I began to apologize and blame my obviously insensitive question on a lack of social skills. But then Dec looked at me with pained eyes. A voice in my head said, truth, and I closed my mouth. I didn’t want to take his honesty for granted.
“But to answer your question. Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t sure if I can actually do it anymore?” he asked. His voice was different, softer. Whatever he had been trying to hide under his anger had torn its way out.
“Is that not something you would know?”
Dec shook his head. “It’s like the mob. You grow up in the family business. I’m not sure there’s a lot of effort made to figure out who’s genuine and who’s just faking.”
“Do you?” I asked carefully. “Do you fake it?”
He bit his lip, and said, “You’re pretty direct.”
“Oh…I am sorry,” I sputtered.
He laughed. “No, it’s actually nice. I’ve had to bend the truth at times. You know, like someone has driven seven hundred miles to say goodbye to their mom because they’d had a fight the last time they spoke before she died. But then we hold the séance and nothing happens. I mean”—he looked down—“sometimes there really isn’t a choice.”
“So, how does it all work?” I asked. My grandmother had adhered to certain superstitions; mostly things meant to ward off bad luck or curses. So while I did not exactly believe in the supernatural, I did not disbelieve in it either.
“Like I said, it’s all about talking to the dead. Sometimes they know stuff. Then again, you can’t always trust them. But people can be weird here. My mom could always tell what someone was feeling, even if they were hiding it from themselves,” Dec explained. “My dad was more into bigger-picture things. He could see patterns of action. It’s hard to describe. In the end, it didn’t matter.”
I kept my eyes on the water. I already recognized the sting in his words. “What do you mean it did not matter?”
“They died,” Dec said. That was all. They died. I waited for him to say more, but all he added was, “Two years ago.”
I felt the pain in his words. “I am so sorry,” I said.
“Me too,” he answered. Then quickly, as if it had been on his mind all this time, he asked, “Whose funeral were you going to?”
The water surged below us. I had not had to say the words out loud before, and when I was able to say, “My teacher’s,” the wind seemed to blow them back to me. I did not want them, but once words were said, they took on a life of their own.
I considered trying to explain Dmitry’s meteoric rise to fame, his rock star–like standing amongst classical fans, the arthritis that claimed his ability to play more than a few measures. But in the end, I was not sure any of that mattered. “Dmitry taught me everything I know about playing the piano and most of everything else. He was my only real friend.”
Dec nodded, knowingly. Of course, he had been dealing with death all of his life. My grief was nothing special.
“So, you don’t just play on table edges?” he asked and gave me an honest smile that made my heart leap.
“I have been playing professionally since I was six,” I said. “That was all my parents ever wanted. Competitions then concerts. Now I headline. With orchestras mainly.” I could hear the exhaustion in my voice, product of the five to ten hours of practice a day, the never-ending tours, and the isolation. This was why Dmitry had always urged me to take time off when I had the opportunity. I got it now. But I never had anything that I wanted to do with my “free” time; music was my life.
“Most people who come here are trying to reach someone who has passed away,” Dec said gently. “Is there something you need to talk to your teacher about? Maybe I can… I mean, maybe we can help you.”
“Can you really do that?” It was a generous offer. I pictured Dmitry’s email again. I could hear his voice making the request. He had to know what he was asking.
Dec made a steeple of his fingers. “Maybe. I mean, I’d try. I used to be okay, but I’ve been kind of crap at it ever since my parents died. But, I know someone who isn’t. Crap, I mean. You need to meet my friend Russ.”
Before I could answer, a low groan came from my coat pocket. The universal buzz of a phone on vibrate, demanding to be answered.
“Do you need to get that?” Dec pointed to my pocket.
I crossed my arms in front of me as if I could make the outside world go away. “I know who it is,” I said.
Then I realized that my evasiveness might make Dec wonder if I had a boyfriend somewhere trying to reach me, so I answered the question before he could ask it. “It’s my publicist or my manager. Or the record label. I’m supposed to be in Canada. I have not checked in since I got here.”
“Won’t they be worried? I mean, ‘pianist goes missing’ and all of that?”
Guilt waged war with my newly found sense of freedom. “Probably. I know I need to call in, it is just…”
“What?”
“It is the first time I can remember—in my entire life—that I have been out on my own. I am going to answer, and Ginger or someone is going to tell me they will send a limo and take me to some airport or that someone is going to show up here to drive me to Montreal or…” I ran out of steam, suddenly exhausted. “Something.”
“And you don’t want to go?”
I looked around at the waterfall and the trees, which were just beginning to change into their fall colors. My fingers drummed lightly on my lap, the same reaction I always had when I was stressed. Music calmed my head. “I have been going since I was four. From the minute my parents realized I could play, they barely allowed me to do anything else. Had Dmitry not taken me on…”
Dec’s face was interestingly expressionless. Not as if he did not care, but as if he magically understood where I was coming from, so I continued. “Well, with Dmitry gone…I do not know. He never went to funerals. Anyhow, after all that going, I think I would enjoy finding out how staying feels.”
Dec looked puzzled. I did not know how to have conversations like other girls. Flirting. Even just talking suddenly seemed as hard as playing the Rach 3, which was near impossible. I swore in Russian under my breath and then gave in. “But I guess I do need to speak with them, right?”
Dec nodded with a look of regret on his face that I did not quite understand.
* * *
“Yes, I know,” I said for the fifth time. “I understand I cannot cancel the whole tour. I am just asking for…” I stopped because I was not sure exactly what I was asking for. Some sort of normal life? That wasn’t anything my manager Viktor would offer me.