Roundelay For Three

There she is, leaning against the frame of the sliding glass door, hands deep in the pockets of her skirt. Upon hearing Leo’s footsteps, she straightens herself and abandons the apathetic air. The pipe trembles ever so slightly in Leo’s hand as he lays eyes on her, his voice a thin stream: “More than a year. Gosh, Lee, where have you been?” “Hong Kong,” she mumbles. “Oh yes, the Hong Kong Philharmonic.” He remembers perfectly well, of course. Lee Ann, an accomplished cellist in her late twenties, left Los Angeles for Hong Kong almost 13 months ago, forbidding him to follow her, ending without a word, their two-year liaison. “It’s all over. I got homesick -- among other things.” “They did not consider you Chinese there?” “They did but only until I opened my mouth. I speak only a few words of Mandarin. You need a local version of Cantonese to be taken in there. I never found the time.” “Rehearsals, concerts, I imagine, ‘the weight of the repertoire’ as you used to say.” Pause. “And you, Leo, how are you?” “Just ‘dragged along with the whirlwind of the crescendo,’ to quote you again.” A trace of dampness in her eyes. Through the large open window come sounds of skillfully hit tennis balls, dramatic “ohs” and “ahs,” followed by occasional bursts of carefree laughter. The boughs of tall trees that almost fill the secondstory view move gently in the soft, warm breeze. Their hushed murmur was the same when she stood here for the last time. How life has changed since then. “I didn’t even send you a card for your birthday. You are thirty-five now. An older man. And maybe wiser?” “Sadder, perhaps.” She changes the subject and talks about the natural kindness and hospitality of Hong Kongers, concert tours that took her to the mainland, Japan, Korea, and elsewhere; about how Asian, American, and European concert audiences differ; opportunities to appear in smaller ensembles. She played Beethoven sonatas for piano and cello on the concert stage of a major university. “Really,” says Leo with admiration, “were you the principal cello?” “I guess so, since in a piece where there is only one piano and one cello. . . ” She corrects his gaffe with much less sarcasm than in the old times. Leo, an investment banker in his father’s business for almost a decade now, may be untutored in classical music and next to indifferent to sublime aesthetic pleasures, but he knows a few things about human nature. He wonders what this chit-chat conceals and where it will eventually lead. He doesn’t have to wait for long. She takes a few steps toward the window, folds her arms, and without looking at Leo, staring out at the moving greenery, begins to tell. Soon after her arrival in Hong Kong, the leader of a Korean rock band, a star in his own right, contacted her. The band, popular in Asia and known for its high quality musicianship, wanted a cellist. (The cello was a fashionable thing on the

rock scene at the time.) “I was intrigued and felt challenged. It seemed like a great opportunity to be part of the long overdue marriage between rock and classical music.” (As Leo learned later, she met the pop eminence months before her departure when she auditioned in Hong Kong for the position with the Philharmonic. It was love, as they say, at first sight.) “The whole thing had to be kept secret. I sneaked into the recording studio and went with the group on a weekend tour to Japan. I pretended to be sick and the symphony had to use a backup. I even disguised myself with a scarf and sunglasses on the way to and from the airport. Then they found out. Oh God! Were they mad! They almost fired me on the spot. But this is not all . . .” She looks at Leo, who listens with suppressed impatience. “Then I had to tell them I was pregnant.” “The band leader?” “Yes.” “What did the management have to say?” “The news somehow pushed them beyond anger. After three days of mulling it over, they said they were willing to work around the pregnancy and childbirth, and would allow me to stay until the end of my contract. I must admit, they were sympathetic and kind. Their only condition was that I ceased all activities with the rock group.” “How about the father of the child?” “Oh, he is a restless, prodigal, creative demon -- a genius even, but also a heartless user. He considered the whole affair an unfortunate incident and offered to pay for the abortion. That was, of course, out of the question for me. Now I have a three-month old son. His name is Mstislav.” “Pardon me?” “Mstislav. In honor of Rostropovich, you know the late Russian conductor and cellist who discovered me and started my whole career. I told him that I would show my gratitude by naming my first-born son after him. Anyway, the father is gone from our lives. Forever.” “Were you in a hospital in Hong Kong? Did you have friends . . . ?” “No, no, no. I left. Broke the whole engagement and came back when I began to show. Mstislav was born here in LA, at Saint Anne’s. I live with my aunt. She took me in. My parents are not talking to me. Oh Leo, why did you let me go? Why didn’t you follow me? You told me you loved me so much.” The answer was slow and contemplative: “You told me I was suffocating . . .” “I was silly and naïve. You should have told me to shut up.” “And then one day you announced that you had signed with the orchestra in Hong Kong and wanted to go alone. It was an ultimatum. I could have gone with you, you know. My father’s business has quite an important presence in Hong Kong.” “I know. I saw your dad’s firm listed on a building directory on Harbor Road.” “How come?” Leo asks, surprised and annoyed. “I just went there one day out of curiosity.” “Did you go in?” “No. I didn’t think he would be there.” “You’re right. My dad spends most of his time in New York and London. He seldom comes to LA since my mother died.” (He neglects to mention that his father’s wish to avoid the area is not grounded exclusively on sentimentality. Some of his business partners and clients have accused the investment firm, of which he is the

CEO and principal stockholder, of misrepresentation, if not outright fraud. Counsel advised him to stay away in order to delay court filing, and Leo to adhere to the tune he has just played to Lee.) “I am sorry if I made you suffer, Leo. I am so sorry.” “Your departure affected me deeply. I thought the sun would never shine again. But I had only myself to blame. I clung to you too much; I must have been such a burden.” “I was an arrogant, irresponsible hussy. My sorority girl mentality followed me all the way to Asia. Now it’s finally gone. I have grown up. Oh, Leo, all the beautiful things you did for me. Remember when you made sure I ended up with more flowers during the intermission than the soloist collected at the end of the concert?” “That was in San Francisco. Right? You came out for the second part with a stem of lilac in your hair. You had to do that very discreetly, you told me, because the conductor frowned upon such things.” Grace and good upbringing prevents her from mentioning the jewelry and the trips to Paris and Acapulco. Instead, smiling at the recollection, she blurts out in a low voice: “You always told me that there is nothing sexier than seeing me with a cello between my knees.” The two face each other in a silence of mingled emotions and embarrassment. Selfcontainment leaks like sawdust from a broken sack. Simone, a tall, athletic woman in her thirties with angular features, bespectacled and carrying a tennis racket, chooses this moment to step briskly into the room. She had been listening to the conversation for a while. “Leo, the Hancocks are downstairs. They’re ready for the doubles . . . Oh, you have a visitor. Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Leo introduces Simone as his fiancée. The shadow of discontent crossing Lee’s face is unmistakable. But what did she expect after all? “Things happen. I could attest to that myself,” she muses. She knows the “Hancocks.” Steve (the son of an elderly art dealer with a world famous bronze collection) and his appendage-like fiancée of many years. Steve used to make passes at her behind Leo’s back. Simone observes Lee with the tentative yet sharply focused intelligence of a consummate bridge player. Leo’s brain levitates in aimless discomfort. For the first time, he must say something that Lee may not like. “Simone lives with me.” Simone nods with approval at this clear account of the situation. “Yes, our Leo’s splendid habitat invites lost souls. We have even found an endangered butterfly although we were not exactly looking for one.” “The butterfly turned out to be on the list of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” adds Leo in a haste to defuse the piercing metaphoric potential of Simone’s remark.

Bitterness collects in his mouth. The scab has been brutally scratched off from a barely healed wound. Eyes dropped, Lee excuses herself. As she passes in front of Simone she looks boldly into her face. “A society woman, clever and determined,” she thinks, “but not as pretty as I am.” The tag-like ending she once played in a hard rock song echoes in her mind: “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.” Leo wonders uneasily if Lee found out that his family’s firm handles the finances of her former beau’s Korean rock group as well as the recording studio it uses in Hong Kong. “If the great guitar virtuoso only knew that his hard-earned money helped ramp up a gambling casino in Macao. How fortunate! It covers most of our recent hedge fund losses.”