Nightmusic | George Keithley

"Sorry I’m late," Nancy tells him. "My appointment lasted longer than I expected." Paul and Nancy stand beneath the brilliant chandelier as if they’re marooned on an island while the crowd surges around them, a few late-comers trotting up to the bar for a quick cocktail or coffee, the others filing into the concert hall among clipped, polite greetings, and a nervous buzz of anticipation.

His own anticipation has caused him to roll their program tightly in his hand. He unrolls it, slaps it open. He’s been waiting for her, eagerly. Becoming impatient. But that’s not important. What matters is that she’s here, now. He tries to read her mood in her large dark eyes burning with bright energy. Her gaze holds him boldly until she lowers her eyes and he steps back. A bold opening followed by an almost imperceptible retreat, as she clutches her purse just below the crimson sash that wraps her waist, her gestures small, quick, conservative, even secretive, as they often are. Often he notices this tension between her frailty and her enthusiasm.

"Plenty of time," he assures her. "I thought your consultation would take awhile." Not wanting to unnerve her, to burden her with his own anxiety, he makes an effort to maintain his measured tone: "What did you learn?"

"Please." With a shake of her head her long, lush hair sweeps down her back. "Not now."

He reaches for his wife’s wrist. "Nancy."

"Paul, please. Later."

"Do you want coffee?"

"Not tonight," she says. "You have a cup. If you wish."

"Would you like a drink?"

"You have one if you wish."

He’ll have a gin and tonic. Just time for one. They’re cutting down, aren’t they, the two of them? Being sensible. No, then. Not now. He looks through the foyer to the bar. One entire wall is a mirror reflecting the delicate shards of light overhead which are falling aslant on the thinning crowd, his own sober face. But not hers. Nancy has turned away and under the glowing branches of the chandelier her chestnut hair glimmers. Glancing backward, extending his hand for hers, he admires the sweep of her lustrous hair, her trim figure which models her pink satin gown, with its narrow vivid sash, with grace. And in that moment, in the refracted light dancing down upon them, he’s struck with wonder: Do women know how lovely they look?

No.

Nothing about Nancy is artful or mannered. Which leaves her more vulnerable, he believes, more open to the world, its blessings and its hazards. Which draws him nearer to her. Too near? Well, yes. He’s protective where she’s willful. Or is it that he’s realistic and she’s impulsive? The truth is, he feels he casts a shadow over her bright being. What Paul admires as her spirit, her independence, worries him, especially in the hours when he’s not with her. Because in her secretive way, private and impulsive, she’s always at risk. Does she see that? Yes–it frightens her. She withdraws and turns inward. When this happens he feels helpless in the ensuing solitude. All he can do is love her. But this thought, this pledge, fails to sustain him. It sounds grandiose and it seems sadly insufficient.

Promptly at eight, as the lights begin to dim, they slip into the hall to find their seats. Arriving at their row, marked by a small brass plate, Paul again is astonished by the ornate style of the multi-tiered hall with its false columns, the profusion of ivory white rococo trim, the plush carpet, the plum-colored seats. Their first tickets to this concert series had been a gift from Nancy’s late father, an engagement present. Which they’ve renewed each year. From that first night Paul has appreciated the elaborately ornamental style as a mute tribute to the artistry performed here, though it wasn’t to everyone’s taste: "It’s like sitting in a wedding cake," his mother-in-law, Adele, had remarked. Her mother’s judgment had reduced Nancy to giggles, but she didn’t share it, and she insisted they return for each series. Tonight, settled in their seats, he leans his head toward hers.

"Your appointment." It’s a question he doesn’t want to ask and she doesn’t answer. Again he twists their program into a cylinder while her fingers are splayed over the sheen of her gown, stroking the fabric about her knees. Everyone’s waiting for the concert to begin; he imagines he must look as expectant as they do, this crowd of strangers; his glance roams the hall without finding a familiar face. Born and raised here. Still, he thinks, it’s a city of strangers. Nancy’s head is bowed, her hair veiling her gaze as he leans toward her. They have each other and this is no small gift. His uneasiness is quieted by a tender gratitude, and solicitude, and with a vibrant pleasure that’s so sudden it always surprises him, he delights in the fragrance of her hair. "You promised," he reminds her, "to tell me tonight."

"I’m so afraid." Her hands adjust the rich ruddy sash, then she smoothes her gown until it glimmers across her thighs. Now he knows and his head tilts back, an involuntary movement as he regrets the intense pleasure he’d felt just a moment before. The tiny thrill of her fragrance. This time, he thinks, he’s the one who’s withdrawing. Still he watches her every movement as if she might suddenly disappear. "I need surgery," she adds. He permits himself a glance at the program clenched in his fist.

"I see."

The audience quiets as the house lights dim entirely.

Through the darkness a spotlight pours its brilliant cone onto the stage where Andrés Segovia slumps over his guitar. Muttering the name "Tárrega," he begins to play Recuerdo de la Alhambra. Someone coughs. People stir in their seats then grow still.

Segovia, a balding old man in a black suit, bows his head, listening to the music in his hands: Bach, Albéniz, six studies by Sor. The hall fills with chords as pure as water, like a lake fed by a spring. He plays on into the night without comment, only a pause between each piece. At every silence the darkness deepens. He draws this silence, this dark light, into his music. Reaching the end of the performance, he brings it shimmering to the brim with Giuliani’s Grand Sonata. He rises, takes one bow, and the ovation shakes the hall like thunder over deep water. It rolls through the hall, bounds back, rolls on.

In the foyer the scattered illumination from the chandelier dances over them like starlight on the surface of the sea. Waiting while Nancy sips at the water fountain, Paul gazes into the night beyond the glassy entrance, at the taxis arriving in the glinting dark. She approaches with such short, quiet steps, he hasn’t heard her before he feels her fingers touching his wrist. How quick and light she is. And, yes, vulnerable. Pairs of doors wink open, slide shut. Joining the departing crowd, one group surging toward the bus stop, another gathering at the taxi stand, they reach the sidewalk under the large-leafed trees that surround the concert hall, then start down the street alone. "If that’s final," he urges her, "do it soon."

"I don’t–"

"Promise," he insists. "I want you to promise that you'll do this as soon as possible." He’s still whispering as if they’re back in the hall. He can’t remember leaving. Hurrying down the steps and under the dim trees, as if they were running away from the bright scattered light of the foyer, taking with them, like a gift to be cherished in silence, a dark memory of the music.

"Tell them to schedule you this week."

"I hate this!" She folds her arms across her chest. "Do you understand? I hate to think about it. And it’s all I think about."

"That’s why it’s better to know." For her peace of mind. His, too. For their future. "Until you have this operation," he reasons, "you can’t be certain. Can you?"

"I’ve always known it’s in my family." She tells him because of her family history now she feels trapped in her own body. She tosses her hair. A gesture of that defiance that he loves in her. Her glance is furtive as she walks hurriedly beside him, her dark eyes dilated, intense.

"Yes," he says. "I see."

"Paul, ever since Mother died, I’ve thought I’m next. Of course I would. It’s only natural." When she admits to this fear it sounds like both an argument and an apology. But how can we argue with nature? Or apologize for it? Her small hand presses against her chest. "What can I do?"

"I’ll tell you what you can’t do. You can’t compare yourself to your mother." He’ll help her to believe this but will she listen? Is she slipping away from him? No. Another woman, perhaps. But not Nancy. "We understand each other. You’re different." They know each other intimately; secretly. Which is why Paul rarely feels alone in the city. "You’re altogether unlike her."

But what she recalls next surprises him. It’s an incident she’d never spoken of, though it delighted her. "So strong. And so funny," she says. "No one made me laugh like she did. I remember one evening she and Daddy brought me to a masquerade. One of those fundraisers for the opera. Her costume was a circus bear with a ruffled collar around the neck. And a conical hat; a party hat. I can still picture the tassel on top. It waggled whenever she moved her head, and a little silver bell jingled."

"A bear?" Paul asks. Adele was such a slender woman.

"She tucked a pillow inside to give its body some girth. She pranced around, patting her tummy with her paws, so pleased because she never had much of a tummy before. She pranced and that silver bell jingled. And her eyes beamed with delight when she pretended to threaten people. She’d thrust her head at us and growl through the open jaws. But her voice was even fainter than mine. That may be why she admired opera singers. Their talent, their gift, was so far beyond her. ‘We Marbury women,’ she told me once, ‘have frail voices but strong hearts.’ When she growled at us, the bear sounded like a schoolgirl pretending to be an angry kitten. People howled. I laughed so hard I wept. But in the end it didn’t matter. Her voice or her heart."

"Nancy." Paul puts his arm around her, his hand on the sash at her waist, and her gown rustles as her stride quickens. "I admired your mother. But you’re altogether different."

"Yes, we are. She was brave." Her voice is a whisper he must strain to hear. "I’m not."

"But we’re being thoughtful. And thorough. Isn’t that the point? We’ll see that you get the very best care." From under the trees they’ve moved into the open night of street lamps, traffic lights; a cat skulks under a parked car, annoyed at this intrusion upon its solitude. Nancy’s steps stutter beside his on the walkway. "Your mother wasn’t prepared. This is different. This isn’t a surprise, dear. You suspected it. We saw it coming."

"Did we?"

"Yes. Dear."

"When she died."

"All right. Yes.’’

They stop walking and she turns to face him. His wife is trembling now. His hands clasp her shoulders to steady her. Though he’s the one who is moored there; transfixed. Held by her gaze, he has forgotten the concert, her parents, his need to reassure her. He’d meant to remind her of the unique intimacy they share. But in her large dark eyes he finds nothing lovely, nothing secretive. What he sees is plain animal terror.

"How do I know I’m not too late? I have to know. But I hate this," she cries quietly in a voice nearly as thin as Adele’s. "Don’t you see? Paul, there’s no place I can hide. I can’t hide from myself. It’s in my breast. What if it’s already in my lungs?"

He barely hears her words and in the night her long hair obscures her face. Her gown rustles with her agitated walk as they move on, the crimson sash clinging to her waist. But the city itself is suddenly without sound. A cable car climbs by and he hears no humming rails, no bells. A half-full bus, dimly lighted, glides through the intersection remote and indifferent as a submarine. All around him is a silence as deep as the bottom of the sea. Walking down the street, he holds her hand because he thinks they’re in this together.