THE STRINGS FADE. A moment of silence follows, during which both the performers and the audience seem to hold their breath. Then hands strike together, first one pair, then another, and eventually the clapping spreads through the auditorium like wildfire. The musicians bow. Colombano receives the applause; he raises the hand holding the bow high, then looks back at the orchestra standing behind him like a band of loyal soldiers, ordering them to bow with a wave of his hand. Colombano is like a god whose touch cannot be discerned by the eye, but who controls the musicians like marionettes. People whistle, enraptured, cry, “Bravo bravissimo,” even though the event was only a competent tourist concert. Colombano seems to relish the attention. The pride and self-satisfaction that spread across his face during the applause are so tangible that they cannot be contrived.
Jessica doesn’t take her eyes off of Colombano.
Look at me, my love.
Jessica is sitting in the middle of the auditorium, presumably the only member of the audience who hasn’t joined in the effusive applause.
I know you see me.
Colombano leads his troops in a second theatrical bow, then shifts his bow into the hand holding the violin and presses his free fingers to his chest.
Look at me, my love.
And in the end, it happens: Colombano’s gaze rides across the sea of faces, then stops as if speared.
Now you see me.
Colombano’s eyes look terror-stricken, as if he has seen a ghost. Even so, the smirk falls away slowly, as if something is preventing him from fully grasping what’s going on, from recognizing the face he’s seeing. Then he forces his eyes to move on from Jessica and smiles again, this time the corners of his mouth forcibly drawn up to his ears, like those of a sad clown. Colombano descends from the dais with a few brisk steps, strides toward the door at the rear of the hall, and glances once more at Jessica as he passes the middle row.
I’ll be waiting for you.
PEOPLE STREAM OUT the doors of the concert hall, burbling in delight at what they have just heard. A middle-aged blond man in a beige blazer and jeans glances over his shoulder at Jessica before he vanishes through the doorway. He looks somehow familiar, but Jessica pushes the thought from her mind.
A moment later, the room is quiet. The woman with the sharp cheekbones gathers up the programs, water bottles, and other debris strewn across the chairs. The moment is a repeat of the evening a few months ago when Jessica sat in the auditorium for the first time, listening to the irresistibly gorgeous man play. Just like then the auditorium first filled and then emptied. Then Colombano disappeared into the back room, and silence fell. Just like then, all Jessica can hear is her own pulse, that and the footfalls of the brusque woman echoing in the deserted concert hall.
“You’ve been here before,” the woman says suddenly in Italian. She has stopped behind Jessica.
Jessica answers without turning around: “I have.” She has not spoken with anyone in a long time, and her throat feels dry.
“You were . . . you were with Colombano,” the woman continues, gradually entering Jessica’s field of vision.
“I was,” Jessica says. She doesn’t know what to make of this woman, her questions, the empty auditorium, anything. But this time she has no intention of beating a retreat like a wounded animal, of stumbling across the cobblestone road and being rescued by Colombano. Jessica feels like she has the upper hand; she knows she is in the right place tonight. For the first time in months, she feels alive.
The woman brushes a strand of hair from her strong brow, glances uneasily at the closed doors at the rear of the hall, and sets down her large trash bag at her feet. She looks at Jessica apprehensively. “You should go,” she finally says. Her voice is not rude; the words sound more like friendly advice.
“I know,” Jessica says, not taking her eyes off the other woman.
“I don’t think you—”
“I am going. Away. Finally. I came to say goodbye to him.”
The woman hides her nose between her clasped palms for a moment.
Time out. If you have something to say, say it.
“Listen,” the other woman says at long last, and then steps closer. Her voice has dropped to a whisper. “I understand you.”
“What do you mean?”
The eyes are now mournful, even pitying. Jessica knows she looks atrocious; not even the beautiful black evening dress can hide the fact that she hasn’t had the energy to care for her appearance lately. The woman has seen enough of life to understand that all this is because of Colombano. Jessica is not the first. She is not the only one.
“It’s none of my business,” the woman says, again glancing toward the door as she seats herself a few chairs away, “but you clearly aren’t doing well—”
“You’re right. It’s not your business.”
Everything feels unreal, as if she is observing this conversation from a distance.
The woman sighs but doesn’t make any sign of backing down. “Colombano . . . this is what he does. I mean . . . he destroys everything.”
“Really?” Jessica asks indifferently. She feels a pain in her knee, but she doesn’t let it disturb her concentration. Of course he does. Do you think I’m an idiot?
Now the woman looks sad. She knows she’s saying too much, revealing something she shouldn’t, but she simply can’t stop herself: “And you’re here because you . . . you want to understand. Forget about this. There’s no understanding Colombano. There’s something wrong with him. Very, very wrong.”
For a moment they sit there in silence. Jessica’s eyes relentlessly bore into the woman, who searches for the right words as she looks at the floor.
“What? Did you learn the hard way?” Jessica says without a trace of emotion. She spent the whole morning looking at herself in the mirror. Trying to feel compassion, fear, pity, hope. She wasn’t able to capture any of them.
The woman bites her lip as if to keep it from trembling. “No. But I’ve known him for a long time.”
“So his charms didn’t work on you?”
The woman shakes her head in short, jerky movements. “You misunderstand. Colombano is my little brother.”
At that moment, the door opens, and the echo of heavy footfalls reverberates through the space. The woman stands and scurries off, like a dog caught doing something naughty.