I noticed that her wine had disappeared. She poured us both another glass.
“Sold?”
“Aimee was getting older, her beauty was fading. David was her prize, the best thing she had.” Another silence, but it was getting easier. “Beauchapel paid Aimee’s living expenses in exchange for David. But it was a terrible place for a child.”
“At least Beauchapel was sort of a father to him.”
“I will tell you about David’s first Christmas in that house. No toys, no treats, only books of music. On Christmas morning, they even took away the soft toys he slept with … you call them … bears?”
“Teddy bears,” I said.
“Oui. Because music was the greatest gift and the boy should not be distracted by foolish things. Beauchapel said David would thank him one day. For myself, I curse him.”
“We’re talking how old?” I asked.
“David moved in with Beauchapel when he was five. Already, he was a prodigy and performed with Aimee in two-piano concerts. She was very gifted. But also ill.” Terese tapped her temple. “Here. She had terrible moods, up and down. Beauchapel finally banned her from his house. She would get David too upset.”
“Is she still alive?”
“Oh, no. She died in a sanitarium several years ago. David perhaps inherited her illness, don’t you think? They say these things are genetic.”
I felt cold right down to the insides of my bones. “Yes, I guess so,” I said.
“He was very afraid of being like her,” Terese said.
“Did he tell you that?”
“Yes, quite recently.”
“I don’t understand. When did you see him?”
“Last year when you were in this country.”
Those few days he left me to take care of “real estate” business. I was beginning to feel like I was about to get more answers than I was ready to hear. I could still get up, walk down to the ferry, and put thousands of miles between me and whatever truth was going to come out of that perfect mouth. I tried to imagine myself back in New York, lying awake at night and tortured with questions that wouldn’t go away. Terese was studying me.
“You seem like a strong woman,” she said.
“I thought I was, but then David died.”
“Did he talk to you about me?”
Funny, I was thinking of asking her the same thing. “There were some subjects he wouldn’t discuss,” I said. “You were one.”
“Well, he told me about you, Bess.” A smile—and what a smile. She had deep dimples beside her mouth. It felt like the sun just dropped by for a visit. “He loved you very much.”
I felt myself choking up but she didn’t stop. “He told me you made him laugh,” she said.
“Well, I guess that’s true enough. Until he got so … sick, finally.”
“The great tragedy of my life was that David was never in love with me,” Terese said. “It made me so miserable that I could no longer perform.”
I knew that Terese was telling me stuff that came out of a very private place. And God knows, I understood that need for David’s love.
“I don’t see a piano anywhere,” I said.
“The music didn’t make me happy anymore. I’m more at peace without it.”
A door opened. The maid came in and spoke quietly to Terese in Italian. Terese shot a look at me, hesitated, and said something back. When the maid retreated, Terese turned to me.
“Bess, I hope … I hope this is not a mistake, but I think not. I should perhaps prepare …” But before she could say any more, a boy entered the room. He was carrying a book bag in one hand and an apple in the other. He went straight to Terese, kissed her on both cheeks, and said, “Allo, Maman. Ça va?”
“Oui, mais nous avons une invitée. Bess, this is my son, François-David. François, this is Mademoiselle Stallone.”
François started to shake my hand, but the half-eaten apple was still in it. He smiled and gave me a bow instead. He had his mother’s dimples, but it was also that unexpected, dazzling grin, David’s grin. I felt the world begin to spin around.
“Maman, elle est maladef,” I heard the boy ask from a distance.
Terese was beside me, rubbing my hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I should never have … how foolish. Yes, darling, Miss Stallone is feeling a bit weak. Would you run and ask Maria to bring us some water? Then we’ll see you a little later.”
After he left, the room stopped twirling and I got my head back.
“Whoa,” I said. “You couldn’t have given me a hint?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and I could see she meant it. “David
would be so angry with me for upsetting you. He wanted to tell you and I wouldn’t let him. And now I drop it on you like a big stone.”
I wanted truth, I got truth. But it wasn’t so easy cramming it into my brain. It kept bouncing off.
“David wanted you to meet him. He’s so proud of François. Was. But I was horrible.” The eyes filled again. “I was jealous of you and afraid of … I don’t know what. I’m very protective of my son, perhaps too much.”
“He’s beautiful,” I said.
“He is intelligent and loving and happy. I wish he could have had a father all the time, but I knew how it would be before. It was perhaps very selfish of me, but I don’t regret it for a moment. François-David is my joy. He’s all the music I will ever need.”
I was sitting there trying to put it all together. “How old?”
“Just eight in March,” Terese said. She watched me trying to absorb it. The maid came with the water, but what I really wanted was another dose of wine. I poured myself some, and Terese, too. “I loved David very much, you see,” she went on, “and I knew he would never feel the same toward me. I hoped that if I had his child, it would … tie us. There were only the few times that we…”
Fucked. Believe it or not, I didn’t say it. I felt as though Terese’s ears would curl up and drop off if such a word passed anywhere near them. “So David came to see you and François sometimes.”
“Yes, a few times every year, but very quietly. I found this house because no one bothers to come to this village.”
“Well, you’ve done a great job. I tried to track you down and even on the Internet, there’s nothing. You’ve pretty much disappeared.”
We sat in silence for a while. Terese had let go of my hand, but she reached for it again. From the way she was watching me, I must have looked like shit. The truth is, I was fighting bitter envy. Terese had a delicious, daily reminder of David, living right there in her home.
“David told me that he was losing his talent,” she said. “Was this true?”
“Of course not,” I shot back. But that was a lie and this was the first time I truly acknowledged it to myself. My poor David. I looked at Terese. Our poor David.
“Are you feeling any better?” Terese asked me.
I nodded.
“Permit me to give you something to eat.”
I wasn’t hungry, but I also didn’t want to pass out on the way back to Milan. Terese showed me outside to a table that stood in a grove of olive trees. It was covered with a blue-striped tablecloth and was set for two.
“Is François going to join us?” I really wanted him to, and I really didn’t.
“No, he has his luncheon at school.”
Terese was sensitive enough to understand that I needed to be quiet for a while. We ate in silence and watched François play with a puppy on the hillside below. The food was so fresh and light that I found myself finishing everything, the tomatoes and mozzarella, the grilled fish, the fresh vegetables and fruit. And of course the crusty bread that we dipped in some local olive oil.
Afterward, Terese walked me to the gate.
“Wouldn’t you like me to accompany you down to the ferry?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “You’ve done enough.” We stood side by side, gazing across the water to the mountains on the far shore. It was too hazy to see beyond them to the snow-covered peaks of Switzerland.
“I hope you will not be sorry that you came,” Terese said.
“Why did you let me?”
“For two reasons. I believe I’m honoring David’s wish. About François.” She stopped as if she was finished.
“You said two?”
“And …” I saw her chin begin to quiver. “David loved only two women his entire life. I had met Aimee. I wanted to meet the other.”
I don’t know exactly how it happened, but the next thing I knew we were hugging. Then I left. I felt her watching me as I started down the narrow stone streets, but when I turned back to wave, she had gone.
On the plane home, I thought of a hundred questions I wished I’d asked. How recently did David see his mother? What about his father? What else did David say about me besides that I made him laugh? Then all the questions for myself. Did I really believe that David never loved Terese? Why didn’t he confide in me about her and François? Hadn’t David abandoned his son exactly as he had been abandoned by his own father? What was David’s attitude toward Terese’s pregnancy? Even though he’d been moved by the news of our own child coming, I couldn’t help remembering how negative he was about it later. And maybe most important of all, Terese had said that loving David had silenced her musically. Maybe he didn’t know this, but what if he did? And if so, was he afraid that he would eventually damage me in the same way? Could that concept have contributed to his suicide?
Time flew as we flew, as I tried to process everything I’d learned. I knew it was going to take a while. I didn’t expect that I would see Terese again, or François. But by the time we’d crossed the Atlantic and were starting to make our descent along the New England coastline, I’d begun to take some comfort in the memory of the two of them living on that Italian hillside. I thought of François’s face, the shape so much like his father’s, the eyes dark and sensitive, and that smile. It seemed that David’s light had not gone out completely after all.
Chapter Twenty
The Monday after I got back, Jake picked me up in his car and took me out to Long Island. First stop was Rocky Beach. Mumma had been such a regular in my apartment that I hadn’t felt like I needed to go out there. God knows I didn’t have any burning desire to see Dutch. When we pulled up to the house, I sat and looked at it for a second. It seemed unfamiliar or even fake, like a movie set. But I’d had that feeling a lot since David died. I was staring at everything through a different pair of eyeballs.
“You don’t have to do this,” Jake said.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“I’ll beat him up if he gets out of line.”
“He’s an old fart in a wheelchair,” I said, climbing out of the car. “How much damage can he do?” But we both knew the answer to that one.
The downstairs had been made into an office, with stacks of papers and posters overflowing everywhere. The plastic flower centerpiece on the dining room table had been replaced by a computer, a printer, and a fax machine. Dutch was in his wheelchair, yanking pages out of the fax. He looked up for a second.
“Jesus, go eat a banana split. You look like shit.”
“Nice poem,” I said. I didn’t bother with the kiss. It just didn’t seem necessary to go through the motions anymore. I wondered why he’d bothered to visit me in the hospital, unless maybe that was my imagination.
“Where’s Angie?” he asked.
Mumma came in with a laundry basket. “She’s at a lecture with her boyfriend.”
Jake took the basket from her and we started folding.
“She hasn’t brought him around here,” Dutch said. “What’s the matter with him?”
“Not a thing,” Jake said, picking up an apple from the fruit bowl. My mind flashed back to Francois, the apple, that grin. “He’s fine.”
“What’s his line of work?” Dutch asked.
“Hospital administration,” Jake said.
“At least he’s doing something useful.”
I knew that was meant for me and so did Mumma. “Come, sit down,” she said in a hurry, still trying to be the peacemaker. “I’ll fix you some lunch.”
But there was no smell of something delicious in the oven, no fresh bread cooling on the windowsill. Instead, she came back out of the kitchen with a platter of olives, salami, and provolone. The days of home cooking were obviously over. Wasn’t I the one who was always complaining that Mumma was a pathetic housebound slave? And now I found myself wondering, Where the fuck’s the ziti?
“How’s the campaign, Dutch?” Jake asked.
“Catching flak f
rom the Republican machine,” he said.
I looked at the posters that plastered the dining room wall. They pictured a fireman in hat, boots, the works, seated in a wheelchair. The letters H.O.F.F. stretched across the bottom—for Honor Our Firefighters.
“Look again,” Mumma said.
I did, and my eyes bugged out. The fireman on the poster was Dutch. Well, it was Dutch airbrushed into a slightly older version of Kurt Russell.
“Man, I wish I’d had that photographer for my publicity photo,” I said.
“They barely touched it,” Dutch grumbled.
Jake and I sat down and picked at the antipasto.
“Did you ever get an answer from Christopher Reeve?” Jake asked Dutch.
“Yeah, one of those form letters,” he said.
“But it was sweet as those things go,” Mumma added.
“We’re not some half-ass parasite thing here,” Dutch complained.
“They sent a phone number to call,” Mumma said. “We’ll follow up on it.” I wondered how long ago she’d lost the cringing look she used to get when Dutch bitched about something in that tone.
I was more than ready to leave. It had always been a mystery how Jake could read me like I was the front page of Newsday. He got up and took our plates into the kitchen. Mumma followed him in and I could hear them talking at the sink. Me, I stared at Dutch. He felt my eyes on him and glanced up from his paperwork, but only for a second.
“What did you want from me?” I asked.
He kept his attention on his work. “What?”
“Why have you always been so pissed off at me?”
“Because you could have done something with your life.” Said so casually.
I thought about the magazines that had done features on me and David—People, Interview, Music Today, and many more. Charlie Rose. The Kennedy Center. The concert tours, the international acclaim.
