“Really?” He looked at her in astonishment.
“Yes,” she said, and moved her chair so that for the first time she was directly facing him. “I never intended to deceive you, Tibor. These last few weeks, they haven’t been the easiest for me, and you’ve been such a dear friend. I’d so hate it if you thought I ever meant to play some cheap trick on you. No, please, don’t try and stop me this time. I want to say this. If you gave me that cello right now and asked me to play, I’d have to say no, I can’t do it. Not because the instrument isn’t good enough, nothing like that. But if you’re now thinking I’m a fake, that I’ve somehow pretended to be something I’m not, then I want to tell you you’re mistaken. Look at everything we’ve achieved together. Isn’t that proof enough I’m no fake anything? Yes, I told you I was a virtuoso. Well, let me explain what I meant by that. What I meant was that I was born with a very special gift, just as you were. You and me, we have something most other cellists will never have, no matter how hard they practise. I was able to recognise it in you, the moment I first heard you in that church. And in some way, you must have recognised it in me too. That’s why you decided to come to this hotel that first time.
“There aren’t many like us, Tibor, and we recognise each other. The fact that I’ve not yet learned to play the cello doesn’t really change anything. You have to understand, I am a virtuoso. But I’m one who’s yet to be unwrapped. You too, you’re still not entirely unwrapped, and that’s what I’ve been doing these past few weeks. I’ve been trying to help you shed those layers. But I never tried to deceive you. Ninety-nine per cent of cellists, there’s nothing there under those layers, there’s nothing to unwrap. So people like us, we have to help each other. When we see each other in a crowded square, wherever, we have to reach out for one another, because there are so few of us.”
He noticed that tears had appeared in her eyes, but her voice had remained steady. She now fell silent and turned away from him again.
“So you believe yourself to be a special cellist,” he said after a moment. “A virtuoso. The rest of us, Miss Eloise, we have to take our courage in our hands and we unwrap ourselves, as you put it, all the time unsure what we will find underneath. Yet you, you do not care for this unwrapping. You do nothing. But you are so sure you are this virtuoso…”
“Please don’t be angry. I know it sounds a little crazy. But that’s how it is, it’s the truth. My mother, she recognised my gift straight away, when I was tiny. I’m grateful to her for that at least. But the teachers she found for me, when I was four, when I was seven, when I was eleven, they were no good. Mom didn’t know that, but I did. Even as a small girl, I had this instinct. I knew I had to protect my gift against people who, however well-intentioned they were, could completely destroy it. So I shut them out. You’ve got to do the same, Tibor. Your gift is precious.”
“Forgive me,” Tibor interrupted, now more gently. “You say you played the cello as a child. But today…”
“I haven’t touched the instrument since I was eleven. Not since the day I explained to Mom I couldn’t continue with Mr. Roth. And she understood. She agreed it was much better to do nothing and wait. The crucial thing was not to damage my gift. My day may still come though. Okay, sometimes I think I’ve left it too late. I’m forty-one years old now. But at least I haven’t damaged what I was born with. I’ve met so many teachers over the years who’ve said they’d help me, but I saw through them. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell, Tibor, even for us. These teachers, they’re so… professional, they talk so well, you listen and at first you’re fooled. You think, yes, at last, someone to help me, he’s one of us. Then you realise he’s nothing of the kind. And that’s when you have to be tough and shut yourself off. Remember that, Tibor, it’s always better to wait. Sometimes I feel bad about it, that I still haven’t unveiled my gift. But I haven’t damaged it, and that’s what counts.”
He eventually played for her a couple of the pieces he’d prepared, but they couldn’t retrieve their usual mood and they ended the session early. Down in the piazza, they drank their coffee, speaking little, until he told her of his plans to leave the city for a few days. He’d always wanted to explore the surrounding countryside, he said, so now he’d arranged a short holiday for himself.
“It’ll do you good,” she said quietly. “But don’t stay away too long. We still have a lot to do.”
He reassured her he’d be back within a week at the most. Nevertheless, there was still something uneasy in her manner as they parted.
He’d not been entirely truthful about his going away: he hadn’t yet made any arrangements. But after leaving Eloise that afternoon, he went home and made several phone calls, eventually reserving a bed at a youth hostel in the mountains near the Umbrian border. He came to see us at the cafe that night, and as well as telling us about his trip-we gave him all kinds of conflicting advice about where to go and what to see-he rather sheepishly asked Giancarlo to let Mr. Kaufmann know he’d like to take up the job offer.
“What else can I do?” he said to us. “By the time I get back, I’ll have no money left at all.”
TIBOR HAD A PLEASANT enough break in our countryside. He didn’t tell us much about it, other than that he’d made friends with some German hikers, and that he’d spent more than he could afford in the hillside trattorias. He came back after a week, looking visibly refreshed, but anxious to establish that Eloise McCormack had not left the city during his absence.
The tourist crowds were beginning to thin by then, and the cafe waiters were bringing out terrace heaters to place among the outdoor tables. On the afternoon of his return, at their usual time, Tibor took his cello to the Excelsior again, and was pleased to discover not only that Eloise was there waiting for him, but that she’d obviously missed him. She welcomed him with emotion, and just as someone else, in a surfeit of affection, might have plied him with food or drink, she pushed him into his usual chair and began impatiently unpacking the cello, saying: “Play for me! Come on! Just play!”
They had a wonderful afternoon together. He’d worried beforehand how things would be, after her “confession” and the way they’d last parted, but all the tension seemed simply to have evaporated, and the atmosphere between them felt better than ever. Even when, after he’d finished a piece, she closed her eyes and embarked on a long, stringent critique of his performance, he felt no resentment, only a hunger to understand her as fully as possible. The next day and the day after, it was the same: relaxed, at times even jokey, and he felt sure he’d never played better in his life. They didn’t allude at all to that conversation before he’d gone away, nor did she ask about his break in the countryside. They only talked about the music.
Then on the fourth day after his return, a series of small mishaps-including a leaking toilet cistern in his room-prevented him going to the Excelsior at the usual hour. By the time he came past the cafe, the light was fading, the waiters had lit the candles inside the little glass bowls, and we were a couple of numbers into our dinner set. He waved to us, then went on across the square towards the hotel, his cello making him look like he was limping.
He noticed the receptionist hesitate slightly before phoning up to her. Then when she opened the door, she greeted him warmly, but somehow differently, and before he had a chance to speak, she said quickly:
“Tibor, I’m so glad you’ve come. I was just telling Peter everything about you. That’s right, Peter’s found me at last!” Then she called into the room: “Peter, he’s here! Tibor’s here. And with his cello too!”
As Tibor stepped into the room, a large, shambling, greying man in a pale polo shirt rose to his feet with a smile. He gripped Tibor’s hand very firmly and said: “Oh, I’ve heard all about you. Eloise is convinced you’re gonna be a big star.”