The sight of him, a reproach for all of my doubts. The path to him had indeed led away from him to here.
I did recognize him. His face had thinned instead of thickening, a sign of, perhaps, difficult times for a man. I wondered for just an instant if he recognized me as well, and then he said, I searched for you.
I sat still, shocked, unable even to move.
The other grisettes said you had run off. With that tenor singer. I wondered where you could have run off to, and it would seem you ran here. I hoped it would be.
He was here, he was talking to me, he had looked for me.
I had hoped it would be me. I never had the honor of your name, he said.
If I had to die here in the war to come, at least he was here with me. Though as I looked at him, the old fears—that we were watched or would be discovered—returned the louder. I studied the area around us for signs someone was watching us, but there were none. Perhaps our watchers had abandoned us.
I wanted to imagine my fears were senseless, but I knew better. That seemed to be the mistake I made each time.
Please excuse me, he said, and he came to my table and made a bow. I am Aristafeo, Aristafeo Cadiz. My name means “ugly knob.” My mother invented it, as she felt I’d ruined her looks. But I like it, as I don’t think anyone else has this name. I’ve been watching you come here for several weeks and wanted to be sure it was you before I spoke to you. It is you, yes?
Lilliet Berne, I said. And then I added, Falcon soprano, most recently a student of Pauline Viardot-García’s in Baden-Baden and newly returned to Paris. I am here in case of war, apparently. Should Paris need to be defended by sopranos.
He smiled. I devoutly wish it will not come to that, he said. I congratulate you. You did well to run off; you must be an extraordinary singer to have been her student. I’m honored. This means you have seen her copy of Don Giovanni written in the master Mozart’s own hand?
I said I had.
I look forward to hearing you sing. I must ask you, I thought I knew you another way, he said.
What way is this? I asked.
I used to play in the band at the Cirque d’Hiver, and there was a rider there I fell in love with. She was beautiful and so quiet. The other girls were so crass and loud, but she said nothing, not once. She was let go before I could speak to her. I would see her also at the Bal Mabille, where she seemed more lively. But I was playing in the orchestra there and could not stop playing to ask her to dance.
You should have, I said. You should have asked her to dance.
Then, I suppose, she was let go again, from whatever job she had, he said, for I saw her next as a maid at Compiègne.
I stared at him, uncertain as to whether I should laugh or run.
How many women are you? he asked.
A legion, I said. How many orchestras have you played in?
All of them, perhaps, he said, smiling.
I heard the chiming of the clock behind us and knew I had to return.
Monsieur, I said. If you’ll please excuse me, I must take my leave of you.
Mademoiselle Berne, please, he said, still holding my hand. We were just getting to know each other.
I nodded and could not stop the smile on my face.
I did not dare let him into this life here, not yet. It was too soon. And yet I did not dare let him go. But surely the tenor could not begrudge me an accompanist.
I slid a card from my calling-card case, the one the tenor had given me to give to my dressmaker.
Is it beneath you, I asked, if I ask you to rehearse with me? I must prepare for my debut.
I have looked for you everywhere, he said. Everywhere but here, and he smiled, holding up the card before putting it inside his jacket’s ticket pocket. Consider me your servant.
Call on me there, I said. Tomorrow. Come for tea. I will try to explain everything.
He laughed out of surprise and shock, and then said, a little louder, Until then, and then he bowed until I walked away.
§
When Aristafeo arrived the next day, Doro showed him in, her surprise at his arrival kept from her face except, as she entered, her eyes, full of fear.
The tenor was in rehearsals, I knew, and would not be free until well after dinner. We had hours alone.
Thank you for coming to rehearse with me, I said, loud enough for Doro to hear as she left. My skills with the piano are rudimentary at best, and the piano is out of tune.
Aristafeo did not flinch in the slightest. Of course, he said.
The music room is this way, I said. If you’ll follow me?
He followed, and I drew the doors shut. As he passed me, I whispered, Play anything.
He smiled as he sat and began something that began in arpeggios and wild flourishes, and then settled into a melody, sweetly sad. As I walked to the piano bench, the pleasure of hearing him play again filled me. It was like it had been the first time, being admitted to a place where only the two of us existed. But on this afternoon, it was also exactly like being somewhere only the two of us could speak to each other.
For I was sure Doro would have to listen in on me as part of her duties.