Every Note Played(6)

He might not even be home. Maybe he’s in a hospital. She should’ve called first. Calling somehow seemed scarier than drumming up the nerve to show up at his front door unannounced. Part of her believes that she caused his illness, even though she knows that such thinking is narcissistically absurd. How many times has she wished him dead? Now he’s dying, and she’s a despicable, hellbound, horrible woman for ever wishing such a thing, and worse, for having derived sick pleasure from it.

She stands before the doorbell, torn between following through and turning around, passionate counterpoints creating a quagmire of indecision, pushing and pulling her from within. If she were the gambling kind, she’d put her money on leaving. She breaks through her inertia and rings the bell, surprising herself.

“Hello?” asks Richard’s voice over the intercom speaker.

Karina’s heart beats in her tight, acidic throat. “It’s Karina.”

She tucks her hair behind her ears and pulls at her bra strap, which is sticking uncomfortably to her sweaty body. She waits for him to buzz her in, but nothing happens. Opaque white curtains cover the windows in the door, making it impossible to see if anyone is coming. Then she hears footsteps. The door opens.

Richard says nothing. She waits for him to look stunned that she’s here, but that doesn’t happen. Instead his face is motionless but for his eyes, which hint at a smile, not exactly happy to see her, but satisfied, right about something, and her heart in her throat already knows that this visit was a disastrous idea. He continues to say nothing and she says nothing, and this nonverbal game of chicken probably takes up two seconds, but it stretches out in agonizing slow motion beyond the boundaries of space and time.

“I should’ve called.”

“Come on in.”

As she follows him up the three flights, she studies his footing, assured and steady and normal. His left hand slides along the banister, and although it never loses contact, the banister doesn’t appear to be assisting him. It’s not a handicapped railing. From behind, he looks perfectly healthy.

It was a rumor.

She is a fool.

Inside his condo, he leads her to the kitchen, dark wood and black counters and stainless steel, modern and masculine. He offers her a seat on a stool at the island, overlooking the living room—his Steinway grand, a brown leather couch, the Oriental carpet from their den, a laptop computer on a desk by the window, a bookcase—sparse and tidy and singularly focused. Very Richard.

An army of at least two dozen bottles of wine stands at attention on the kitchen counter, an uncorked neck and a puddle of red at the bottom of a goblet in front of him. He loves wine, likes to fancy himself a connoisseur, but typically indulges in a special selection only after a performance or in celebration of an achievement or a holiday or at least with dinner. It’s not even noon on a Wednesday.

“These were from the cellar. This 2000 Chateau Mouton Rothschild is exquisite.” He pulls a glass from a cabinet. “Join me?”

“No, thanks.”

“This”—he waves his hand back and forth in the air between them—“unexpected visit or whatever it is needs alcohol, don’t you think?”

“Should you be drinking so much?”

He laughs. “I’m not tackling all of these today. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

He grabs a beautiful black bottle with a golden sheep embossed on it, already open, and pours her a generous glass, ignoring her answer. She sips, then smiles out of obligation, unimpressed.

He laughs again. “You still have the discriminating palate of a farm animal.”

It’s true. She can’t discern the difference between an expensive bottle of Mouton and a jug of Gallo, nor does she care, and both traits have always driven Richard mad. And true to patronizing form, he’s essentially just called her a stupid pig. Karina clenches her teeth, biting back the comment that will leave her mouth if she opens it and the urge to throw $100 worth of his precious wine in his face.

He swirls, smells, sips, closes his eyes, waits, swallows, and licks his lips. He opens his eyes and mouth and looks at her as if he’s just had an orgasm or seen God.

“How can you not appreciate this? The timing is perfect. Taste it again. Smell the cherries?”

She tries another sip. It’s okay. She doesn’t smell cherries. “I can’t remember the last time we shared a bottle of wine.”

“Four years ago, November. I was just home from Japan, wrecked from the flights. You made golabki, and we drank a bottle of Chateaux Margaux.”

She stares at him, surprised and intrigued. She has no memory of this evening, so readily and fondly retrieved by Richard, and wonders if it simply wasn’t significant enough to her to hold on to or if the memory faded, crowded out by too many other experiences that didn’t jibe. Funny how the story of their lives can be an entirely different genre depending on the narrator.

They lock eyes. His look a bit older than she remembers. Or not older. Sadder. And his face looks more defined. Although he’s always been thin, he’s definitely lost weight. And he’s grown a beard.

“I see you’ve stopped shaving.”

“Trying something new. You like it?”

“No.”

He grins and takes another sip of wine. He taps the rim of his glass with his finger and says nothing, and she can’t figure out whether he’s deciding which of her buttons to push or showing restraint. Restraint would be new.