Heart and Soul (21 page)

M
y fingers got better way ahead of the rest of me, maybe because a suicide shoves the grieving process into a whole other dimension. It's bad enough to lose somebody to an early death, but when they murder themselves … man, the questions never end. I kept imagining David in those last hours, on the drive upstate, in the house in the woods, as he sat by the piano playing to my answering machine. What was he thinking? Was he crying? What exactly was he feeling that he could wade into that lake, sink under the surface, and welcome the water into his lungs? I wondered if he choked, if he changed his mind when it was too late. The whole thing was unbelievable, and yet it had happened. I listened to his telephone tape, the Bach, over and over, hoping for clues. I read his letter, held it up to the light even, as if there were answers hiding between the lines. I got so pissed at him, and then felt guilty for my anger. He had the right. Anybody has the right. But that was in general, in theory. Not my David. How could he leave me that way? He knew I couldn't possibly function without him.

Then there was the “if only” syndrome. I was totally convinced that I could have saved him if only I had been quicker to follow him. If only I hadn't provoked him. If only I'd held him and never let him out of my arms, out of my sight. If only I'd been worthy enough, lovable enough so that his feelings for me were stronger than his need to escape the pain. This line of thought got really grim at night. I kept dreaming I was drowning, and I'd wake up all tangled in my sheets from trying to kick my way to the surface.

Stir into all this the fact that I was still sad about the baby. I kept thinking if I hadn't lost her there would be something of David left in the world. Our child would have carried his light like a little lantern into the next generation, and now that light was snuffed out forever.

Six months had gone by since David's death. My hands looked almost normal, although two knuckles were swollen and I couldn't wear the ring David had bought me in a little funky shop in Baltimore. The trouble was, I was still fighting to get out of bed every morning. It seemed so pointless. But I'd made a deal with Jake and Angie that we'd E-mail each other first thing in the morning and before bed at night. And let me tell you, if I forgot, one of them was on my doorstep in a heartbeat.

On a depressingly springlike May morning when the sky was the palest blue and the birds wouldn't shut up, I sat down at David's laptop to do my check-in. I'd inherited his computer along with a ton of money and the mountain house. There wasn't a will, exactly. Mr. Balaboo said that a month before David died, he set up a trust. Although the media couldn't get at the terms, I was told that as a beneficiary, I could read it. I really didn't give a rat's ass. All I knew was that he'd left me more than I could ever spend and that he'd even provided for Angie. Looking back, I wonder if it was such a hot idea for me to have all that money. It only made it easier for me to sit on my butt and feel sorry for myself instead of lacing on my Rollerblades, memorizing the daily specials, and hustling tips for the rent. Anyway, that particular morning, I noticed that Jake had left me a bombshell along with his daily greeting. Here's what it said:

“Wake up, Stallone. The sun's shining and you could use a walk in the park. Here's a new item for your address book:

“Terese Dumont, Via Dandolo 72, Isola Como, Italy (Tel: 011-394-588-1413). I think you should go see her. Get yourself a ticket.”

My fingers were shaking so much it took me a couple of tries to get Jake's telephone number right.

“Is this for real?” I asked.

“Morning. Sure, it's for real.”

“Nobody's ever been able to find her.”

“It didn't take that long.”

“How'd you do it?”

“Ever hear of detectives?”

“It must have cost a fortune.”

“You can pay me back. Call your travel agent.”

“Why should I?”

“You're stuck, Stallone. Maybe it'll help and maybe it won't, but you're a useless lump the way things are.”

“Why, thank you,” I said.

“Anytime. Let me know.”

It took me two days to get up the courage to phone Terese. It wasn't a great connection, and I don't know if the long silence after I gave her my name was because of that or because she was shocked or angry or something else. But she said to come if I wanted to. I started packing as soon as I hung up.

To get to Terese, I had to fly to Milan. That wasn't easy because it resurrected so many memories, good and bad, of the trip with David. I picked up a rental car and drove north to the lakes. You'd think I would have been nervous about doing this on my own, but by then I was obsessed about meeting with Terese, and I would have gone by skateboard if that was the only way to get there. It was the first time I'd really cared about anything since David died, and I felt almost as if I was expecting to see him waiting for me at the other end of the road. And let me tell you, some road. First you drive north up into the mountains into almost bloody Switzerland, and then you go most of the way around the far side of an extremely long lake so you can get to a ferry that takes you to a tiny little island. You leave your car at the dock. They don't let you drive on that island. And I have to say, it's one of the most gorgeous places I've ever seen and if you were planning to be a fairy princess as your vocation, this is exactly where you'd set up shop.

I was the only ferryboat passenger who wasn't a local. Everybody was inspecting me, but especially the captain, who looked too old to be breathing regularly, much less operating a rickety, slippery raft. When we were secured to the dock, I asked how to find the Via Dandolo.

“Signorina Stallone?” he asked.

So I was expected. At my nod, he waved at the highest point of the village. “Up, up,” he said, showing me the two teeth that were still left in his mouth. I had the feeling that if I hadn't passed inspection, those pegs would have sunk into my ankle.

The island was basically a mountaintop sticking out of the lake, so the town was built onto a steep slope. The houses were pale yellow stone with the battered, washed-out beauty only centuries of weather can produce. It was some climb to the Via Dandolo. I stopped once to ask a woman who was hanging laundry if I was going the right way. She squinted at me. “Stallone?” she asked. It was like a fortress. It made me wonder what they did with the remains of people who didn't have permission to be there. Anyway, by the time I got up to the top, wheezing and gasping, I had quite the admiration for Terese. If you wanted to disappear this was a pretty good place to do it.

A woman was standing in the doorway of Number 72 in a faded dress, bulky sweater, and canvas shoes. At first I thought she was the housekeeper but when I got close I recognized her. There was no mistaking the perfect bones of her face and the blue eyes with their unusual square shape. You could see that this woman had suffered. There were lines beside her mouth and between her eyebrows, but she was so beautiful that she put the landscape to shame. She didn't come to greet me, just stood waiting. Then she stuck her hand out. She had a strong grip for such a fragile-looking thing, but then, she'd been one of the world's great pianists.

“Miss Stallone,” she said, in a whispery, almost childish voice.

“Bess. Please.”

“Then you must call me Terese.” Not her first choice from the sound of it. I followed her inside. The house was airy with lots of homey touches, but I didn't see a piano anywhere.

“Would you like to sit here?” she asked, indicating a sofa by the fire. It was twenty degrees cooler than in Milan and I hadn't worn warm enough clothing.

“That would be fine, thank you,” I said.

“Allow me to bring you something to drink,” she said.

Whew, this woman was as formal as they come. “I wouldn't mind a glass of wine,” I said. “But only if you'll join me.” Maybe if I could get her a little tanked, she'd unwind.

Terese came back carrying a little silver tray with a couple of crystal glasses. In fact, everything in the place was classy. That dress may have been faded but it was for sure out of some top designer's collection. Nardigger popped into my head—Audrey Hepburn wasn't such a stretch. And me, Courtney Love, I sat at the opposite end of the couch wondering why I'd come.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Terese said finally. She dropped her eyes but not before I saw the film of tears.

“It's everybody's loss,” I said.

She nodded and folded her hands.

“I have so many questions,” I said. I felt like she winced, not a good sign. But what the hell, she'd let me come. “Did you … was he … was David …?” I knocked back the wine and pulled myself together. “Mr. Balaboo says that David had problems before, with depression. Did you see any evidence of it when you were performing together?”

She nodded. “David was a very troubled person.” It gave me a little stab of jealousy to hear her call him by name. “But he had a sad life, a terrible childhood. His mother … oh, a wicked woman.”

“David seemed to adore her,” I said.

There was another silence. It seemed like every sentence had to travel a long way before it got to her lips.

“First he was abandoned by his father and then Aimee sold him to Beauchapel.” I noticed that her wine had disappeared. She poured us both another glass.

“Sold?”

“Aimee was getting older, her beauty was fading. David was her prize, the best thing she had.” Another silence, but it was getting easier. “Beauchapel paid Aimee's living expenses in exchange for David. But it was a terrible place for a child.”

“At least Beauchapel was sort of a father to him.”

“I will tell you about David's first Christmas in that house. No toys, no treats, only books of music. On Christmas morning, they even took away the soft toys he slept with … you call them … bears?”

“Teddy bears,” I said.

“Oui. Because music was the greatest gift and the boy should not be distracted by foolish things. Beauchapel said David would thank him one day. For myself, I curse him.”

“We're talking how old?” I asked.

“David moved in with Beauchapel when he was five. Already, he was a prodigy and performed with Aimee in two-piano concerts. She was very gifted. But also ill.” Terese tapped her temple. “Here. She had terrible moods, up and down. Beauchapel finally banned her from his house. She would get David too upset.”

“Is she still alive?”

“Oh, no. She died in a sanitarium several years ago. David perhaps inherited her illness, don't you think? They say these things are genetic.”

I felt cold right down to the insides of my bones. “Yes, I guess so,” I said.

“He was very afraid of being like her,” Terese said.

“Did he tell you that?”

“Yes, quite recently.”

“I don't understand. When did you see him?”

“Last year when you were in this country.”

Those few days he left me to take care of “real estate” business. I was beginning to feel like I was about to get more answers than I was ready to hear. I could still get up, walk down to the ferry, and put thousands of miles between me and whatever truth was going to come out of that perfect mouth. I tried to imagine myself back in New York, lying awake at night and tortured with questions that wouldn't go away. Terese was studying me.

“You seem like a strong woman,” she said.

“I thought I was, but then David died.”

“Did he talk to you about me?”

Funny, I was thinking of asking her the same thing. “There were some subjects he wouldn't discuss,” I said. “You were one.”

“Well, he told me about you, Bess.” A smile—and what a smile. She had deep dimples beside her mouth. It felt like the sun just dropped by for a visit. “He loved you very much.”

I felt myself choking up but she didn't stop. “He told me you made him laugh,” she said.

“Well, I guess that's true enough. Until he got so … sick, finally.”

“The great tragedy of my life was that David was never in love with me,” Terese said. “It made me so miserable that I could no longer perform.”

I knew that Terese was telling me stuff that came out of a very private place. And God knows, I understood that need for David's love.

“I don't see a piano anywhere,” I said.

“The music didn't make me happy anymore. I'm more at peace without it.”

A door opened. The maid came in and spoke quietly to Terese in Italian. Terese shot a look at me, hesitated, and said something back. When the maid retreated, Terese turned to me.

“Bess, I hope … I hope this is not a mistake, but I think not. I should perhaps prepare …” But before she could say any more, a boy entered the room. He was carrying a book bag in one hand and an apple in the other. He went straight to Terese, kissed her on both cheeks, and said, “
Allo, Maman. Ça va?
”

“
Oui, mais nous avons une invitée.
Bess, this is my son, François-David. François, this is Mademoiselle Stallone.”

François started to shake my hand, but the half-eaten apple was still in it. He smiled and gave me a bow instead. He had his mother's dimples, but it was also that unexpected, dazzling grin, David's grin. I felt the world begin to spin around.

“
Maman, elle est maladef
,” I heard the boy ask from a distance.

Terese was beside me, rubbing my hand. “Oh, I'm so sorry. I should never have … how foolish. Yes, darling, Miss Stallone is feeling a bit weak. Would you run and ask Maria to bring us some water? Then we'll see you a little later.”

After he left, the room stopped twirling and I got my head back.

“Whoa,” I said. “You couldn't have given me a hint?”