Innocence. Kathleen Tessaro
up, mate.’ Allyson moves next to me; she loves confrontation. ‘No need to pick on her just because she’s American!’
‘I’m not picking on you.’ Piotr glances at me, then back to Allyson. ‘But there you go again! “Lighten up!” Nothing must be serious. Everything must be small, fast…light!’ He prowls the floor in frustration, reaching for the words as if they’re hovering in the air around him. ‘You are the hero of your life—especially in art! Without adversity, obstacles, where’s the hero’s adventure? What’s the point? Of course you do bad movies! Stupid commercials! So what? They’re your dragons; you slay them, you move on. You’re bigger than those things!’ He spins round. ‘What do you have to offer people, what experience, if life is only “fun”?’
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
It’s late; I’m overly sensitive. Instead, I focus on stacking the tea boxes in neat little rows. The silence builds, piling up between the three of us.
‘That wasn’t the only reason,’ I say. ‘My happiness wasn’t the only consideration.’
‘God, Piotr!’ Allyson shakes her head. ‘Could you be any more rude if you tried?’
‘Rude?’ He turns to her, baffled. ‘We’re just talking. A conversation, right?’ And he laughs, resting his hands against the counter. ‘What do you want? That we should stand here and flatter one another all night?’
There’s a long pause.
‘Oh. I see.’ His voice is sharp. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to offend you.’ For a moment his eyes meet mine. I’m startled by the kindness in them.
He turns away. ‘I forget how important it is that we agree about everything all the time. I’ll stick with the piano. Good night, ladies.’ He nods his head to each of us, a formal, slightly sardonic gesture, before heading up the steps easily, two at a time.
Allyson launches forward, nicking the mug I just put down and filling it with boiled water. ‘Well! Fuck me!’
The whole exchange has left me disorientated. I open the cupboard door, looking for something to eat. ‘I guess he has a right to his…’
‘God!’ She slams the mug down on the counter, half its contents splashing out over the sides. ‘I thought it would be brilliant to have a pianist in my own home to work with but I’ve never, not in my whole life, met anyone so fucking difficult!’ Plucking a knife off the carving board, she begins hacking at a fresh lemon, throwing it into the water along with a large dollop of honey. ‘What a fucking diva! And what was all that about? Americans and happiness and…Jesus! I would’ve hit him!’
I need to go shopping. I close the cupboard door.
‘His English is good…’
‘Should be! He studied at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. Still bloody rude!’
‘Thing is, Ally, I’ve been here so long…’
‘Tits! I think I’m getting a cold!’ She wheels round, glaring at me accusingly. ‘Does Alex have a cold? I’d better not be getting a cold, Evie.’
I shake my head ‘no’, relinquishing any hope of actually finishing a sentence.
‘It’s the stress. The stress is outrageous! This concert is doing my nut in! Look at my glands, will you?’
I can’t tell you how many times a week I have to look at Allyson’s glands.
She sticks her tongue out. ‘Do you see anything? Is my throat red? Splotchy?’
No one is more paranoid about her health than Allyson. The kitchen counter is lined with vitamin bottles and herbal tinctures; her room emits a steamy, Arthurian mist from under the door, the result of a humidifier churning away constantly in a corner, and she sleeps more hours a day than a cat. Still, all her effort pays off: she has one of the clearest, most powerful singing voices I’ve ever heard.
I take a peek. ‘No, darling. It’s fine.’
‘Thanks. Oh God, Evie! What am I going to do?’
‘Well.’ I pick up another mug from the draining board. ‘You could always…’
‘Balls! I’ll have to call Junko again. But she’s like a robot; she understands nothing of the power and passion I need for these pieces!’ She looks at me. ‘You have heard about Piotr, haven’t you?’
I shake my head and she leans forward, her voice uncharacteristically low.
‘He’s the one who walked out in the middle of the final rounds of the Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow a few years ago!’
She stares at me eagerly.
I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.
‘It’s the most famous piano competition in the world, Evie! He just stopped playing in the middle of his second concerto and left! When he was on the verge of winning!’
‘But why?’
‘It wasn’t good enough…he didn’t like the way he was playing.’ She rolls her eyes. Ally’s competitive nature is so keenly honed that the idea is clearly anathema. I find it quite intriguing. ‘He’s crazy, Evie! Insane! He was playing Prokofiev Three, with a full orchestra and suddenly he just stands up and walks away!’
‘So if he’s crazy, Ally, why are you so keen on working with him?’
‘Have you heard him? He was playing Gaspard de la Nuit yesterday and I thought I would faint it was so heart-breaking…Oh fuckity fuck fuck fuck!’ She collapses her head into her hands. (If Puccini had been composing for Allyson, ‘One Fine Day’ would’ve become ‘Where the Hell Is He?’.)
I take a piece of cheese out of the fridge, turning this new information around in my mind.
‘And now he teaches at the Royal Academy’
‘But he could’ve been huge!’ she mumbles.
We sit a moment.
Eventually, she looks up. ‘You know what we should do? We should go out, you and I; just the girls! We could go dancing or something!’
Every couple of months she does this; she launches into a campaign to force me into socializing, usually just after she’s finished some big job.
‘Well, maybe. I don’t know, Ally. I think I’m a bit old for dancing.’
‘I’m older than you are,’ she reminds me.
‘Yes, but you’re, you know, trendy…’
‘You could be trendy. Let’s go shopping. It would be fun!’
She’s staring at me with those huge, unflinching diva eyes.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You always say that. If I had your face and your figure…’
‘Ally! Stop it!’ Why am I so embarrassed?
‘You’re not even wearing make-up, are you?’
‘Please!’ I shake my head.
‘I’m just saying it’s a waste! I’m going to stop asking one of these days and then you’ll be sorry!’ Opening one of the dozen bottles, she tosses a few pills into her mouth. ‘So the old fart walked out on you, did he? You’ve mentioned him before—what’s his name?’
‘Mr Hastings.’
‘Poor Mr Hastings.’
‘Actually, he’s a very difficult character,’ I point out, suddenly defensive.
‘Yes, but you would be difficult too, wouldn’t you? If you’d never lived out your dreams. Makes people crazy, Evie.’