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“I’m going to take you there with all your stuff,” I said, indicating the pile she’d made of her belongings, “and let you have all the space you want, for as long as you want.” I sat at the foot of the bed. She had so few things since the fire, she was almost done packing. “But I’m still making you a violin.”
“Great.” She closed the other suitcase with awhump. “I’ll never play it. I’ll sell it to someone else for lots of money.”
After that, she gave me the silent treatment. Fine. She had a right to be angry, just as I had a right to protect her from my deviant sex life. Someday she’d calm down and forgive me for everything. Maybe in a year or two, we could go back to being something akin to friends. But there would always be that one night between us, and the wretched morning after.
When I returned from taking her to Ella’s place, Blue moped around the living room, and finally sprawled with theatrical melancholy in his bed.
“No wonder you got along so well,” I told him. “You’re both drama queens. Hey, man, you could have tried harder to make her stay.” But he’d disappeared when we started arguing, because he hated conflict. I wasn’t a fan of it either. “She might come back.”But I doubt it.
I went into the now-empty guest room, because I already missed her and the energy she’d brought to my quiet place. Everything was arranged the way it had been when she’d first moved in. Maybe she was wise to pack her things and get out. It was too hard for the two of us to live together. She’d taken everything, except the Pressenda violin I’d loaned her, which was propped in its case outside my instrument room’s door.
Over the last twenty-four hours, our relationship had gone from the highest emotional highs to the darkest depths, like the greatest violin concertos, only this concerto was unfinished, its denouement cut short.
Chapter Twelve: Alice
Ella’s loaner apartmentwas older and charming, like the apartment I’d bought in the Michelin building. Well, the former Michelin building.
I cried as I unpacked, going over everything that had happened between Milo and me. In hindsight, it was so embarrassing. I’d offered myself to him with no reservations, practically begging him for sex. He’d fucked me everywhere, grasping and controlling me, acting out my perfect fantasy of a dominant lover. ADominant, as they said in the lifestyle. Capital D. I’d done things with Milo that I’d never done with anyone else, and now I hurt in places that had never hurt before in my pre-masochistic life.
I’d been so turned on by everything he did. I’d been so excited by his violent possession, so eager to try more. I’d been so sure our night of connection was the start of our “forever” love story, but no. It turns out it was just a tawdry, ill-thought-out one night stand on his end.
Ugh. I had to let it go. Ella’s minimalist apartment didn’t have a large, cozy fireplace, or a shy greyhound who loved me, or a climate-controlled instrument room, or a secret dungeon, but it was a place to be alone and lick my wounds. Eventually I stopped crying and finished unpacking, and decided I’d make the best of things. I called a fellow violinist from the orchestra, a pompous society son who took every opportunity to brag about his vast collection of instruments. He agreed to let me borrow a modern vintage Yang until I figured out what violin I’d buy next.
A Fierro was out. Milo could make me as many violins as he wanted, but I’d never play any of them. Too much sadness. There were plenty of other contemporary makers I could look into, or maybe I’d spring for a Strad of my own. My father could help me track one down with his network of musical contacts. I emailed him the next day, after a frustrating rehearsal with the Yang, and wrote in English rather than Swedish so he’d be less likely to sense that my life was unraveling.
Dear Pappa,
How are you? I’m doing well. I’ve found a new place to live while I look for an apartment, courtesy of one of Milo’s friends. It’s on Mercer Street, in a very busy area of the city, but I like it a lot. Maybe I’ll look for something down here in Lower Manhattan, rather than the area around Lincoln Center.
I’m also having second thoughts about playing a Fierro for my next instrument. I was thinking about trying one of the older makers, just for a change? I’m sure there are options to buy here in New York, but maybe you can ask if any of your friends would like to sell. I’m open to anything.
That’s it for now. We’re playing Tchaikovsky tonight, Orchestral Suite No. 2. Give Mamma a kiss from me. Please visit soon!
Love,
Lilly-Alice
His reply came the next day in Swedish. Yes, he would ask around with his friends, but why not a Fierro violin again? Wasn’t Milo making me one? I delayed answering the email, and hoped my dad wouldn’t call. It would worry him to know that Milo and I weren’t on good terms anymore, especially since proximity to Milo was one of the main reasons I’d taken the job at Met Orchestra.
A few days after I moved in, Ella texted and asked if she could stop by. I couldn’t delay that reply, since it was her place, and some of her things were still stashed in the closet. She showed up a few hours later with her friend Juliet.
“Hi, it’s good to see you both,” I said as I let them in. “But I have a question. Did Milo send you?”
“No,” said Ella, blinking her blue eyes. “Well, kind of.”
“What she means is that we’re here because of Milo,” said Juliet. “But he didn’t ask us to come.”
“Not in so many words,” Ella hedged. She looked around the living room, her expression brightening. “It looks like you’ve mostly moved in.”
“I have. Thank you so much for letting me borrow this place.”
She shrugged. “I haven’t been using it, and I was given an open-ended lease, rent free. The National Science Foundation is footing the bill.”
I remembered that Ella was a theoretical astrophysicist, working on some high-level project, and that Juliet managed some rich, famous artist. Not only that, but they were both in happy, healthy relationships. Juliet’s engagement ring sparkled as she threaded her fingers around the cuff of her over-the-knee socks. Ella sat on the edge of the couch, looking uncomfortable, even though this was her place.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked them.
“That’s okay,” said Juliet. “We don’t want to take up your afternoon. You play with the orchestra tonight, don’t you?”
