THE AUDIENCE HAS exited the auditorium, but Jessica is still sitting in her seat. The timeless strains of Vivaldi are echoing in her ears. She’s not a big fan of classical music, but today the Venetian composer’s concerto series, irrefutably his best-known work, has made an indelible impression on her. Of course another reason for the experience being unforgettable is the soloist: Colombano is not only ravishingly mysterious and handsome, but a true virtuoso with the violin.
Colombano didn’t ask Jessica to wait. He just shot her a quick glance as he stepped off the stage and made for the doors at the rear of the room. Nevertheless, something inside Jessica has persuaded her to remain seated. Would Colombano really have invited her to the concert if he didn’t have the slightest intention of saying hello to her afterward? But as the banks of lights in the hall go off one by one, it’s starting to seem as if Colombano wasn’t interested in a date. Maybe he just wanted a bigger audience for his concert.
“We’re closing,” a woman’s voice says in Italian.
Jessica starts and feels the blush spread across her cheeks. “I understand.” She wraps her restless fingers around the leather straps of her purse. She turns and sees the woman with the sharp cheekbones, whose face reminds her of a bird of prey. But the coolness that marked the woman’s face before the concert has vanished; it has been replaced by empathy. Perhaps even pity. The expression seems to be saying: Don’t take it personally. You’re not the first. And you’re not the only one.
“You should go now,” the woman says with a shrug.
Jessica feels her stomach lurch in disappointment. She stands and discreetly nods a goodbye to the woman, who is walking between the rows of chairs, gathering up the programs that have been left behind. Jessica’s footfalls echo in the large space; her legs feel heavy. The sedative effects of the sparkling wine evaporated during the concert, leaving a hollow sensation in their wake. Jessica isn’t sure if it’s because of hunger, the letdown, or a combination of both.
Jessica pushes the heavy door open and realizes it has started to rain again. The little drops are light and warm. The humid breeze smells of the sea and vaguely of metal and urine. The voice of a tenor singing a familiar melody carries from somewhere in the direction of Piazza San Marco.
Jessica steps onto the wet cobblestones and nearly loses her balance. Her ankles feel weak, and the pain that preys upon her nerve endings has reappeared out of nowhere. It starts above her ankle, then travels up her leg toward the knee, all the while boring deeper into her leg, like a slender nail being tapped through the bone with sharp hammer raps.
Jessica knows she ought to turn around and take hold of the heavy door handle, lean against it, sit down next to it to wait for the episode to pass. But pride prevents her from doing so. She wants to shake off that ornate concert hall, which this evening has served as a stage for humiliation and disappointment.
The pain intensifies with every step. Jessica sees a fountain across the street and starts wobbling toward it like a long-legged doe on slick ice. More nails appear, one in the calf, another in the thigh. In the end, the pain is unbearable. Jessica knows her legs will not carry her all the way to the carved-stone fountain. She crouches down on her burning legs and places a hand on the wet surface of the street.
And then someone takes hold of her. Powerful fingers press into her ribs, wrap her arms so she can feel them rock-hard against her skin. The embrace is not gentle; it is resolute and unhesitating. She is in the grip of a force that makes no apologies.
“Zesika,” the voice says softly, supporting her the last few meters to the fountain.
Colombano lowers her to a sitting position on the fountain’s edge. Jessica reaches down to slip off her shoes and then dips her naked feet into a puddle that has formed in a hollow in the street. Only then does she raise her eyes to her savior. There he is. For her and her alone.
A tear rolls down her cheek. It is a sign of pain and relief. Of joy and shame.
“What’s wrong?” Colombano asks, glancing discreetly somewhere behind Jessica. Her embarrassing reeling has to have aroused the concern and scrutiny of other passersby too. Even so, no one else rushed to her aid. Only Colombano.
“Where did you leave your violin?” Jessica finally asks. She doesn’t mean it as a joke, but it sounds like one. Colombano smiles in relief. Then he grows solemn, licks his lips, and raises his eyes to the sky, as if to better feel the rain drizzling from its heights. Jessica closes her eyes, and when she opens them, Colombano’s gaze has returned. He has edged a bit closer.
“Why did you leave?”
For a moment they just look at each other.
“Did you like it? The concert?”
“Why did you invite me?” Jessica registers that the pain in her legs has disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared. All that remains is a titillating tension. And a dash of embarrassment.
Colombano bursts into warm laughter. As he laughs, his cheeks pinch his eyes into delicate arcs, and the broad mouth reveals a row of white teeth reaching all the way to the back.
“Tante domande, Zessica, ma nessuna risposta.”