Lee Vance: The Garden of Betrayal

I could hear Claire on the piano as the elevator approached our floor. A violin began playing with the piano as the elevator doors opened, and then a second violin joined, contrapuntal to the first. The performers were likely Claire, Kate-and who? Opening my apartment door, I saw an NYU backpack on the floor and abruptly recalled something Claire had told me a few days ago-that she, Kate, and a college kid from NYU were scheduled to perform together in a holiday recital at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, the hospital where Claire was the volunteer director of the arts program. Hanging up my coat, I headed for the living room.

The black Yamaha baby grand I’d given Claire as a wedding gift had been rolled out of the corner where it usually sat. Claire was on the bench, leaning slightly forward as she played. Her shoulders were pulled back, her torso balanced over her hips and her forearms precisely parallel to the floor. Both the piano and the bench were custom-built; Claire suffered near-constant back pain if she wasn’t seated correctly. Facing her were Kate and a tall, skinny Asian boy wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Kate had lost her baby fat as a teen, and her hair had lightened, but she still had Claire’s Mediterranean coloring and full features. The combination gave her a slightly exotic look, like a blond Roman. She’d grown as well, towering over her mother and only a few inches shy of my six feet. Despite her height and her slim, womanly figure, she’d seemed a child to me until recently. Something had changed, and it wasn’t just that we’d been filling out college applications together-there was a new maturity to her, a poise she hadn’t had before.

Claire’s head was turned from me, but Kate spotted me and wiggled the pinky finger on her bow hand. The boy smiled politely. I nodded to both of them, loosened my tie, and settled on the couch to listen. They were playing a Bach concerto. Assuming they played straight through, it had about ten minutes to go.

My eyes drifted back to Claire. Hearing her piano from the elevator had reminded me of our early days together. We met at a SoHo gallery opening that a colleague had cajoled me into attending. His girlfriend was the artist. I’d stationed myself next to the small buffet, trying to look like I was waiting for someone, and counted down the minutes until I could leave without offending anyone. A slender, dark-haired woman walked up and scrutinized the food on the table. She had on black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black ballet slippers. It was a downtown ensemble, more austere than I usually found attractive, but her forearms were toned and graceful, and I noticed that she had delicate wrists. She put her hands on her hips and frowned, pale lips drawn down into an exaggerated moue.

“Problem?” I asked, surprising myself by speaking.

“The amaretto cookies are gone.”

Most of the amaretto cookies were in my stomach, a casualty of my boredom. I made a hasty attempt to change the subject.

“You come to a lot of openings here?” It came out sounding like a line, and I winced.

“Yes. I know the owner. I watch the gallery for her sometimes.” Her gaze flicked down my body and back to my face. I’d arrived straight from work, dressed in a boxy Brooks Brothers suit, duty-free Hermes tie, and scuffed loafers. “Banker, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Pretty much. Plus, Anna’s dating a banker,” she said, naming my colleague’s girlfriend, “and you look like you got roped into attending by a friend of the artist.”

“There’s a specific look for that?”

“More of a behavior. The biggest clue is hanging around the buffet table alone and eating all the amaretto cookies.”

She delivered the line deadpan, and I couldn’t tell if she was flirting or genuinely annoyed.

“Busted,” I said lightly. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

She folded her arms and tipped her head to one side.

“Are you being polite, or do you really want to know?”

I had the strong sense that she was about to tell me to fuck off back to Wall Street, but I liked her directness and the casual once-over she’d given me, and the way her black jeans rode low on her narrow waist, so I fed her the straight line anyway.

“I really want to know.”

“There’s a biscotteria on Mott Street that bakes everything fresh.”

Mott Street was in Little Italy, only a couple of blocks away. I did a quick check of the room, working hard to keep a stupid grin off my face. The gallery was full, the opening a success.

“Mark Wallace,” I said, offering her my hand. “I don’t think anyone’s going to miss us. We could walk over there now, if you’d like.”

“Claire Rossi,” she answered, smiling demurely. “Now would be lovely.”

I expected the biscotteria to be a bare-bones bakery with a couple of Formica tables and an apron-clad proprietor, but the place she led me to was an immense pastry palace, with marble counters, an espresso machine that looked like a church organ, and tuxedoed waiters who sang opera. All the staff knew her, and we were serenaded twice. It would have been awkward if she hadn’t been so clearly enjoying herself.

“I was at Juilliard with the owner’s son,” she explained, after a small man with a huge mustache sang us the Toreador song from Carmen.

“You’re a musician?”

“A pianist.”

“Is that something you always wanted to do?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

Her eyes narrowed quizzically.

“I mean, was there a pianist you really admired when you were young, or did one of your parents play, or did you have a great teacher, or something like that?”

She smoothed her hair, not making eye contact. I had the sense I’d misstepped, but I didn’t know how.

“I’d love it if you played for me sometime,” I said, trying to get the conversation back on track.

“For you?” she asked, with a hint of her previous assertiveness.

“As a swap. I’ll do something for you.”

“What?”

“Whatever you want.”

She laughed, and I felt relieved.

“You have any talents?”

“Beyond analyzing financial reports and building spreadsheets?”

“Right. Beyond that. I build my own spreadsheets.”

“Guy stuff. Opening jars, hanging shelves, burning breakfast.”

“Hmm…” She took a pen from her purse and scribbled something on a napkin. She pushed it toward me and stood up. “I’ll think about it. I have to go now. Give me a call sometime.”

I stayed to finish my coffee, toying with the napkin and wondering how soon I could phone without seeming too eager. Her sudden departure had left me edgy and heated. I called the next morning. We went on a second date, and a third. I was working a hundred hours a week, but sleep soon became less important to me than being with her. I saw her giggly, and tender, and tearful, and passionate. But she never offered to play for me, and-much as I wanted to-I never asked again, convinced she was still thinking about it, for reasons of her own. Her gift on the two-month anniversary of our visit to the biscotteria was a key to the Chelsea ballet studio where she was employed evenings, and the murmured information that she stayed on to practice most nights, after the dancers went home.

I left my office at midnight the next day, catching the E train from the World Trade Center to Twenty-third Street, winding my way north and west through deserted warehouse blocks to a drafty industrial building on the West Side Highway. The sound of her piano echoed down the stairwell like a beacon, and my heart pounded as I climbed toward it. Opening the door to the studio, I saw her on the bench and abruptly understood why she’d been puzzled by my question about becoming a pianist. She played as if transported, hands confident and face rapturous. She’d been born to be a pianist. The joy her music elicited in me was tainted by fear. Her deepest self was rooted in a world that a nonmusician like myself could never fully appreciate. She noticed me at the door, and the piano fell silent as she rose to greet me.