We dined and chatted amiably as if we had all always known each other, as if we were all on a train and headed together for some distant and placid country, someplace where we could all be together with all our conflicts the most distant of memories, behind us forever.
This, of course, was an illusion, if a beautiful one.
Some hours later, Pauline and I stood on the catwalk, watching as the guests danced below in graceful pirouettes across the parquet floor. Some of the candles had burned out and new ones been lit, but it was darker all the same.
You were angry tonight, she said.
Yes.
When our tenor friend brought you to me, I knew very well he was your patron. It was never unclear. Was he brutal to you? Did he beat you?
I thought to try to explain, but as I thought of what to say, she said only, My dear. Why are you with him? Why would you marry him?
I am . . . not. And then I paused. He is not mine, I said.
But you allow him, she said. You do not drive him away.
I’m grateful you taught me how to sing opposite enemies, I said.
As necessary, though, she said. Not by choice. The sacrifice is usually chained to the rock. She does not usually dance out to meet her monster.
This left me silent.
I wanted to see you at least once, she said. At least once before this retirement came to pass. Are you very sure? I always feared my sister’s fate for you; you were the most like her of my students, God knows; and here Pauline crossed herself, though I felt a flush of pride to hear this. Has he really proposed then? she asked.
Oh . . . so much talk of marriage, I said. No, no retirement, it’s a rumor. No one has proposed yet.
Yes, are you very sure? she asked, and I knew she meant the tenor’s present onstage. I’d assumed this story of the curse was just that, she said. If there’s a curse, it’s in leaving the stage, not in staying. Or the curse is in being a little fool of a woman for the sake of a man. Her fierce expression softened only slightly. Did you never find your composer?
I embraced her then, surprising her, hoping to hide the tears that had surprised me, but she was not fooled.
It is not love that drives us mad, I think, she said. But all the rest of life around the love.
Turgenev appeared then, out of the shadows. I couldn’t tell if he had been waiting there as we spoke or not. When he was silent, despite his great size, he was as a ghost. He offered his handkerchief with a flourish, and I thanked him as I dried my eyes.
Call on us anytime, she said, kissing me three times as she took his arm. Good night.
§
It was the end of the night at last. There was coffee on all of the buffets; carriages were being called. Men were asleep, slumped on tables or in chaises; and the air was sick with the smell of wine that had been left out. The waiters moved swiftly across the rooms inside rescuing crystal and silver from the tables, and with everyone leaving or gone, I was free to be alone, and so I lingered, neither going to my suite upstairs nor asking anyone to stay with me.
A figure entered the dark garden from the house, and I nearly took it for a ghost. I soon saw it was two figures, in fact, the tenor with Maxine on his arm.
My old prison, so close to having another prisoner.
He blinked, nearly stupid with interrupted lust, and I saw his face change to the peculiar intensity he had earlier.
There you are, comprimaria, he said.
Not at all, comprimario, I said. How easy it was, our old joke. No one is here, I said, when he did not move. Please, don’t let me interrupt your game.
Don’t be foolish. I was looking for you. Come with us; we’re off to Les Halles. Where are your emeralds?
My maids know, I’m sure, I said.
Where are they? he asked. They’re your engagement present. Go get them and come with us.
We stared at each other, silent. Be a good girl, he said to Maxine. Go get them to call our carriage.
Our carriage, I noted. He had seen her for some time.
I should choose my own present, I said. And you haven’t yet proposed. Let me choose then, when you do.
In the cool dark, something like the heat of Hell’s own door opening passed between us.
She won’t likely find a footman, I said. Or if she does, she won’t remember her duties.
No, the tenor said. I suspect she knows her duties well. Even in front of footmen.
She’s a better match for you, I said. You should marry her instead.
A moment passed, a duel of a kind, silent.
We both know better, he said. You are my one match.
You’re only proposing because of him, I said. A test. He knew instantly whom I meant.
No, he said.
Propose to me when he is nowhere around, I said. But let him live. He smiled then nodded. I’d added that perhaps only just in time.
Only then I will consider it, I said. But only then. Do I have your word?
On the asking or the living?
Both. I’ll not accept you otherwise.
And why not? How could you refuse?
Think again what it is you ask of me, I said, refusing to answer him. I’ll return the emeralds if you like. There’s only one engagement present I want, and I’ve asked for it.