Elsa was suddenly overwhelmed, swept off in a giant wave as if by the rupture of a dam. A burst of longing seized her. All she had been able to see at the time had been Barker’s ruthlessness, all that had mattered to her had been her broken heart and her revenge. Then, because of his vulnerability and his unexpected kindness, she had disregarded him, brushed him off as this Midwestern bumpkin without future or depth. How could she have been so unreasonably unforgiving, to the point of refusing to own a single track of his?
… golden light shines on your pillow,
Botticelli hair covers your face,
you are killing me even when asleep,
kill me, kill me
I saw you
My Renaissance queen
running toward me
calling me, calling my name
across the Ponte Sisto
I have loved you in Rome
Yes I have
Loved you loved you
In Rome
So many years later, in the gigantic auditorium, the melody of “Roman Romance” came as a revelation, as if her heart, throat and lungs had been plugged into a light switch and her brain had lit up. Yes, they were all connected: Barker, Elsa, the tens of thousands, the leggy Texan art student in the song, Artemisia beheading Holofernes, her past and present. They were all one big dot-to-dot constellation like those lights quivering in the dark.
Did it matter that it wasn’t her in the song? And what difference did it make now? The song was no longer about anybody. It was just this beautiful thing that Barker had created nearly twenty years ago that would survive all of them. Really, she thought, what a waste of time. To have kept her distance, to have waited so long to see him in his full splendor. Why not rejoice and accept his greatness, his fabulous talent, and just love it, like everyone else?
Anyway, even the girl from Texas must be over forty by now, and maybe she, too, had gained weight and chopped off her Botticelli hair.
The gorgeous dark-haired actress was coming toward her. She spoke directly to Elsa, ignoring Sandro.
“We are having a small party at my place after the concert. Please join us, I’d love to talk to you.”
Elsa nodded, almost condescendingly. Sandro held her closer to him as if to exhibit her as his private property.
“Are you going to go backstage afterward?” he asked, somewhat nervously.
Elsa was lost for a moment, then she regained control.
“It gets too crowded backstage,” she said. “I’m going to see him tomorrow for lunch at his hotel. We always do that when he comes back. It’s our little ritual.”
Sandro looked at her with admiration and awe. He pressed his body harder against her, testing if he could still dare claim her after this last statement.
“How does it feel to listen to this song among so many people?” he asked.
He must have been waiting to ask this question since the day they’d met at the café by the Palazzo Farnese.
“It always feels sweet,” Elsa said. She turned to him, feeling tall, mysterious. She smiled.
“Music is such a miracle,” she said.
He leaned toward her and kissed her. His mouth was soft and his kiss had a delicious taste.