"Just put it in the disposal."
Wendy walked to the sink, holding the scraps in her small hands, and she smiled up at Janice as she poked them into the disposal and turned on the water. "I applauded so hard I broke my bow." She turned the disposal and the water off, then wiped her hands on a dish towel. "I'm glad I did it after the finale rather than before the intermission."
Janice smiled, then pursed her lips in thought. "Would you like a Bellini?"
Wendy's mouth fell open. "A Bellini? What are you doing with a Bellini?"
"I don't have one, but I have some friends in Europe who could get one."
Wendy smiled and shook her head. "No, I couldn't do that, Janice. A Bellini costs a fortune, and anyway I didn't know there were any to be had. He died in… eighteen fifty seven, I believe."
"Yes, but I know a professor in Vienna who had four of them, and he must still have an extra – I'll write him and get one of them for you. Your cello is a Laux-Ferrier, isn't it?"
"Yes, but Janice, you can't…"
"I'll get you a Holtzhausen, then. The ones they made in the nineteenth century have better glue, and they take climatic changes well. Even so, it'll take a while for the bridge and neck to settle, and for it to accustom itself to the temperature and humidity change."
Wendy was looking up at her in shock. "Janice, I can't let you do that. A Bellini bow and a Holtzhausen cello? That's thousands and thousands…"
Janice pursed her lips in thought and slowly nodded as she opened the broiler and reached in with a fork to turn the steaks. "Yes, about eight to ten thousand," she murmured, her eyes narrowed against the heat. "But you'd have an instrument to match your ability."
Wendy shook her head firmly. "No, I'm sorry, Janice but that's simply too much for you to do. Why, there're not a dozen cellists in the United States who have a Bellini and a Holtzhausen…"
"And there're not six who perform the way you do. Or the way you will within three or four years. Check the potatoes and see if they're done."
Wendy pushed herself away from the counter and walked toward the oven. "Well, I still can't accept something like…"
"I've decided, Wendy. Check the potatoes."
They put the food on the table, and Janice heated water and made tea while Wendy put the silverware and plates out. They were silent as they began eating, an unstrained, companionable lack of conversation, with the quietness in the house broken only by the sound of silverware and china as they ate. Janice was tired, her weariness now beginning to sap her strength and make her limbs feel leaden, and Wendy seemed tired and thoughtful as she slowly ate.
"I first heard of you in history class."
It took a moment for the almost inaudible murmur to sink in, then Janice glanced at Wendy. "Pardon me?"
"I first heard of you in history class. The professor said there'd been only two Americans who had come to Europe and attained prominence as composers, and he mentioned your name."
"I see."
"And then I heard Abendleid Magyar performed in Antwerp during the summer vacation," Wendy continued in the same soft murmur, slowly eating. "It was… well, I thought the conductor had his strings too heavy during the gypsy passages, but still it was… like ages old but still almost like reading a newspaper… timeless… talking about centuries ago, and about tomorrow…"
"The native Hungarian motiv is possibly heavy during the entrance to the second movement and the beginning of the finale. The conductor may interpret, but the score remains."
"I thought that until I felt and heard you conduct tonight." Wendy cut another piece of steak and chewed, looking down at her plate. "The first time I saw what you looked like was in one of the Beyreuth books, a festival book. It was a picture of you and the woman whose picture is on the piano. The Countess Grevenburg. She was a conductress too, wasn't she?"
"Yes, that's right."
Wendy nodded, swallowing, and took a sip of tea. She slowly began cutting another small piece of steak. "I did a paper on you as a term paper in history, and the professor gave me credit toward my degree for it. He also had it printed for the university library as a research pamphlet. The Biographical Dictionary didn't have a thing on you before you came to Europe at sixteen, but I found out you were from Cincinnati and I wrote the Chamber of Commerce there. They sent me some newspaper clippings about the death of your parents, your debut, the events you won during high school, and so forth. I used that as background and took it right up to your… when you went to Berne."
Janice smiled, pushing her plate a way. "That's flattering, Wendy, but somehow it makes me feel very ancient and decrepit."
Wendy stopped eating and pushed her plate away, picking up her cup and sipping it. "It's strange, you know. I don't know exactly what kind of mental image I'd formed of you, but it wasn't what I saw when I walked in the country club that night. I recognized you immediately, of course, but you looked to be about my age, and I wasn't prepared for that. I really made an ass of myself, I suppose…"
"Not as much as I have upon numerous occasions during my life," Janice said, smiling wryly and pushing her chair back. "Let's stack the dishes in the sink, and I'll make some more tea."
"Oh, I can wash them…"
"No you won't. You're as tired as I am, and perhaps more so. Come on – let's stack them up and make some more tea."
Janice filled the kettle and put it on the stove, thinking. Strangely enough, the worrisome bother of having someone else around wasn't nagging at her with Wendy there. There seemed to be the comfort and silence of solitude, but at the same time there was the warmth of companionship. It was like it had been with Lisa. The thought stirred poignant memories in Janice's mind as Wendy moved back and forth on the edge of her vision, putting the dishes in the sink. It would be heaven. The duets of music and love again. But what if love was ripped from her again?
They took their cups into the living room and sat down on the couch, and Janice relaxed, leaning her head back.
"I'll have to go in a few minutes," Wendy said, glancing at her then looking down at the floor. "You're tired, and… you've been really nice to me, Janice… thought you'd be throwing me out of the orchestra, but instead you've been really nice to me…"
Janice turned her head, looking at Wendy. "Throwing you out of the orchestra. Whatever for?"
Wendy flushed and rubbed her hands together nervously. "Well, for… for what I said. I thought… well, I know there's never been any men in your life, and when I learned more about you I saw that you and the Countess Grevenburg were very close, and I thought… but I made a mistake, and I was… I'm very sorry, Janice…"
The thin, soft voice faded into silence with another shrug as she looked down at the floor, embarrassed and flushed, and Janice turned her head back and looked up at the ceiling. She could simply remain silent, and it would pass into another phase. Wendy would retreat, and she could continue to suffer that hollow emptiness which the physical acts failed to satisfy. Suffer that, but enjoy the freedom from danger.
But was that freedom of any kind, or was she closing herself in a prison of loneliness? There had been a distinct danger of failure when she'd gone to conduct the orchestra. They had been expecting Jannison, and she'd been at an extreme disadvantage. Safety would have been to feign sickness and not go – Christina had been more than ready to cancel it at the last minute. But she had risked failure and reaped success. Perhaps the rejection of Wendy was tantamount to the same thing – perhaps it was withdrawal from life. She searched herself for an answer. And found it. Then made her decision.
"Lisa and I were lovers, Wendy."
Wendy's head snapped around. On the edge of her vision Janice could see Wendy's expression changing from surprise and shock to disappointment and hurt. "I see," she whispered quietly. "Then it's… it's that you don't like… don't like me… better go, now… better go… thank you…"