‘Jim!’ I screamed.
I let go of the tiller and the boat came up into the wind, losing most of its forward motion as the jib fluttered indecisively and the spanker spilled its wind. The current was very strong but it carried him towards me instead of away and he was able to grab the dinghy that was trailing astern. He clambered aboard it, hauled himself up to Mariposa and was in my arms.
‘Oh Jim!’ I sobbed with relief.
The tiny, tiny dancing giants smirked in the dim red caverns of sleep on the cabin roof. Jim dropped anchor and tied down the painting. Then we took off our wet clothes and went below, where we found ourselves naked and holding on to each other.
‘We are in danger of endangering the therapeutic relationship, I think,’ said Jim.
‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,’ I murmured into his neck.
Chapter 53. Hopefulness of Volatore
Is she near? I think I feel her presence! Ah! Be near, my Angelica! Soon, perhaps, no longer apart?
Chapter 54. 42nd Street Buck-and-Wing
Well, it was what it was, wasn’t it! I mean, sleeping with Jim was all that I wanted it to be but it didn’t resolve all my problems and it didn’t wrap up the story of me and Jim and tie it with a pink ribbon.
Confusion is the medium in which I live, like a fish in water. If clarity suddenly happened I don’t think I could breathe. There we were with our sun-dried clothes back on. WHAT NOW? flashed on and off in the air like an invisible neon sign, seen perhaps by the tiny, tiny giants dancing on the cabin roof.
Why had the painting floated out to meet us? Had Volatore Three jumped off the bridge with it? He hadn’t seemed a suicidal type. I was sniffing the air. No smell but maybe … No, nothing.
‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ said Jim, ‘to Cyd Charisse who died yesterday. One more beauty gone from the world. Here’s to you, Cyd. We’ll stay danced with.’
‘Here’s to you, Cyd,’ I echoed as my eyes filled with tears. We touched glasses and sat in silence for a moment.
‘Her death hit you pretty hard?’ said Jim.
‘I cry very easily, and about more things all the time.’
‘A burrito will dry your tears.’
I was crying because I was thinking of Ruby Keeler. My collection of DVDs of Hollywood musicals includes Fred Astaire and all the women he danced with, but further back too, the thirties and films like 42nd Street, Footlight Parade and Gold Diggers of 1935. In 42nd Street Ruby Keeler sings the title song and dances to it. Busby Berkeley of course designed the big numbers but this one looked as if Ruby Keeler was doing her own buck-and-wing, glowing with innocent pride in her tap dancing; her moves were such as a child might invent, full of high spirits and joie de vivre. This in the height of the Depression. But the general hope was that just around the corner was a rainbow in the sky. The atom bomb did not yet exist, nobody had heard of global warming and polar bears had miles and miles of ice on which to hunt seals. That’s why I was crying.
Angel Island seemed, as we approached it, more crowded than we required, so we anchored well offshore and ate and drank contentedly while gently rocked on the cradle of the deep. I must have fallen asleep then because I became aware of waking up. The sky was red with sunset and Jim was watching me.
‘You looked so peaceful that I didn’t want to disturb you,’ he said. ‘You must have been having pleasant dreams.’
‘I don’t remember.’ But there had been something: not a dream but an awareness that Volatore hadn’t lost me, nor I him.
‘I have a headline running through my mind like a tune that won’t go away,’ said Jim. ‘ “SHRINK PLIED PATIENT WITH DRINK IN DATE-RAPE”.’
‘If you’re having guilt fantasies please do it in your own time. This is still my picnic outing.’
So we picnicked and fooled around until the moon came up and we get under way again. It was a big round full moon, riding quietly in the sky with a big smile on its face.
‘I arranged this for you,’ said Jim.
‘You think of everything,’ I said, and kissed him. It was a little like faking an orgasm but you can’t always be completely honest.
Jim hauled up the anchor and we headed for home. He sensed a change and became thoughtful at the tiller. The sails filled and I could see by our wake that we were moving right along but the air seemed perfectly still.
‘That’s because we’re running now,’ said Jim, ‘and we’re moving at the same speed as the wind.’
‘Life is full of metaphors,’ I said, moving at the same speed as my stillness.
Chapter 55. Base Metal of Gold
So much to think about! I couldn’t separate my Jim thoughts from my Volatore ones. Alone in my apartment where Volatore had first appeared at the window, I went through my regular exercise routine, did my bathroom things, downed a large Laphroaig, put de Sainte-Colombe’s Pièces de viole in the Bose, moved Irene & Co over to give me a little room, and got into bed. Lying enveloped in those shapely shadow-sonorities centuries old. I put my mind back to that night when I saw Volatore at the window. Where was I in my life at that moment? Why was I go ready to let him in? I had to dig deep into my memory to come up with a name — it seemed to belong to a time long gone although it was actually quite recent: Michael Gold. Dr Michael Gold.
Everybody thought I was going to marry him. We were an obvious match: he was young, handsome, a brilliant neurosurgeon, the catch of the year, and I was considered the ideal wife for the above. It was a foregone conclusion that we were going to tie the knot pretty soon but it was not my foregone conclusion.
The peer-pressure and the Michael-pressure didn’t leave me much wiggle room but life is not completely predictable. I was rummaging through the unindexed remnant of Dad’s tottering CD stacks when I found Der Freischütz recorded by the Berlin Philharmonic under Joseph Keilberth with the redoubtable Rudolf Schock as Max plus a programme of the 1964 San Francisco Opera production. Also a torn-off bit of sketchbook paper on which my father had written ‘the white dove’. I wondered if Dad had seen the SFO production.
I looked at the cast list from forty-four years ago. Where were Richard Cassilly (Max) and Elizabeth Mosher (Agathe) now? And Malcolm Smith (Kaspar) and David Giosso (Samiel)? Forty-four years! Not doing opera any more, I should think.
I listened to the recording, then I bought a libretto and a DVD of the 1968 Hamburg State Opera production. They did it beautifully. The singers looked good and sounded great, the sets and staging were wonderfully atmospheric and the Wolf’s Glen was scary like anything, a proper place in which to invoke Samiel for the casting of magic bullets. The music — Weber is above all a colourist and the singers and the orchestra perfectly conveyed the mordant blues, the sombre browns and the darkling devilish greens of his forest and his story. Those colours were consonant with my mood at that time and I had a strong craving for them.
Here are the main elements of Der Freischütz:
1. Max and Agathe are in love but Cuno, Agathe’s father, will only let them marry if Max wins Prince Ottokar’s shooting trial the next day. If he does, he wins Agathe and succeeds Cuno as head forester. But Max has been missing all his shots lately and things look bad for him.
2. Kaspar, who has sold his soul to Samiel (the devil), sees Max drinking alone and says, ‘See that eagle high in the sky? Take my gun and shoot it.’