Love Story / История любви. Эрик Сигал
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girl’s got you.”
“It’s all under control,” I replied. I was adjusting my tie and heading for the door.
Stratton was somehow unconvinced.
“Hey, Ollie?”
“Yeah?”
“You are making it, aren’t you?”
“Jesus Christ, Stratton!”
I was not taking Jenny to this concert; I was watching her in it. The Bach Society was doing the Fifth Brandenburg Concerto at Dunster House[51], and Jenny was harpsichord soloist. I had heard her play many times, of course, but never with a group or in public. I was really proud. She didn’t make any mistakes that I could notice.
“I can’t believe how great you were,” I said after the concert.
“That shows what you know about music, Preppie.”
“I know enough.”
We were in the Dunster courtyard. Her musical colleagues were strolling nearby (including Martin Davidson, throwing invisible hate bombs in my direction), so I couldn’t discuss music with her.
We crossed Memorial Drive to walk along the river.
“Wise up, Barrett, would you please. I play okay. Not great. Just okay. Okay?”
“Okay. You play okay. I just mean you should continue doing it.”
“Who said I wasn’t going to continue doing it? I’m going to study with Nadia Boulanger, aren’t I?”
What was she talking about? From the way she immediately shut up, I sensed this was something she had not intended to mention.
“Who?” I asked.
“Nadia Boulanger. A famous music teacher. In Paris.” She said those last two words rather quickly.
“In Paris?” I asked, rather slowly.
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