10
LI
I’d not heardfrom Fiona in the two months she’d been away, so it was with great surprise that I found a letter in the post. The sun was hot and bright overhead as I walked to the car with the letter safely in my pocket. Although spring was officially still weeks away, the weather had turned warm. I perspired in my dark suit and under the brim of my hat. I went to sit on a bench under a shade tree, holding the letter in both hands. Should I open it here or wait until I got home? Did I want to read the contents? No one had heard from her thus far. I knew from Cymbeline that she and her parents had arrived safely in Paris but other than that, I knew nothing. I’d tried to convince myself this was for the best. I hadn’t had much luck thus far.
The leaves above me quivered in a breeze that didn’t seem to reach my overheated skin. Fine, I thought. Open it and get it over with. I slid my finger under the seal and pulled up the flap, then the letter itself.
Dear Li,
I’ve written at least a dozen first sentences before tearing up the paper, only to try again the next day. I’m regretful I poured my heart out to you like a little fool and hope you’ll forgive me. I’m sick that I’ve perhaps ruined our friendship forever. Please say I haven’t.
I decided this morning that I would write to you as if I hadn’t acted so rashly and all was normal between us. So, here it goes…
I’ve been busy training with Mr. Pierre Basset. Papa rented a nice apartment for me, with two bedrooms, a maid’s quarters, and a piano. The view looks out to Notre Dame and the River Seine. All quite scenic and inspiring. I’ve been composing like mad and have a few new tunes to share with you upon my return.
Apparently, Pierre Basset has a reputation as a ladies’ man. He has numerous mistresses, all of whom were or are his female students. I hate to admit how shocked I was by this. Living in Emerson Pass didn’t prepare me for the French culture in that regard. Not only does he turn his voice students into mistresses, but he asks for their favors in exchange for assistance furthering their musical careers. Can you believe that? According to Mr. West, most of Mr. Basset’s students are only too happy to give their virtue to him.
I have my own thoughts about how “happy” they are to do so. Unlike me, many of his students don’t have a family as I have and are unprotected against men like Mr. Basset. They must feel as though they have no choice but to do as he wishes. I suppose this is the way of the world, though? Women without means must survive somehow. Perhaps they see it as a small price to pay? Or perhaps it is a large price and they have to do it anyway.
For his part, Mr. Basset does do what he says he will and helps these women go on to singing careers. The venues and opera houses he has access to throughout Europe make him a powerful man. I couldn’t care less, of course. I’d sooner sell my soul to the devil than play Mr. Basset’s game. Anyway, I don’t want to tour Europe. I’ll be happy to return home to sing at church and our club. Again, I have Papa to keep me from such a fate. I’ve always known it to be true but since I’ve been here, I see clearly how lucky I am.
During my very first lesson, Mr. Basset suggested one of his salacious rendezvous. Fortunately, Mr. West had warned me that he might do so, or I might not have understood the gestures. I told him in no uncertain terms that I would not be the type of woman he could coerce into his bed (shudder) and if he wanted to have that kind of relationship, he would have to find another student. He laughed at me, as if I were a silly child. It was maddening!
Regardless of Mr. Basset’s unwanted overtures, I’m learning a lot from him. As hateful as he is under all that charm and French cologne, he’s taught me more in our first several weeks of lessons than I’ve learned my entire life. The exercises he’s tasked me with have strengthened my voice considerably. For my part, I have dutifully practiced. I’ve found it helps to keep a regimented routine here in Paris or I might fall into a life of ill repute. I’m only joking. It would take more than a few outings to a Parisian café to change me.
In other news, I’ve become acquainted with a Mr. James West. We met him before Mama and Papa left for England. They quite approved of him, even though he’s an impoverished lord without a penny to his name. He’s become a good friend and buffer to Mr. Basset’s advances. I’ve met others, too, all colorful characters. I wish you could meet them. I’ll tell you all about them when I get home. There’s an author, an artist, and their partners. I still haven’t discerned who is married and who lives out of wedlock in the same apartment. It shouldn’t matter to me. In fact, it’s none of my business whatsoever. I must remember that.
But, oh my, Paris! You won’t believe all that I’ve seen and done. I know it’s best you’ve stayed with your grandmother and it’s very selfish of me to wish you were here, but I cannot help it. We would have such fun visiting the jazz clubs and walking in the scenic parks. The museums, too! Such beauty. The River Seine—how would I describe its power and allure in musical terms? It would be a great opera perhaps?
I should close, as it’s quite late. I’m quite embarrassed about my behavior. I cringe every time I think of it. I hope you’ll forgive me and upon my return we can go back to our easy friendship. I hope, too, that you and Mrs. Wu are well. I miss you all very much.
With affection,
Fiona
I read the letter through a second time before bringing it to my nose to see if Fiona’s scent had been caught in the paper. It smelled only of emptiness.
I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. Fiona alone in Paris with the likes of Mr. Basset made me shake with fury. And her new friend, Mr. James West? Had she mentioned him to let me know she had moved on as I’d asked her to? Was she allowing him to court her? Her parents “quite approved” of him. Of course, they would. Impoverished or not, he was English aristocracy. He was exactly what she needed. Or was he?
My insides burned at the thought of her going about Paris on this man’s arm. Who was he really? Was he impoverished because his family was corrupt or incompetent? Was he good or bad? Trustworthy? A gold digger? There were many questions and concerns. Perhaps it wasn’t only this Pierre Basset who threatened the well-being of my dearest friend. Was she safe from James West?
I was helpless to assist her. I knew this. However, the urge to drop everything and go to her was as powerful as the hunger I could still remember from before our time at the Barnes estate.
I drove home with the windows down. The warm air ruffling my hair smelled of wildflowers. I stuck my left elbow out the window and let the sun shine down on my bare skin.
Put this out of your mind,I told myself. You did the right thing. She would come home with this James West and marry him in the very church where she loved to sing. Or maybe she would stay in Europe and never return to Emerson Pass? At that thought, I veered off the road and corrected only at the last moment or I would have landed in the ditch. I pounded the steering wheel with the heel of my left hand. What kind of man was I? She had gone and done exactly as I told her and now I was angry? It was too late anyway. I’d done what I’d done. For that matter, it would never have been the right time for Fiona and me. Why must this be so hard to remember?
Grandmother was out back watering the spring vegetable garden when I arrived home. She knelt on her walking stick for support as she let the water trickle from the can over the small shoots of my carrots and lettuce.
I unlatched the garden gate and called out to her. She looked up, squinting under the brim of her wide garden hat. “Did you bring me a new book?”
“Yes, I did. Josephine wasn’t there, but one of the other librarians helped me. It’s another mystery.”
“Good. I’ll look forward to reading tonight.” Grandmother put more weight on her stick. Her eyes were shadowed under the brim of her hat, but they watched me with that same discerning way they always did. “What’s happened?”
“Happened? Nothing.” The letter burned through the fabric of my trousers pocket. Only my life is over.
She stepped closer and gestured toward the back door with her stick. “Let’s go inside. I’m thirsty.”
I turned and held open the gate for her and followed behind her across our patch of grass until we reached the stone walkway I’d laid last summer. Grandmother took this section carefully, as the stones were uneven.
The house felt cool after the warmth of the late-afternoon sun. While Grandmother took off her hat to hang on the rack by the back door, I poured her a cold glass of water. She sat at the table and thanked me. “It’s warmer than I thought it would be today.”
“Spring is here,” I said, putting false enthusiasm into my tone.
“The tomatoes will be good this year.” Grandmother set aside her glass and smacked her lips.
“I hope so. We could use some jars in our pantry for next winter.” This would be my life from now on, pretending I cared about tomatoes or spring. I mustn’t let Grandmother know how my insides bled.
I helped myself to a glass of water and joined her at the table. “I got a letter from Fiona.”
“Ah, I see.”
I looked away from her scrutiny. The crisp curtains that hung over the kitchen window flapped in the welcome breeze. Birds called to one another from the trees surrounding the yard. Love songs. Nature’s music.
Grandmother rubbed her thumb absently on her glass. The warmth in the kitchen had caused the glass to sweat and drip onto the surface of our pine table. I got up to grab a towel, then swiped up the dampness.
“May I read the letter?” Grandmother asked.
“Yes, if you want.” I tugged it from my pocket and set it near the glass.
Grandmother took it from the envelope and read it, her eyes traveling slowly across the page. When she was done, she put it back into the envelope and pushed it over to my place at the table. She didn’t speak, tracing a knot in the wood with her finger. The second hand on our clock ticked away happily.
I folded the towel and placed it back on the counter. The windows could use washing, I thought. And the garden needed more water. Grandmother’s attempts with the watering can were not enough. I would haul buckets from the well after dinner to thoroughly soak the dirt.