The day after the composer’s birthday party, I got off the phone with Max Steiner and listened to the entire Sunday broadcast of the New York Philharmonic. I couldn’t have said what was played. I needed someone to talk to, but there was no one in particular I wanted to talk to. That’s the best definition of loneliness I know. Work helps. The radio helps. Driving helps, but, when I looked outside, my car was not in the drive.
By midafternoon I’d stopped caring who I spoke to; all that mattered was finding someone who wanted to speak to me. But the phone stayed quiet, an austere black on the stand in the hall. Living alone, one encounters such flashes of non-existence, though they are mercifully rare. For me, they come on days like that one, when I feel regret. Days when I feel like being quiet and alone, but not alone. When effortlessness seems to matter a great deal. When the sight of a neighbor amid his dahlias would be a comfort.
And then Paul arrived near the golden hour, removing his tortoiseshell sunglasses when I answered the door.
“I meant to come earlier, so I could bring you something from the bakery, but I was ensconced in my book.”
“Reading or writing?” I asked, trying to conceal my relief.
“I wouldn’t keep you waiting just to read. This morning, I found I had a great many insights about Bierstadt’s landscapes to put down.” He smiled in that way of his—seemingly aware of the absurdity of his sincerity, completely sincere nonetheless. “It must be that seeing you again is good for my work. Or maybe it was the wine. Might I come in?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, stepping out of the doorway. “It’s only that you haven’t kept me waiting. I wasn’t even aware you knew my address.”
“I assumed you’d want your car back.”
I had to laugh. “You drove me home last night?”
“My god, man, were you that bad?”
“Well, it was quite an occasion, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed. I was pleased to see you get on so well with Steiner. It isn’t always easy with him.”
“You didn’t happen to hear us at the piano?”
“Of course. It’s an event when he plays, you know. Even for that crowd. And you held up quite well. Singing, I mean.”
Once he said it, the memory materialized, however dimly—the faces in the doorway of the tiny practice room; Steiner urging me to keep singing; I, stinking enough to oblige. Eventually, someone, thank god, had relieved me and begun a song in German with Steiner still at the piano. Had that been Paul?
“Was it anything you recognized? The song, that is?”
“Should I have?”
I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or disappointed. “Is my car still in your driveway then? Why don’t we go?”
“Good. And if you’d like to have dinner, you’ll be at my house anyway.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t know I could survive another dinner like last night’s.”
“Don’t worry. Tonight’s birthday party is for a zookeeper. The crowd is much tamer.”
“Tamer?”
“Yes, what do you think? Funny? I’ve been working on that one in my head all day.”