ACROSS THE TABLE, the middle-aged woman with sharp cheekbones gives Jessica the once-over. A moment earlier, Jessica informed her that she was attending as Colombano’s guest.
“There are two tickets reserved for you,” the woman says in Italian.
“I . . . I’m alone.”
“Of course you are,” the woman says, forcing a smile. “Welcome.”
Jessica slips the ticket and the program into her purse, steps past the ticket seller, and feels the woman’s critical gaze on the back of her neck.
It’s pleasantly cool inside. The space is ornate and churchlike, but wholly void of religious objects and artwork. People gradually flow into the little concert hall, some in polo shirts and shorts, others as if they were planning on attending an opera gala. A symphony of languages echoes in the high room; the majority of concertgoers are clearly tourists. According to the sign out on the street, tickets cost no more than a few dozen euros, so it’s unlikely Jessica is in for a world-class spectacle.
Jessica is wearing a navy blue dress and spike heels. She knows she looks beautiful, but isn’t sure if she dressed up for the event or exclusively for Colombano. As she was applying her makeup in the hotel room, she was overcome by a sudden uncertainty. The image of the weeping Colombano and the metal band on his left ring finger came back to her. The fact that he had arranged two tickets for Jessica presumably means he isn’t looking for company. Would coming alone be strange, and above all, would it reveal that she had lied about her friends? Would Colombano recognize her in the crowd? Would he say hello? Would they have an opportunity to exchange a few words after the concert?
Jessica pulls out the ticket again and glances at it. The seats are not numbered. The first few rows are already full. The majority of audience members appear to be elderly, but the faces of a few young couples appear among the crowd as well. Jessica takes an aisle seat midway back and sets her purse on her lap. Four string instruments are on the stage; the bass and cello lean in their stands; the two violins rest on chairs.
Jessica tastes a sourness in her mouth. Before coming, she ordered a bottle of prosecco at a café, sipped two glasses, and then abandoned the rest of the bottle in the falling Venetian dusk. The alcohol feels warm in her belly and calms her, like the hand of a trusted friend on her shoulder.
Fifteen minutes pass before the last guests find their seats. The concert is clearly not sold out; empty chairs dot the room. Finally a chime echoes from the speakers. The lighting dims slightly, and the chatter dies, as if someone turned off a switch. Then footfalls carry from the rear of the hall, and the audience begins to clap. The musicians, men and women of various ages in formal wear, walk past her and to the stage, where each strides directly to a seat and takes up a reddish wooden instrument.
The sounds of tuning reverberate in the otherwise silent hall. Colombano is not on the stage. Jessica glances at the doors at the rear of the auditorium, but they’re shut. What’s going on? She has to be at the right place; her name was on the list. And Colombano said he was going to be performing himself.
Jessica pulls the program out of her purse. The concert hall in the photograph is the same. At least some of the members of the orchestra seem to be the same as the musicians in the photo. Why isn’t Colombano here? Did something happen to him?
Now the instruments settle into the firm grip of the musicians’ hands. Bows rise into the air. The musicians nod at one another. And then horsehair starts to stroke tautened strings; the bows move back and forth in a controlled fashion, creating such a bright tone that it gives Jessica goose bumps. She looks down at the program: “J. S. Bach—‘Air on the G String.’” The melody is so beautiful that it takes her breath away. Jessica closes her eyes and sees the mound with the flowers on it, herself standing at the edge of the grave, senses the people standing around her and Aunt Tina’s hand on her shoulder. Tears are running down her cheeks. The floral sprays are white; that was Mom’s favorite color.
The piece lasts no more than a few minutes, but for Jessica it is a heart-stopping trip into the past, an eternity that races by too quickly.
And then it’s over. The audience claps again, and it takes a moment before Jessica is able to gather her thoughts and join in the applause. The sound fades for a moment, but then it starts up again. And then a smiling man walks past her toward the stage, a violin in his hand. Colombano. He is the soloist. He is the star of the show.
Jessica crosses one leg over the other and tugs down the hem of her skirt. Her soul feels light. She sits with her hands on her lap and watches the handsome man rise to the stage, place the violin under his chin, and smile at the audience.
But above all, Colombano smiles at her.