Justine set breakfast before her employers. Mr. addressed his sunny-side-up eggs with delight. Mrs. Morgenstern, licking her finger and lightly flicking a page, let her scrambled eggs get cold beside her. A morning silence descended. And Justine felt herself dismissed.
Chapter 3
Justine did not wish to marry. Responding to Uncle Povilas’ teasing that a woman’s route to happiness lay through a man, she would cry out in mock horror. A man? I’d have to spend all day cooking and cleaning. How could I be a pianist when I’d have to mend a husband’s socks? And bantering back, she would coast upon mischief.
Povilas persisted, raising the subject from time to time. He had taken her away from Lithuania. He had been unable to protect her in the woods. She had been a pianist. Now she was a housemaid. His sense of responsibility and guilt were boundless.
“A young man might be just what you need,” he would tease in his usual manner.
“I don’t wish it,” Justine said.
“But you can’t live alone forever. It’s too hard for a woman. Look at your mother.”
“What has my mother got to do with it? And I am not alone. I have music.”
“It is not enough. Not in this world. Not in this life.”
How can you decide what is enough for me? Justine thought, holding back harsh words.
“It is what I want,” she said to the protective uncle who had encouraged her talent, sent her to study in Vilnius and brought her to safety here.
“You must have a home and a family. You must have something to do.”
“I have a family. You. And I wish to play music, not house.”
Oh my dear, can you not see that no career will happen for you here? Povilas thought. You are seen only as a housemaid. They will not give you a chance, not over their own pianists. Why would they prefer an outsider to one of their own?
When she brought home the news about the audition, he remained silent.
“What’s the matter Uncle Povilai? You don’t seem very happy for me.”
“I am happy. Very happy.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not happy at all. You surprise me.”
Oh my dear, Povilas thought, can you not see they are just being kind to you? Nothing will come of it.
“I don’t want you to be disappointed. Or hurt.”
Once again I will not be able to protect you, he thought.
“Have faith, Uncle. Music has returned.”
“I have faith. In you. But these Canadians. They see us differently from how we see ourselves.”
And they put their own people first, he thought. As do we.
“Don’t worry,” Justine said. “When they hear me play they will see what I can do. And everything will change. Oh, I’m so happy.”
Who knows, Povilas thought as Justine planted a kiss upon his forehead. Perhaps these Canadians will see the gem in their midst. If not, it will be better if she realizes it herself.
Justine burrowed into him just as she had as a child when he came home on leave from the army. Returning resplendent in his uniform with gold braid and brass buttons, he had left her and her mother gaping in adoration. He had placed an arm around each. He had drawn them close. And leaving off kneading her bitterness into the dough, her mother had allowed herself to be embraced.
The following Saturday Povilas rang the doorbell of the Morgensterns’ grand house. Rocking back and forth on his heels, glancing down at his well-polished shoes, he waited for Mrs. Morgenstern to answer the door. He had not told Justine he was going. She would have flung herself at him, crying not to interfere. But like a father determined to sniff out the intentions of a daughter’s suitor he had come to assess Justine’s chances.
“Yes?” Mrs. Morgenstern said, looking him up and down, cold and quick.
“I am Povilas. Uncle of Justine,” he said, removing his hat. Was this the warm friendly woman Justine had described?
“What do you want?”
“To talk.” Was the woman going to make him speak from the doorstep like a salesman, hat in hand? Was she not going to ask him to step inside? What manners these Canadians had.
“How do I know you are who you say you are?” she said, eyes narrowing.
“I come about Justine,” he said reaching for patience. Really this woman was ridiculous. And stupid.
“Ah,” Mrs Morgenstern said. “In that case, come in.”
He stepped into the spacious black and white tiled foyer, a room requiring six or seven strides to cross. It was large enough to dance in though Mrs. Morgenstern didn’t strike him as the dancing type. She didn’t seem like the woman Justine had described. Had his niece not been telling him the whole truth? And holding the hat which Mrs. Morgenstern had not offered to take from him, he looked around.
“Is husband home?”
“I run the household. If you have something to say, say it to me. If the girl wants to quit, she should have come so herself. Not sent her uncle.”
“I come about music.”
“Ah. Music. Well, what can I say? My husband has arranged an audition. The rest is up to her. Though after all we’ve done for her, it’s really beyond the pale to send her uncle on her behalf.” She turned away and lit a cigarette.
“I only ask opinion. What chance for my Justine?”
“What chance? Well I’d say that depends entirely on her. My husband says she can play but — how shall I put it, “she drew on her cigarette, “she’ll need more than that. For example, how’s her English? She’ll be before the public. She’ll need… oh I don’t know” — she made a graceful gesture in the air with her cigarette — “a certain je ne sais quoi” She inhaled again then settled a look upon him. ”Do you think that your niece can do all that?”
Povilas’s heart sank with every word.
“Mr. Morgenstern, what he say?” Povilas said.
“My husband is entitled to his opinion.”
Entitled? What did entitled mean?
“I speak with husband.”
Mrs. Morgenstern jabbed her cigarette into a chrome pedestal ashtray.
“Sure. Let me get him for you.”
“So you are the uncle,” Mr. Morgenstern said, approaching with a smile and a hand outstretched. “Your niece is very talented. But you already know that. And you know about the audition. I trust that’s why you’re here? We will do our absolute best to help her. Just make her practice. She needs to build up her confidence.”
Povilas looked from husband to wife and back to husband again. How could such a nice man be married to such an awful woman? Perhaps he was more interested in Justine than in her music. It wouldn’t be surprising. It wouldn’t be the first time. Suspicion leapt like a crouched cat, sudden and silent.
“Why you do this?”
“Because she has talent. I hate to see it languish.”
Languish? What did languish mean?
“What did you think I had in mind? Look, my good fellow, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, you’ve got it all wrong.”
Povilas became lost in the twists and turns of this sentence.
“If you want me to back off I certainly will though I think it would be a shame,” Mr. Morgenstern continued. “And what about Justine herself? What does she want?”
By now Povilas had caught up with Mr. Morgenstern’s meaning. He began to feel alarmed. He should not have come. He should not have interfered. He had made things worse.
“Please,” he said, striving to find words which became even more elusive when he was upset.
“Please you want me to stop? Or please you want me to continue?”