Nocturne(116)

Nathan made a disgusted sound and shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole morning dealing with the fallout from your carelessness, Fitzgerald. Don’t ask me to feel sorry for you on top of it.”

I grimaced. The last f*cking thing I wanted was Nathan’s sympathy. I glared at him and said, “Just tell me she’s going to be okay.”

He looked me straight in the eyes, his mouth twisting up in a parody of a smile. “I don’t have a clue. This was … much worse than when you dumped her five years ago. I don’t know if she’ll ever be over you, and I hate you because of that. She’s better than this.”

I closed my eyes. “When you talk to her. Please ... tell her I’m sorry.” I turned and opened the door, getting in my car as Nathan stepped back. Savannah had returned to Moscow.

Then I drove away, with nothing but ashes in my soul.





Savannah


One winter in Russia is enough to remind you, forever, to always carry your scarf. That day was particularly glacial, though. The wind whooshed through my hair with such cruel rawness I was certain my brain would freeze.

“Bella!” Aldo called from behind me as I crossed the street to head for my apartment after rehearsal.

“Ciao, Al.” I smiled as he caught up to me. He was a short Italian cellist who had been at Bolshoi a year before me. All last year he’d walk me to my apartment after rehearsal, especially in the winter when the sun left long before we did. Given the incidence of street crime in Moscow these days, I was grateful for the escort.

“You always call me Al. Why Al?” His broken English cracked me up. He knew I could speak fluent Italian, but also knew I longed to speak English whenever I could. My roommate was from Moscow and I spoke more Russian than she spoke English.

Our apartment was a quiet place.

I shrugged. “No reason. It’s cute.”

“Ah, like you.”

Poor Al … he’d been courting me from the minute my plane landed in Moscow in August. I haven’t a clue what gave him the urge to seek me out, but I was his target. He had no way of knowing I had little time or desire for Italians … or cellists.

As we approached the stairs to my fourth floor apartment, Aldo spoke faster.

“Savannah, you … do you want to come over for tea?” A nice request on the surface, but his hand had slid to my lower back over the course of our short walk.

I hated to let him down, but I wanted to be fair. “Maybe another time? We should get everyone together to go to the teahouse down the road tomorrow after rehearsal, or on break or something.”

He nodded, pulling his lips back in a sweet smile. He was only capable of sweet. “Another time. Essere sicura.” He gave my shoulders a tight squeeze as he told me to be safe.

Despite our silence-inducing language barrier, I was still grateful that Sasha was part of a brass ensemble that kept her out late most nights. With a sigh, I made my way to the front window, where I saw Aldo Marietta heading down the road to his apartment two blocks away. Turning back to the front table, I sorted through the mail I’d picked up the day before but hadn’t gone through yet.

Christmas cards from my friends in the States were starting to decorate the bare walls in my tiny bedroom. Christmas in Russia wasn’t celebrated until January 7th, so it was always a topic of conversation among friends that visited our apartment. They’d point at cards illustrated with a very fat and cartoonish looking Santa Claus and laugh, highlighting our deep cultural differences that went far beyond our celebration of this particular holiday.

Settling back into Moscow and the orchestra was seamless. Some of my friends had kept tabs on the tour and congratulated me on the performances but, luckily, no one had heard about the end. How that never ended up in the artsy tabloids was beyond me, but I was grateful. After what I learned on tour about how people spread lies more than truths, I’m sure someone spent a lot of money to keep the backstage scuffle between Nathan and Gregory a secret, affair revelation and all.

I felt comfortable with my position at the Bolshoi and was being groomed for the principal chair in the coming years, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to get to the top of my career there. The atmosphere at the highest levels was cutthroat, and a level of bitter intensity that I never wanted to associate with a professional career. I’d been keeping my eyes and ears open throughout Europe for auditions. In truth, I had my eyes set on the London Symphony Orchestra. While the BSO had filled every musical aspiration I’d had since I started playing, it was no longer an emotional possibility. I didn’t resent him for it, but I knew that the tethers of Boston’s Symphony Hall still had a grip on my heart, and I needed time and distance for them to wither away.

I paused briefly as I got to the large manila envelope that came once a month from my dad. He’d collect news clippings from friends of mine from high school, or any he came across about Nathan or my other friends from the conservatory. I was relieved each month that he dutifully ignored my insistence that I could locate such information on the Internet. He said it just wasn’t the same as having a piece of it with me. He was right.

Still, I set the envelope aside for the time being and wandered over to my laptop, pulling up Spotify’s Adele station and the Boston Globe’s website as I sat down. Automatically I clicked on Arts and scrolled until I reached the Theater and Art section.