Maestro (20 page)

The following week, David flew to New York.  

Sara had stayed behind at the house helping him to pack six months worth of clothes and books. Up until the last minute, as David waited for the taxi to the airport, neither had broached the subject of him leaving and whether their marriage would survive. 

Now as the doorbell rang, Sara and David looked at each other.  

"See you in a month. Sooner if I can..." David said, giving her a light kiss on the cheek. 

Sara nodded. 

"Safe journey David." 

**************** 

Sara arrived to find the Maestro eating a tub of ice cream for lunch. 

"Has hubby gone?" he enquired, licking a spoonful of rum and raisin. 

"Probably for nine months, although he hopes for six. Listen, can I disappear for a week? There's something I've got to do. It’s quiet around here...." 

"Go! Will ya? You don't need to ask me, babe." 

Sara was genuinely surprised by the Maestro's largesse. 

"You don't give usually give in that easily. What's the story?"  

"Motherhood. Something about you, babe. Must be fucking motherhood." 

"How'd you know?" 

"Dunno. But you sure were in no hurry to tell me what was going on. I can't figure you out, man." 

"That makes two of us. And by the way, don't get any ideas. I'm keeping my job." 

"Whatever you say, babe. Whatever you say." 

Sara spent the rest of the week organising her trip. She chose a different hotel to the one she had stayed in with David. One that was closer to the Galleria Darias. 

She longed for the days to pass. March 18, 19, ... 

**************** 

It was as if he knew she would come.  Standing dead centre of the viewing room, he turned around at the precise moment that she walked in.  

She had barely been in Florence an hour and had stopped only to register at the hotel. 

"Sara. Sara." 

They embraced. He pulled her into a secluded corner of the room and kissed her longingly. 

She held on to his hand tightly as they wended their way along the narrow, timeless streets. 

The cafe, IL MONDO, was empty. Not a sign of the quality of the service but the early hour. 

First a coffee. 

For several moments, neither said a word. Gillane caressed her hands with his long, piano player fingers.  

Sara had left her wedding rings in London, in a white envelope folded away amongst her clothes. She looked down at the bare third finger on her left hand. 

"Did you know I would come?" 

He shook his head and clasped her hand in his.   He pulled his wallet out from his jacket, placed 1000 liras under his cup and without speaking, bade her to come with him. And be his love. 

******************* 

On their second to last day together, they surfaced from Gillane's colourfully cluttered apartment. 

They strolled hand in hand stopping at the crowded street market stalls to pick out a memento for Sara to take home. Nothing caught her eye. Finally, she decided she was too distracted to choose anything and suggested they find somewhere to eat. 

The time had come. She needed to tell Gillane about David and the baby. He should know. She knew that her marriage was over, not because of what she had just done but because of her. David had saved her only temporarily from herself. In the end, she concluded, she did not need saving. 

In this moment of her life, she understood forgiveness and compassion that is love. She must ask Gillane for his forgiveness.  

They found a bistro and ordered calzone, roasted vegetables and a carafe of wine. 

Sara drank only half a glass of the strong red wine, which Gillane remarked upon. She drew her breath in and held it there before telling him why. 

"It would harm my unborn child." 

He could not look at her. He closed his eyes, reaching blindly for her hand which he lifted against his cheek. 

"I married last autumn." she continued, the tears streaming down her face. 

He kissed her hand, pressing his lips deep into the skin. He searched her face, a sad, faraway look in his eyes. 

"Do you love him?" he whispered. 

"I know now I never can." 

Gillane drew her to him and wiped the tears from her face.  

"Why....why did you wait so long when you knew I wanted only you?" she sobbed. 

"Did I?" he pushed her away. "I am a fool Sara. One that does not see anymore what is in front of him. I have trained myself not to think too much, not to feel. Here and now, that's all I have. Until I set eyes upon you. You stirred something inside of me that I had buried away. Forgotten. That was dead. Because of you, I began to paint. Again. Each stroke, each brush of paint is a tribute to you. For helping me to live." 

They did not speak again until they had reached the apartment. 

"I'm going to shower and go to the gallery." said Gillane, his voice toneless. 

He would not touch her. He had not consoled her in her melancholy. She had listened to him in the bistro and there was nothing more to say. 

Sara lay down on the bed and fell asleep. When she awoke, it was already dark. She was alone in the apartment. She checked the time. 7.30 pm. She remembered that the gallery closed at 5.30. Gillane was in no rush to return to her. She collected her things from around the apartment and packed them away. 

At her hotel, she asked the concierge to confirm her flight the next evening and to arrange for a taxi to take her to the airport. 

In her room, she ordered two spinach crepes and a glass of wine. She should eat. To stop the pain in her stomach. 

At midnight, a knock sounded at the door.  Gillane. Standing there, a painting under his arm. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, the painting resting against his leg. Sara knelt beside him and lay her head in his lap. Gillane stroked her cheek. 

"Forgive me, Sara." 

Sara buried her face in his hands, kissing them.  "Forgive me," she whispered. 

She looked up to see him crying. 

"This is for you," he said, pulling the painting towards her.  

"Is it Sarah in her wedding dress?" 

Gillane lifted the painting onto the bed and tore away the paper covering it. 

Sarah Lunn resplendent in her cotton lace dress. 

"It’s a beautiful painting. Thank you for giving it to me." 

Gillane knelt down besides her and took her in his arms. 

"Come," Sara murmured, "let's go to sleep. It’s getting late."

Chloe Alexandra Jones entered this world on September 17th. Everything about her, her eyes, her hands, the shape of her face, were a miniature version of Sara. Except for her hair, which was blond like her father's. 

David made it in time for the birth, screeching into the delivery room with a minute to spare. He stayed in London until Sara was released from the hospital, sleeping on a makeshift bed in her room. 

Sara watched him sleeping. He had lost weight since she had last seen him in July. There were dark circles under his eyes. He was overworked and unhappy. She was aware that she was the major cause of his unhappiness. But it had been good of him to come now and meet his baby daughter. 

When David had left for New York in March, he did not return within four weeks as he had promised to do. It was four months before he came back. The subtle knowledge that his marriage was in ruins, had prevented him from coming sooner. 

In July, on his first visit back, Sara had seemed withdrawn and they had hardly spoken. He was hoping that Chloe's arrival would be enough reason to reconcile with his wife. He wanted desperately to convince Sara that her place was with him in New York. But just as Sara had watched him sleeping, he had watched her. 

There was a calmness about her. Something that he could only attribute to motherhood. A peacefulness, despite having little sleep and the demands of a crying baby. 

David waited until they had brought Chloe home before he told Sara the news. 

"Sara, I've agreed to stay on in New York for another year." 

He had decided to broach the subject while Chloe was fast asleep in her cot upstairs, safely out of the way. 

Sara was resting on the couch expecting Chloe to start crying at any moment for yet another feeding. She looked at David, smiling. 

"Is that what you want?" 

"Yes."

David had expected an argument and was already pouring himself a drink.  

"The truth is, David, you have to do what's best for you. I don't begrudge your ambition. I admire you for it." 

"But you don't love me enough to want to be part of it." 

"It is about love, David. And life. And the choices we make." 

********************* 

Sara returned to work when Chloe was two months old, just in time to prepare for the Maestro's annual holiday. A nanny looked after Chloe at home, while she worked during the day. When Chloe needed to be fed, the nanny would ring Sara and she would shuttle between the office and her house every couple of hours. On the nanny's days off, Sara worked from home. Twentieth century technology meant that she didn't have to physically be in the same office as the Maestro, nor did she want to. 

The Maestro was in tantrum and pouting mode in anticipation of his Swiss vacation. Sara no longer had any desire to accommodate the yelling, screaming and raging as she had in the past.  

A few days before Christmas, David surprised her and the baby by arriving unexpectedly, laden with gifts. 

Mother, father and baby Chloe, frequently dined together at the Italian Restaurant around the corner. Anyone seeing them would have thought they were the perfect family. The reality was different: in between mouthfuls of lasagna, Sara and David were discussing the quickest way to end their marriage. 

David was adamant that Chloe should know her father. It was unlikely that he would return to London permanently and as soon as she was old enough to attend school, should spend her all her holidays with him in New York. He repeated over and over again how Chloe should have the best of both worlds. 

They also agreed that Sara would have sole custody of Chloe although both parents would pay for her education. Since it was more practical to open an account in London, they decided to start a savings plan into which both Sara and David would deposit £100 per month until Chloe’s eighteenth birthday. Whatever happened in the future, for example, if they were to remarry, they must always provide for Chloe.  

*************** 

On Christmas Eve morning, Sara sat at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for the post to arrive. 

The familiar white envelope slid through the door. A safe landing at the end of its long journey. 

Sara looked at the two paintings he had given her. Flowers in a Field and Sarah Lunn. Sometimes she mistook Sarah, in her shimmering white dress, to be a ghost. Majestic as she stood in the hallway. Welcome. 

Sara opened the envelope. No card this year but a letter. 

"My dearest Sara, I am filled with thoughts of you. I hope you are well and wait with much anticipation to see you again. 

"Painting has been continuous. I stop only to attend to mundane tasks as we all must and to sleep.  

"Next year's exhibition will be much bigger. Sixty paintings in all and I'm still working on one or two. 

"I feel as if I am free.  Yours, Guillaume.  March 21-31, Florence" 

Sara could tell there was a fire burning inside Gillane. That he was consumed with creating a legacy, something by which he would not be condemned, but admired. 

Yes, she would go to him as she had always done. 

Two survivors with a chance to live.   

Copyright Samantha van Dalen, 1999

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