Nocturne(73)

I didn’t speak to the other cellists as I opened my case and very carefully took out the instrument. I frowned as I saw a tiny mark near one of the f-holes. Very carefully, I wiped it with a polishing cloth then breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever had caused the mark, it wasn’t permanent.

Finally I looked up at my section.

They were all prominent, first rate musicians. Colleagues. Looking at them, I was disoriented for a second. For my entire career, I’d been the youngest cellist. But of course, years had passed. Years in which I was one of the preeminent cellists in America, but also years in which I was aging. Some of the men and women in my section were much younger. I looked at them, and without a word signaled them to gather and began to issue instructions.

Normally I’m considerably more deft with people, but after the last several days of fights, of continual emotional battles with Karin, I had nothing left. For anyone. I kept my instructions terse, cold and functional. Then I turned my back on them and began to set up and tune my instrument. The tuning on the Montagnana is always delicate, in particular the G string, which tended to slip and loosen occasionally, sometimes even while in the middle of a performance. I always kept a close ear on it, a constant ongoing background tension, which kept me poised, alert, and responsive. In some ways, that constant tension was far better than having the pegs adjusted so they didn’t slip.

But nothing today was going smoothly. From the moment I woke up and she started harping at me about the nonexistent baby before I’d had my first cup of tea, to the tearful scene at the front door … nothing had gone smoothly. And so, of course, this would be the one day the G string refused to tune properly. I sat there, in front of six younger cellists from other orchestras, looking like a rank amateur, as the frown on my face grew deeper and deeper. Finally, I got it right.

I closed my eyes. I leaned back in my seat, my right hand slowly moving over the body of the instrument. I opened my eyes.

And staring back at me, just ahead and to the right, was Savannah Marshall, her eyes wide and alarmed. She was sitting next to Nathan, of course. When she saw me looking at her, her eyes darted away. She leaned close to Nathan and whispered something. And I felt a sudden, reckless urge to stand up, walk to her and grab her arm. To say ... something. I had no idea what.

Of course Savannah was here. Why hadn’t I thought of it? I'd seen Vita Carruli around Boston, and knew the Bolshoi was on break for the season. Savannah had become one of the premier musicians in the world, and everyone knew it.

She was certainly as good as anyone else in this group.

Now she met my eyes with an almost dismissive look. Was she annoyed? Irritated to find me here? Was she angry? Did she even feel anything at all about me? And why the hell did it matter? I had a wife at home, after all. A wife I’d chosen to marry three years ago. A wife I’d married in spite of Savannah. A wife I’d married because … because she wouldn’t complicate things. Because it made her happy and she wouldn’t interfere with my life.

But now?

Now she wanted children.

The thought of Karin swept through my head like a migraine, and consequently, I was the first to look away from my unofficial little staring contest with Savannah. And I decided then and there I wouldn’t look again. I wouldn’t meet her eyes. I wouldn’t talk with her before or after rehearsal, I wouldn’t seek her out, I wouldn’t discuss her, or, worst of all, think about her.

So I sat up straight in my seat. I looked at the conductor. I took a deep breath. And I tried to ignore that in my peripheral vision just to my right, Savannah sat in the flute section. I tried to ignore the fact that for the next eight weeks, this little traveling road show would be performing on stages large and small all over the United States.

And she would be a row away from me the entire time.





Savannah


Tim Flannigan threw his head back and let out a full-throated laugh and Nathan grinned. I smiled in response. I’d been telling the two of them yet another story of Sasha Nikulina, the Bolshoi’s Prima Ballerina and a slightly crazy, waifish woman who had attacked her boyfriend with knitting needles midway through last season.

“You may think it’s funny,” I said, “but Boris didn’t. He was in the hospital for two weeks. Knitting needles are serious weapons.”

I tried to keep a straight face. I really did. But their laughter got to me. First one corner of my mouth quirked up, then the other, and then I was laughing along with Tim.

“All right. What happened to the young ballerina?” Tim asked.

I shrugged. “The police escorted her to the performance, waited, and then picked her up afterward to take her back to jail. Every night for the rest of the season.”

“No way,” Nathan said, staring at me incredulously.

I nodded. “Russians are serious about their ballet.” What I didn’t say was that Sasha’s story wasn’t even the weirdest. The politics and backstabbing at the Bolshoi were legendary, and even if I went back in the fall, I had the feeling I wouldn’t stay much longer.

Tim gave me a quirky grin and said, “And that, my friends, is why I’ve never dated a ballerina.”

Nathan laughed, but I just raised an eyebrow and said, in as droll a voice as I could manage, “You’re assuming one would have you?”

He winked at me in response, and I felt a small thrill. But seconds later, Nathan’s grin disappeared and he sat up, a clouded expression on his face. Tim raised an eyebrow.