The Night Singers (4 page)

“Well,” she rotated the sugar bowl slowly, then fell mute.

“Yes?”

“I don't backpack,” she regarded him closely. “However we could drive out to the White Mountains for a day hike.”

“That's very kind, but I wouldn't intrude.” He lost control after too much coffee.

Eleanor straightened her spine. “I don't know what's got into me. You have work to do. This performance residency is precious time. I apologise.”

“No, no,” he protested, “I'd actually
enjoy
a hike. If
you
would.”

She nodded.

“Maybe on the weekend? I can't stay cooped up in that divine studio all six weeks.” His pulse accelerated, probably from cabin fever.

She pulled out a burgundy leather date book. “I'm busy next weekend, but how about the following Saturday? Weather permitting, of course. Our spring is mercurial.”

“Weather permitting,” he repeated, disappointed by the uncertainty. The sky was almost dark. Nearby stores had closed. He admired the white clapboard buildings, the handsomely stencilled shop signs. A Buick cruised by slowly and Paul realised that this was the first car he'd noticed in half-an-hour. “Well, it's getting late, so I should thank you for your good company.”

“Next Saturday, then? If the day is fair, shall I pick you up at, say, 8.30?”

“Yes, yes, thanks, thanks a lot.” Paul was cheered at the prospect. Mountain air always raised his spirits. This would be good for his work.

Later that evening after the Berliner's series of stagy pieces for string quartet, he sat in his studio with a glass of sherry. It occurred to him that if he turned out all the lights, he could see stars. Mosquitoes had hatched with the rest of nature this week, but he could sit inside the screened porch and count stars. He did love the summer sky in South Dakota—so wide and clear you felt as if you were peering into eternity. Muriel liked to tell a story about how a hummingbird created the constellations by poking its sharp beak through a blanket of darkness. She would love this porch.

Saturday was a washout.

She phoned to say, “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Sure,” he replied, “sure,” masking his regret, petulance. He was here to compose, he reminded himself. And to enjoy solitude.

Elated by Sunday sunshine, Paul prepared the salads. Eleanor had promised sandwiches. As he organised his backpack, he considered how well the first two weeks had gone. Several evening concerts were stimulating, especially the choral work by the composer from Dublin. During that performance, Eleanor had an aisle seat next to Magistrate Avery. He was a little disappointed that they departed directly after the concert.

At 8:30 sharp, she rapped on the door.

“Good morning.” He was surprised by her jeans and hiking boots. Well, what had he expected—the voile skirt and sandals? Perhaps he did feel under-equipped in his New Balance walking shoes, but he hadn't planned on hiking in Vermont—or New Hampshire—or wherever she was taking him.

“Morning,” she grinned. “Perfect day. Warm, but not too hot according to the forecast.”

He had
known
she would drive a Volvo station wagon with fabric, rather than leather interior. Red. He hadn't expected a red car.

As they rode through the undulating green countryside, he watched feathery white spores floating in air. Summer snow. Fickle as letters bobbing the ocean in bottles. Leaves—the size and shape of baby parrot beaks—had exploded now. Two weeks before you could peer from one side of a grove, past the naked trunks, to the other. Now space between the trees was filled with fragile green leaves.

“Spring is so, so exciting here.” Did he sound sentimental? “Every day brings something fresh.” He never talked like this. If anything, he was a self-contained, almost taciturn man. Year after year student evaluations rated him poorly on “outreach.”

Eleanor laughed. “Yes, my favourite season. I missed all this in Africa. Of course Kenya was extraordinarily beautiful. But I believe we each long for our
home place
.”

“Sure.” He wished he
had
a home place, rather than a fairly comfortable house near his not very satisfactory job.

Eleanor was a serious climber. At first he balked at her carrying half the food, but she wore a snug fanny pack.

“Oh, look—columbine,” she pointed. “So delicate and lithe.”

“Yes,” he called back, impressed by how nimbly she ascended the switchbacks.

She stopped on a crest overlooking the rising peaks. “Verlyn and I always used to lunch here, do you mind?”

“No,” he beamed. “The view is gorgeous. Besides, I'm starving.”

For a few minutes they ate ravenously.

“Delicious salad,” Eleanor pronounced. “Nice touch—curry powder in the dressing.”

“My friend Muriel taught me that. She was a great cook.

“Was?” Eleanor's voice dropped sympathetically.

He noticed she'd caught some sun on her cheeks and the white visored cap shaded the fine lines around her eyes.

“Oh, no,” Paul ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “Muriel's very much alive. It's just our relationship that's a ‘was.'”

“I'm sorry,” Eleanor frowned.

He jumped to his feet. “Hey, what's that?”

“Where?” she stood, small hands on her neat hips.

“There,” he really had seen something, a bizarre animal. This was not a change of topic.

“Oh, no,” she laughed. “It's a very well-fed porcupine.”

OK, now he could make out the quills, the classic body shape. His eyes started to focus. There was so much
more
to
see
here than in Clarksdale. Maybe New England was his home place. The big question was a job.

“Oh, what are those?” he batted a darting spectre.

“Black flies,” Eleanor pulled out bug spray. “I thought they might start this week.”

They packed up because of the flies, because of the hour.

How swiftly the day was passing, he thought, perplexed by his ease with someone he'd only known a few weeks.

On the descent, Paul took the lead. After ten minutes of pleasant silence, he called behind, “Are you going to tonight's concert?”

No answer.

“Eleanor?”

Silence, except for wind brushing through the new beech leaves.

Anxiously, Paul swivelled around.

She had vanished.

“Eleanor?” he called through the tightness in his chest. “Eleanor?”

“Here, Paul, here,” she shouted.

He climbed back up and found her peering into a densely forested knoll.

“Did you lose something?” She still had both earrings and he didn't think she wore contacts.

“A marten.”

“Pardon?”

“Or a fisher.”

“What?”

“These creatures look like a cross between a squirrel and a fox. You don't often see them in daylight, but sometimes, in the spring, you get lucky.” Her eyes shone.

“You scared me.” He couldn't help himself. Another woman disappeared from his life. He hadn't thought about it consciously until now and he felt depressed, irritable.

“We have to be open to what we find along the trail,” she reproved him lightheartedly. “What's the point of a journey, without surprise?”

He nodded, smiled thinly. She was a beautiful woman. Verlyn had been a very lucky man.

“Here,” she extended her hand, “do me a favour and help me down.”

Her palm was warm and soft; her grip strong.

He was filled with fondness for Eleanor, but still puzzled about how to regard her. An aunt, perhaps? A young aunt.

Work continued to flow. Spring grew more and more lush. Grass rose an inch overnight. Aspens began to quake. One rainy day, he glanced out the giant window and felt completely enveloped in shades of green, maple, elm, hawthorn, fiddlehead fern. He could no longer see the river from here. What a cool, fecund, enchanting setting. Yet in a perverse way, he was beginning to yearn for the starkness of South Dakota. Here the tree branches now blocked his night sky. Of course he could walk over to the meadow near the Festival office. But he wanted to sit out on his porch and look up, as he knew Muriel was doing in the evenings now.

Paul made friends with the Dublin composer. When they went drinking together, he enjoyed her smart, cosmopolitan wit. They shared a few dinners. He found himself looking for Eleanor at concert intermissions when people gathered on the lawn outside the performance tent and drank wine from plastic cups or munched huge chocolate chip cookies. What a wide audience—older teens in levis and sweatshirts; young couples on romantic cultural excursions; town burghers in nappy dress. At intermission, some people carefully studied the program; others caught up on local gossip. He could phone Eleanor, of course. She was probably listed under “Verlyn Dunham.” Small town people weren't paranoid about being in phone books. But something held him back. Now it was he who did not want to intrude.

One night at intermission, someone shouted his name.

“Hi there? What did you think of the first concerto?”

Paul glanced at Thaddeus's eager face. “Strong,” he said. “But I thought the second had more spark. And you?”
Be kind
, he recalled Marco's advice,
but detached
.

“Yes, I'd have to agree. The violinist was superb.”

Paul had been searching over Thaddeus's shoulder for Eleanor. “Pardon?”

“The violinist. Splendid, I thought.”

“Indeed. My girlfriend Muriel is a violist.”

“Oh, right,” Thaddeus shrugged. “Well, I certainly look forward to the sonata.”

“Yes,” Paul murmured distractedly.

Thaddeus shrugged. “I think I'll get a mint tea first, if you'll excuse me.”

“Sure, sure, see you around,” said Paul.

Muriel would be furious. She hated violins. She'd demand, “What right do you have to call me your girlfriend after you left me?”

Yes, he had left her, out of some obscure discontent which was probably with himself. He'd never before thought about the nuances of loneliness—Eleanor's grief; Thaddeus's isolation; his own overly critical nature.

At evening's end, the sonata was still buzzing in his ears. He heard someone calling him.

“Paul.”

He stood very still.

“Paul.” Her voice.

Eleanor walked across the grass in a long, purple dress. He guessed the fabric was Kenyan, probably made by some women's collective she sponsored. Her multicoloured hair—gold, silver, reddish brown—was held high and back from her face in a tortoise shell clasp.

“Another surprise on the journey,” he grinned.

She shrugged demurely.

“You look fit for a ball, Eleanor.”

“That white linen jacket is pretty handsome,” she deflected his comment.

In the past few weeks she'd acquired a slight tan, probably from hiking in the spring sun while he was noodling in his studio. Paul was taken aback by a faint envy. “Are you off to a party?”

“Oh, my sister Dorothy is friendly with tonight's composer and she had a little dinner for him before the performance.”

“Then I shouldn't keep you from your friends.”

“No, no, it was an early supper. We're all going our own ways now that the concert has ended.”

“I see,” he shifted from one loafered foot to another. “Would you like a cup of chai?”

“The Wisteria is closed at this hour.” She regarded him wryly.

“Of course,” he laughed, how stupid. “But,” she brightened, “I live close by. Why not stop over for a brandy. That sounds much more suitable than chai at this hour. And afterward, I can give you a lift back to your studio.”

Paul settled in the tasteful living room while she puttered in the kitchen. Three green velvet chairs faced each other at interesting angles. The hardwood floor was scattered with elaborate Persian rugs. Over by the fireplace hung a good print of an abstract expressionist painting whose artist he could almost identify. Not Pollack or Frankenthaler, but yes, an early de Kooning. Family photos gleamed from silver frames on the piano. The perfection of this family home made him slightly uncomfortable. Muriel would have some sassy crack about the genteel classes. He was standing to examine the photos when she entered.

“Here we are.” On a brass tray, Eleanor carried two glasses, a bottle of Courvoisier, a bowl of seaweed rice crackers and a plate of dark chocolate cookies.

“I always get a little peckish in the evening and chocolate goes so well with cognac.”

“You're very hospitable,” he grinned. Paul never understood people who preferred
milk
chocolate.

She poured two generous glasses and raised a toast. “To your farewell concert!”

He swallowed a sudden sadness. “Thank you.”

“How goes the writing?” Eleanor leaned forward, intent on his answer.

She smelled of lavender. Soap or shampoo most likely. He couldn't imagine her using perfume.

She waited quizzically.

“So far it's coming along fine,” he flushed. “This place has been, I don't know, so compatible. The handsome studio, the sound of the river. The other composers' provocative work. And,” he raised
his
glass now, “
your
good company.” Where did that come from? Muriel would call him a proper Lothario.

“I
have
enjoyed our conversations.” She snipped off a bit of chocolate cookie with her front teeth. “Here I have so many
old
friends and sometimes, I don't know, people are embarrassed to have
real
discussions like we've had—about relationships, about the nature of home, about one's hopes. Here in Chester, one reverts to easy chit chat.”

He took a long sip of cognac.

From the hallway, the deep alto tick of a grandfather clock broke their silence.

“You have two weeks left?” she asked casually.