HANS, HERE SHE COMES. HERE she comes.”
Silence fell over Salle Pleyel Paris and its rows of red velvet peppered with suits and gowns and fans, the art deco balconies gleaming in all their polished starkness under the dimmed light behind them. Leaning forward in his chair, Aleandro struggled for composure, stifling the desire to shout out. It was not exactly the right venue for that kind of behavior, so despite the hammering of his heart, he reclined in his seat, seeking Hans’s arm for support.
It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way, his heart tightening in his chest in the moments before she would walk onto the stage. He’d followed her around the world for nearly three years, seen more than a dozen performances, and this was a common thing. Stuffed in that old tuxedo or stodgy suit he’d always hated, he’d sat just like this many times, gripping his knees for dear life in the front row. But tonight, Hans was here with him, and he felt a little less on edge, his heart a little calmer. Tonight would be different, or so he hoped. God, how he hoped.
The silence stretched on, laden with anticipation. Not a single whisper was heard. The conductor appeared and bowed before taking his place on the podium, facing the black-clad orchestra members. Then, a second flurry of applause erupted as she came on, stunning in a long green velvet gown, her dark hair cropped into a glossy pixie, the first signs of middle age visible in the creases around her eyes and her smile, a softness underneath her arm as she held up her violin and took a bow of her own.
Everyone was on their feet. He, too, stood with Hans’s help, who doted on him in the usual way, even though his eyes were only on the virtuoso, smiling as though the sun had broken through the rain clouds. Dear God, it was worse than he imagined. Hans was utterly lost to him. He knew that look better than anyone, and as they resumed their seats, he sighed in resignation.
Just six weeks prior, when Bianca played in New York, Aleandro bought Hans a front-row seat along with a premier membership to the New York Philharmonic, hoping this would be enough to get Hans backstage access, where he could try to persuade Bianca to meet with him. All he wanted was a cup of coffee, a walk in a park, no more. All he wanted was the simple chance to speak with her, but several hours later, Hans had returned with no answers, but rather a seeming lack of recollection of why he’d been sent there in the first place.
Bianca Kovaks, Hans had bubbled effusively, was charming, funny, confident, direct, and kind. She was beautiful. And would Aleandro mind if he sent her flowers or chocolates?
Did he mind? he recalled asking. Did he mind? Well, if he minded or objected, it was evident it would have made no difference, so he’d only shaken his head, realizing that in the course of this battle tactic, he’d lost his best foot soldier. Then, at the last minute, he’d invited Hans to join him in Paris. If things didn’t go his way again, he figured, Paris was no place to be alone at Christmastime.
Now, pinning his eyes back to the stage, Aleandro watched Bianca glide to her gold-plated seat on the conductor’s left. The Stradivarius in her hand gleamed under the lights. He watched her lift the violin, her eyes distant, turned inward, half-closed. She raised her bow—
And then, beauty. So much beauty in those sounds that Aleandro felt needles in his chest and thought that he might die in this very chair, and how inopportune that would be, because he did not intend to die in Paris, nor New York, but in Hungary, where Eva was, where they would always be together, where they’d shared in the course of twenty-two months more than most couples did in a lifetime. God, how he missed her. How he missed waking next to her at sunrise and being able to touch her face; to paint her again and not just from memory; to soothe her even in her weakest moments with his zany humor; to hold her, above all, in the light of sunset. And to remind himself of that, he patted at his suit pocket, where every day, next to his heart, two golden bands rested. Their secret bands.
A squeeze of his hand. He opened his eyes, and Hans’s gaze was on him now, eyebrows knitted with worry. He hadn’t realized he was gripping at his chest. The younger man offered him a bottle of Evian, his gaze tender, authoritarian, instructing. Please drink this. Aleandro accepted it and drank, wishing it were whiskey or at least wine or champagne, then after he handed it back, there were no more disruptions of any kind, no more concerned looks, no more water bottles, no more worries over his failing heart.
Closing his eyes, he let the sounds carry him. Across oceans, and decades, and starry skies, over the rumbling of the subterranean trains of New York and Paris, over ponds of the Hungarian countryside and baroque buildings and bridges of Budapest, the sounds carried him.
At the end, an explosion of applause brought him back to his senses. He stood from his seat—this time swatting away Hans’s fervent hands—and watched Bianca hand her violin to an orchestra member so that she could collect the bouquets carried onto the stage for her. One in particular was large enough to require a cart or a wagon, and as she took it and glanced at the card tucked in the folds of the cellophane, her eyes flashed over the crowd, then came to rest directly on Hans. And she smiled.
Beet red, Hans turned to Aleandro with upheld hands and apologetic eyebrows, as if to say, It was from both of us, I’m not to blame here, but Aleandro had already made up his mind.
This time, damn it, this time he would not let her slide away without a glance in his direction, so he stopped clapping. Stopped, while everyone still applauded. Below the edge of the stage, he stood on his old spindly legs, willing her to look at him. Look at me. You are my daughter. You are my daughter, and you can’t ignore me forever. I am here.
He didn’t know what made it different this time. Perhaps it was Hans standing alongside him in solidarity—just two men, one old and one young, connected by their past as much as their adulation for the great Bianca Kovaks. Or perhaps it was just being here in Paris, the city of love.
For suddenly, unexpectedly, the acquiescence he’d been praying for finally came.
From the mad foliage of baby’s breath and myrtle and evergreen fern and every flower on earth obscuring her face, a single rose came away. A single red rose as tight as a baby’s fist that she placed down on the stage’s edge before him. Another look. This one, with a tiny nod, for him, just for him, their nearly identical eyes, save for their color, locked on each other’s. Then she strode off with her proud shoulders pulled back, her chin upturned, the green gown’s train trailing behind her.
There were many moments in Aleandro’s lengthy life that he would never forget—many lessons he’d learned, words that would haunt him. But now it was Eva’s words, his love’s words, ringing in his head as he collected his rose with shaking, rheumatic fingers.
But don’t you see, Aleandro? There is always time for new bonds to form, always time, at the very least, for new friendships. There is always a way to let a new person into your heart.
And she’d let him. Finally, she had let him.