They stood for
some time, silently watching the crowd.
She didn't seem to want anything from him, other than to stand next to
him and let him eat.
It was strangely
comforting, as if they were somehow kindred spirits.
When he had finished eating, he set the plate
on the floor at his feet, retrieving his nearly empty glass from the window
ledge.
Another drink would be nice, but
in the end he decided to linger there, in the pleasantly undemanding company of
this odd girl.
Around the room
a gradual procession had begun, as entwined couples and the occasional
threesome began to pull away from the dancers and move up the stairway to the
balcony that ran around the perimeter of the lodge.
One by one, they disappeared behind the
numbered doors into darkened bedrooms.
“That's
disgusting.”
She made a face, exactly as
if she smelled something foul.
“Most of
them won't even remember what they've done tomorrow, or who they've done it
with.”
Stani felt a
twinge of genuine remorse, knowing he could be included in those despicable
ranks.
He was trying to keep an eye out
for Betsy, making sure he saw where she went if she too disappeared up the
stairs.
“So why are you
here?” the girl asked.
She was nothing
if not direct, he mused.
“Favor for a
friend,” was the simplest answer he could think of.
“Must be a good
friend.
You'd never find me in a place
like this if I had a choice.”
Stani was
suddenly alarmed—was she in some kind of trouble?
Surely she hadn't come seeking his help?
“You were forced to come here?”
She nodded
solemnly.
“My dad is catering tonight.
Since I'm home for Christmas, I had to come
along to help.”
She pointed toward the
now empty plate.
He let out a
little gasp of relief.
“Ah, I see.”
He certainly didn’t fancy himself a rescuer
of damsels in distress.
They continued
to stand there together in silence, until abruptly she pushed away from the
wall.
Across the room, a small round man
wearing a white jacket was waving his arms, apparently in their direction.
“That's my
dad.
I have to go.”
Starting to leave, she stooped to pick up the
plate.
A little smile of apology lit her
eyes as she stood up.
“Would it be too
much if I asked for your autograph?
I
was thinking about telling the kids at school how we'd met, but they'll never
believe me.”
“I'd be happy
to.”
He looked around, searching for
something to write on.
“Sorry I don't
have a photograph, or something.”
He
held out his empty hands.
“Here.
On this.”
Pulling the paper napkin from beneath the plate, she held it out to
him.
It bore the logo of “Ristorante
Salvatore” on one corner.
Not Spanish,
Italian, he thought, reaching into his coat pocket for the ever present
fountain pen.
Turning to the wall to
write, he asked over his shoulder, “What's your name, love?”
“Lil.
Lilianne actually.”
She spelled it out for him.
“Pretty
name.”
He wrote clearly on the napkin,
so there could be no doubt, “For Lilianne, all my best,” and signed his full
name rather than the usual monogram.
As he returned
the napkin, she said with a look of genuine pleasure, “Thanks.
I was named for my godmother.
She and my mom used to play chamber music
together, in an ensemble.”
She
pronounced the word very carefully and Stani grinned.
“Ah, you have
music in your genes.
That's
wonderful.”
Next to the buffet table, he
spotted her father watching them closely.
Following his gaze, she turned to leave.
“I'm playing on
Christmas Eve, on the radio.
In case
you'd like to listen in.
From DC,” he
called after her, suddenly sorry to see her go.
Once again she turned to face him.
“Thank
you.
I wouldn't miss it.”
She blushed, her eyes gleaming black with
pleasure.
“Take care of yourself, Stani
Moss.
God bless you and Merry
Christmas!”
She held out her hand and he
took it in his, shaking it gently in a gesture of friendship, one musician to
another.
Stani watched
as she walked away, tucking the napkin carefully in the back pocket of her
jeans.
What an extraordinary thing, meeting
a girl like that in a place like this.
She was as honest and unaffected as most of the women here were
artificial and jaded.
In the time they
had stood together leaning against the wall, he'd come to feel better somehow,
refreshed.
She had reminded him of
himself, years ago, when he had been totally focused on his music, before he'd
become distracted by celebrity.
The way
he'd been before his initiation into crowds like the one in this room; crowds
of idle people too absorbed in the pursuit of pleasure to ever be satisfied
with anything for very long.
The room had
cleared considerably now, and Stani caught sight of Betsy.
Standing next to Mark, she was talking in a
huddle with several other people near the door.
He watched them closely, afraid they might be preparing to leave, until,
the conversation apparently ended, Betsy came rushing toward him, gesturing for
him to come her way.
They met halfway,
and she grabbed his arm.
“Come on, we're
leaving now.”
She was already towing him
toward the door, where Mark waited impatiently.
“What's the
rush?
It's the middle of the
night.”
Stani was willing; he just
wanted to know what she was leading him into now.
“Mark needs to
get out of here so I'm taking him back to New York.
We'll drop you off on the way.”
He stopped her
far enough away that Mark wouldn't hear them.
“Betsy, are you sure you want to do this?
Mark Stevenson's trouble, you know that.”
She turned back
to him, her expression mutinous.
“Don't
believe everything you read, Stani.
But
he will be in trouble if we don't leave.”
“What kind of
trouble?”
In a flash, her
frown turned to a winning smile.
“Look,
he had nothing to do with it.
He was
with me the whole time.”
“To do with
what?!” he demanded.
“Some idiots
took down the torches outside.
They set
somebody's car on fire.
They got it put
out, but the police are coming.”
As if
addressing a small and not particularly bright child, she went on, “Stani,
there are drugs all over this place.
If
Mark gets caught here, he'll go to jail!”
In the end
Stani followed her, defeated by her obvious determination.
He consoled himself with the thought that at
least he'd get back to DC early.
As he
walked behind them down the hill, beneath the swirling cloud of greasy smoke,
he was aware that Mark seemed oblivious to his presence.
He thought again that Betsy was setting
herself up to be hurt.
Stevenson was
using her, nothing more.
And Betsy
seemed more than anxious to be used.
With Mark
behind the wheel, and Betsy snuggled close beside him, Stani settled in the
corner of the back seat, bracing for a rough ride.
To his surprise, Mark drove the sedan slowly
down the winding drive, apparently on the lookout for something.
Just after they had turned onto the road
leading back to the main highway, Stani saw the reason for Mark's cautious
descent.
A pair of police cars, lights
flashing, sirens screaming, came from the opposite direction.
Speeding past, they turned into the drive and
proceeded toward the lodge.
Betsy pressed
her head against Mark's shoulder.
“I
knew we'd be all right.
No one could be
suspicious of this old wreck,” she told him sweetly.
The car accelerated sharply and Stani closed
his eyes.
He might as well relax on the
way back.
Betsy clearly had everything
under control.
Tuning out the
conversation in the front seat, he turned his thoughts ahead to the rehearsal
tomorrow afternoon.
Robert would drive
him to the church where he was scheduled to play for midnight mass, immediately
following the radio broadcast on Christmas Eve.
The evening would be hectic, he knew, but he never turned down the
opportunity to perform in a church.
He
had played in cathedrals and synagogues, churches and chapels.
The same sense of intimacy, no matter the
size of the building, lent a unique depth to his performance, which he had
never been able to attain in a concert hall.
Stani
especially looked forward to this event.
From that first Christmas Eve mass at St. Patrick's, just after they'd
moved to New York, he'd had a fascination with that particular
celebration.
Jana had taken him, her one
venture back to her childhood religion.
The pungent-sweet smell of cedar, and the glow of hundreds of candles,
along with the glorious music, had made a profound impression upon him.
He'd become curious for the first time as to
what motivated so many people to come, year after year, to sing the same hymns
and whisper the same prayers.
He hadn't
pursued religion; it didn't fit into his already over-scheduled young
life.
But he’d discovered that
performing in churches evoked the same emotions he'd experienced that
night.
He found himself looking forward
to the prospect of spending another Christmas Eve among people who came to
greet a child they believed had forever altered the nature of man.
It would be a welcome change from the
faceless crowds in dim, smoke-filled rooms, crowds that seemed to be drawing
him farther and farther from his own humanity.
Stani dozed
fitfully for a time, aware of the road speeding beneath the less than
well-sprung car.
When he opened his eyes
again, Betsy was kneeling on the seat, facing the rear of the car, illuminated
by the glow from the dashboard.
She was
gazing down at Mark, her expression one of tender passion.
Stani tried to look away, embarrassed, but
found he couldn't take his eyes from her.
Caressing Mark's face, her slender, manicured hand traveled lightly over
his temple, curving around his ear and brushing softly up through his
hair.
The front of the jumpsuit had been
unzipped to reveal a glowing V of white skin.
Never taking her gaze from his face, she gently pried Mark's right hand
from the steering wheel and lifted it to rest over her heart.
In the midst of
his fascination, it occurred to Stani that Betsy was making love to Mark as he
drove the car eighty miles an hour down a darkened highway.
For a moment, he considered offering to take
the wheel himself, in the interest of self-preservation.
But then she would know he'd been
watching.
It seemed wiser to close his
eyes and pretend to sleep.
For a time he
tried but could not ignore the sound of escalating passion just inches
away.
He had almost summoned the courage
to suggest they pull over when the car abruptly slowed and bounced onto a
graveled surface.
Slamming the car into
gear and turning off the engine, Mark pushed Betsy roughly down onto the seat,
arching his body above her.
Stani grabbed
for the door handle and flung himself out of the car, instantly regretting his
hasty action.
Surrounded by profound
darkness, he was struck full force by a bitterly cold wind.
He stood still, trying to get his bearings.
They had stopped in some sort of roadside
picnic area.
He could make out a table
and benches nearby, nestled beneath the trees.
Fighting to pull his overcoat closer around him, he made his way
carefully over the rough expanse of rock to one of the benches.
He pressed his back into the edge of the
table, bracing against the wind that tore at his hair and caused his eyes to
fill with tears.