The Last Concerto. Sara Alexander
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will I talk to about Claudio?’ he asked.
‘You’ll write. Long letters. Gory details.’
Raffaele’s smile was wan; the streetlamp caught its fade.
‘When do you need the money by?’
‘Late August.’
He looked towards the darkened end of the street where it reached the piazza. ‘Do I look like a magician?’
They joined the others in the piazza, eating gelato, watching the visiting clowns warble through a half-rehearsed comedy routine, which delighted the younger children of out-of-towners and left Alba longing for solitude. She slipped away from the crowd. Her body needed to move. She didn’t notice the houses fall away in her periphery, the darkened woods didn’t fill her with fear. The dunes rose before her after a while and at last the moonlit water. She sat down, feeling the sand peel away beneath her, tipping downhill. The waves lapped in rhythm like a sleeper’s breath.
‘You should be careful running about alone like that in a strange place, Alba.’
Mario’s voice startled her. She twisted round to him. He was seated, far enough away to not have noticed him, cradling his knees, watching the water.
‘You should be careful scaring young women who need to be alone for a change,’ she called out.
‘Sarcasm is a killer. Probably the only fact in this world, I’d say,’ he replied.
Alba watched his chin raise into a smug grin. His humour was more disarming than his aggression.
She sat in defiant silence. So did he.
‘What’s all that stuff about music college they were on about?’ he asked after a while.
Alba shook her head.
‘Alba, we’re alone now, no one has to know that we’re actually able to talk without a fight. You don’t have to let anyone see the fact that you can answer a real question with a real answer.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
He retreated into her imposed silence.
‘I never forgot about that time, you know.’
His tone dipped burned ochre. She turned to face him.
‘When I heard you play at Elias’s.’
They looked at each other for a breath.
‘You going to pretend to forget?’ he prodded.
She turned to face the water. They watched the curling laps disappear into the dark.
‘Never heard anything like it in my life.’
He stood up. Alba waited for a further snide gibe to follow his unexpected admission. The water rushed up to the sand fighting the pull, then acquiescing. Her breaths followed their rhythm, an incessant seesaw of advance and retreat. Whose battle was to be won?
She turned back.
He’d gone.
Nocturne
a composition inspired by, or evocative of, the night, and cultivated in the nineteenth century primarily as a character piece for piano, generally with three sections, often slightly melancholic in mood
After the party returned to Ozieri from the coastal town of Rena Majore, Alba waited a few days and used her parents’ siesta to run to Signora Elias. She arrived, as planned, thanks to a note Raffaele had passed to her on Alba’s behalf.
‘You look like a ghost, Alba,’ Signora Elias cooed as she ushered her inside, closing the heavy door behind her against the heat.
‘I haven’t slept properly in a week.’
‘Understandable,’ Signora Elias replied, whilst leading her to the kitchen table where she poured Alba a glass of cold water.
‘They won’t change their mind.’
‘That’s their prerogative. What does your mind say?’
‘I have to go to Rome.’
Signora Elias took a long sip of her water. ‘What if I said that’s what you must do then?’
Alba’s face creased with desperation. ‘Mamma has all the money you ever gave me. I don’t have a lira.’
‘And what will you do about that?’
Alba’s eyes lowered. She summoned a breath to say what had been eating at her the entire journey home. ‘I need help.’
‘I know. Raffaele told me so. Actually, he asked me to.’
‘For help?’
‘For money, yes.’
Alba shifted in her seat.
‘If you want to make decisions on your own, Alba, and for yourself, you will have to work for them and then, the hardest part, stand by them. I could give you the fare and be done with it, yes. But what kind of betrayal would that be of your parents? We’ve already come this far. They’ve been very clear about how they feel. If you want this, I mean really can’t live without this, you are going to have to put in the work. Choosing this life is a huge commitment. Not just hours of practice, but all the other real responsibilities around it. The work starts now.’
Alba felt her eyes sting with tears she refused to let fall.
‘I’d pay you back,’ Alba whispered.
‘I know you would. I don’t think I can buy your ticket, Alba, send your parents’ girl away like that. This has to be your decision. All the way.’
The next day Alba begged Mario’s father, Gigi, to give her extra shifts on the pump. She nagged him to let her work through lunch even though there were no customers, asking to sort parts ahead of the next day, clean some of the ones brought in for repair, any little extra he would allow her to do.
‘Why all the hours, Alba? I’m not expecting you to pay for your own wedding, you know that, right?’ Bruno joked, loud enough for Gigi to hear and be forced to laugh.
‘Your father’s right, Alba. You look exhausted.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, trying to suffocate the panic bubbling.
‘You can today, but then I reduce the shifts. Doesn’t look right, a girl on the pump.’
Alba knew better than to start an argument then and there. Once her father left, she would convince Gigi by herself. She watched Bruno walk away and headed straight for the pump. Mario was already standing there.
‘Go home,’ Alba called out, ‘your dad’s put me on today.’
‘Says who?’
‘Who does it look like?’
Gigi stepped out of the showroom with a fresh cloth for Alba. ‘I told you about the shift change, son.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘I’m not going to argue. You’re on the late shifts.’
Gigi turned and walked back inside.
‘What the hell has got into you, Alba? You hate the pumps, you hate me, now you’re like some kind of gas junkie. Anyways, shouldn’t you be looking after your piano fingers? Lots of accidents can happen around here if you’re not careful.’
Alba willed herself to ignore the snarl creasing his lips, but it was impossible. Another day she might have smacked the nozzle she was cleaning over him. She was desperate to save up enough for the fare to Rome. If she carried on at this rate, she still wouldn’t make it. That’s