Nocturne(8)

It was intriguing. I hadn’t intended to teach music theory at all this semester, instead concentrating on cello students exclusively. But Madeline White was injured and personally asked me to take the class. A decade ago, we’d attended the conservatory together, and had been friends ever since. She often said I was too rigid. And I, in turn, often told her she was far too freewheeling. But the respect between friends was important to me. So I took on the class. And the very first day I walked in, I didn’t miss the expression on Savannah Marshall’s face, nor that of her hyperactive boyfriend, Nathan. Both of them—the entire class, in fact—appeared horrified to see me.

I wasn’t concerned with being liked. Only respected. As long as I was teaching that course, they would get the most rigorous education possible.

Karin reached across the table and touched my hand. Her expression was a little incredulous. “Are you still there?”

I gave her a tight smile. “Please forgive me. I’m afraid I’m not quite well. It’s not your fault. Perhaps another evening?”

She looked disappointed. There was little I could do about that, and to be fair, it wasn’t her fault. I was just ... preoccupied.

Karin collected her things, and the two of us walked out of the restaurant after I paid the bill. I prided myself on being a gentleman, and this evening, I’d been no such thing, and that made me uncomfortable. I took her arm as we waited for a taxi.

“I truly am sorry. Perhaps we can meet again. I have tickets for the Boston Opera. Would you care to join me?”

Mollified, she smiled. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”

“I’m glad. I’ll call you later this week.”

She nodded as the cab rolled up. When it pulled away, I ambled down the street. I was only a few blocks from my townhouse on Pinckney Street, and I took the route that led me past a residential garden. My thoughts on a different woman than the one I’d just said goodbye to.





Gregory


A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead to my chin, where it nestled somewhere in my beard. My body was tense, my right arm beginning to tire, the left cramping. I refused to give in. It was nearly nine o’clock at night. I’d been practicing since four in the morning. The music demanded a devotion that required every bit of attention I could muster, no matter how painful it might be, no matter how much time it took. I’d devoted my life to music, letting it take priority over family, women. It took priority over everything.

I ignored the doorbell when it rang, merely frowning. There wasn’t time for interruptions. I was working on the prelude for Bach’s Suite for Solo Cello No. 3 in C Major. A beautiful piece. In fact it was the composition that had turned my interest in music from simply interest to absolute obsession. The music swept over me in waves, my eyes closed, ears turned toward the instrument, wincing every time I thought I was close to missing a beat.

The doorbell rang again, and I cursed under my breath. I couldn’t imagine who would show up at my house at nine o’clock on a Sunday evening. Whoever it was, they were infuriating.

I continued to play and ignore the doorbell. Until it rang again. And again.

Finally, I halted at the end of the movement.

Carefully, I leaned my Domenico Montagnana cello in its stand. The instrument once belonged to Pablo Casals, and I bought it at auction two years ago for seven hundred fifty thousand dollars. This, in turn, raised the ire of my entire family against me. I’d inherited the house on Pinckney Street from my maternal grandmother. Valued at just over a million dollars, a new mortgage on a property, which had been in my family for two centuries, was just enough to get my hands on an instrument without parallel; an instrument produced by one of the finest master luthiers in history, when Boston was merely a trade outpost of the British empire.

Once my instrument was in place, I walked toward the door. Immediately my legs cramped. I’d been sitting in the same position for many hours. I stood still, ignoring the now continuous doorbell. The sweat, which had rained off my body, stained the carpet for four feet around where I’d been playing, and my body was slick with perspiration.

A good practice.

I found James sagged against the doorframe as I opened it.

“It’s about time.” He rolled his eyes and scratched his head.

“You should have called ahead.”

“I did. Your phone is off, Gregory.”

I shrugged and walked back into the house, leaving the door open. James followed, his nose crinkling a little, probably at the stink of sweat I was giving off. “That’s usually a hint that I don’t wish to answer the phone.”

I walked into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. “Drink?” I asked.

“No, thanks.” He stood there, staring at me.

“Is something bothering you?”

James sighed. “I’m worried about you. What are you putting in right now? Eighteen hours a day? More?”

I shrugged. “I do what it takes.”

“Have you seen Karin lately?”

“We date occasionally. But she understands my music comes first and always will.”

He shook his head slightly. “I’m sure everyone who ever comes into contact with you knows that. But you need to get out a little. There’s such a thing as having a life.”

I finished gulping back the water and tossed the bottle in the trash.