An unforgettable evening (Conclusion)

Here comes the conclusion of Paul’s story. With this, the set up of our novel ends. From here on, Giselle’s and Paul’s journey begins.

For the previous chapters review:

Tidal lock:

        a. The story of Giselle, Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3,

        b. The dark side of the sun, Part 1, Conclusion

        c. There is no such thing as everlasting love

        d. Back where we belong

        e. Catharsis, Part 1 , Conclusion

        f. The performance

       g. An unforgettable evening, Part 1, (A conversation with Catterina Coha about “The performance” and “An unforgettable evening“.), Part 2

Chapters to come:

h. Serendipity

i. Echo’s call

j. Our last paradise

Shadows at the ASCO booth – Photo by F. Marincola, Chicago June 5 2022

…Paul continued:

“You know, I am also selfish: I never recognized Naomi for what she did for me. I never thanked her for taking me under her wing as her own son and for standing by me day after day. Instead, I only resented her for bossing me and Turo around. I have been so self-centered. But I am looking forward to recognizing her and everyone else for the help that turned me into what I am. I prepared a speech for the party. Do you want me to read it to you?”

***

…But the party never happened…

The night before graduation, Naomi and Arturo were crossing the Washington Bridge towards Manhattan when a truck deviated from its lane, flipped, rolled over, and smashed them. Paul did not have a chance to thank Naomi, and that regret sculpted his life.

***

After graduation, my relationship with Paul faded. Returns from college rarified. Then, my parents chose to repatriate in Villaricca, near Naples, where, in our absence, properties had been nurtured by loyal managers, farmers, and ranchers harvesting exotic fruits, making delicious wines, and raising water buffalos to produce mozzarella. My parents wished to raise me according to our culture.

After the move, letters from Paul also lessened till they ended save for the customary greeting cards around the holidays. We invited him several times for a visit, but he never seemed to find the time. Preoccupied by the vicissitudes of teenagerhood, I then forgot about him.

Then, I was accepted at Cornell University for graduate school. My parents encouraged me to return to New York to complete my education now that they were confident in my devotion to our ancestry. I returned to this apartment, where we are dining now, which is also where Paul grew up. That is his piano! My parents used the apartment for occasional returns to America to check on our business here and kept everything unaltered and pristine.

When I entered the apartment after so many years, all came back as vivid as when I left, and with it, Paul’s ghost returned. Nothing had changed, including my little girl’s room. So was Paul’s room with the pictures of us and his friends playing around in the Bronx.

In New York, I had the impulse to reach out to Paul, but I had no idea where he was and feared his reaction. I dreaded a rejection; I could not bear the thought that he would not care about me anymore. Also, I was busy enough nurturing new acquaintances at Cornell.

I kept postponing till one day I saw Paul’s photo on the front page of the newspaper. It was a good picture, where he appeared just as I remembered him; my handsome lowkey stepbrother, donning his typical stern and inquisitive demeanor.

The article mentioned a premiere at Carnegie Hall, just two blocks from here.

With my heart throbbing, I texted to the old phone number:

“Hi Paul, this is Lauretta! Do you still remember me? I am in New York. Moved here a few months ago for graduate school. I just saw your picture in the newspaper.”

I sent it without much expectation for a response. Instead, after a few seconds:

“My Lauretta! Of course, I remember you. I missed you, where are you. I want to see you.”

And so, that evening the doorbell rang and Paul was back home after fifteen years. He had cancelled all commitments and instead he sat in front of me in this terrace, right where you are sitting now.

We talked about my troubled teenage experiences, and about my failed marriage that lasted only one year, the decision to come back to America to perfect my education and start a new life. He recounted his college and graduate school times. He flew through classes and by graduation he was well known in music circles. Hollywood noticed him first and he was contracted to compose music for shows, documentaries, and movies. This is how he met Jerry, to become his lifetime agent.

With that head start, he was noticeable in other circles and his compositions were acclaimed, recorded, and choreographed across the Country.

After hours, he dwelled and thrived in Wayne’s honky-tonk world. When school allowed, he joined Wayne to New Orleans where they lived in the French Quarters absorbing the subtleties of jazz, or Nashville, at Lower Broadway and the Grand Ole Opry. There, Wayne’s band had broken in with a combination of country and rock and roll music. They made many friends.

While Paul never achieved the technical aptitude to perform at that level as an instrumentalist, his compositions made it. Paul and Wayne dwelled in rock and roll in Memphis, and lived in Austin, and Motown, and Chicago. But the sweetest was the Bronx, where they returned to play in bars and nightclubs. By the end of graduate school, Paul was well-known for classical and modern composition while Wayne, without receiving formal training, had become, with his band, the hitter that we all know.

Later, Paul and Wayne decided to move to Paul’s old apartment in the Bronx. Paul bought the entire building, remodeled it, and created two upper apartments for him and for Wayne. At the lower level were servants and security guards. Everyone knew them in the neighborhood and tolerated with pride the noise and eccentricity that occurred behind those walls.

Life was active with people going in an out. Among the frequenters, beautiful strippers were hosted. Wayne enjoyed women and the temporary entertainment that casual relationships can offer. For Paul, it was different. He was interested in their stories, their dreams and disappointments, their philosophy of life searching for his mother’s story through their smiles, sighs, and tears.

But their relationship had faults. Whether because of his mother, or Naomi, or organic depression, Paul lived at the boundaries of angst, in the twilight of dejection. What drove his music greatness were the pains of the heart. Even music was just a distraction to alleviate solitude. When composing was insufficient to mitigate the angst, binges with Wayne complemented. Crazy Wayne lived to enjoy life, beating the drums till tired and turning into women, alcohol, and drugs afterwards. That influence caused Paul’s dependence on an alternate life. What was fun for Wayne, became for Paul a necessity to quench a vague and rootless sense of guilt.

He also had no romantic relationships, only casual encounters tainted by the fear of disappointing. In each woman he saw his mother, or Naomi. Both asking him:

“Why didn’t you care for me when I was alive?”

He told me: 

“Truth is that love doesn’t sound like the wind going through reed pipes. It sounds like the dullness of an empty tin can drifting down the street at the flightiness of winds.”

***

That evening, after spending hours exchanging the stories of our lives, Paul slept with me. If he was a kitten, he would have purred all night. He fell asleep with the head on my chest as if we were back to childhood. Since then, Paul returned often and unannounced. He took me for granted and I let him because I knew that I was all that he had. I gave him the keys to the apartment, but he always rang at the doorbell. Never used the keys.

I helped him but not enough. His self-destruction continued. The greater the success, the more dissociated he was from it and the more resented it, the deeper he retreated into a solitary life with Wayne in the Bronx. He resented his agent, Jerry; a scrawny guy, who talked too much, could not complete a sentence because he nervously laughed at his own words even before delivering a supposed punch line, which made no one laugh. You can imagine, knowing Paul, how much that behavior irritated his nerves. He would say of Jerry:

“Why can’t Jerry be normal? Why does he have to piss in his pants when he talks to me? Do I look like a freak?”

Despite the wealth, they lived in the old building from which each morning Paul could look down through the window across the intersection at the shop, expecting to see Turo and Naomi open to the customers.

About three months before your performance, Wayne died of overdose. Paul found him lying in the living room, with wide open eyes and a drumstick in his hand. Paul recollected the warnings from his friend’s therapist:

“You got to do something!”

But he did nothing. Once again, he had failed the loved ones by negligence.

Within a few days Paul sold the building of his youth to the first offer and moved to California, to a small community on the Pacific Coast just South of San Francisco, called El Granada, where the foghorn cries every eight seconds, and the sea lions complete the melody. Years before, he had bought a home in El Granada with a view of Pillar Point Harbor. It was a retreat where he and Wayne dwelled at the Dynamite Society in Miramar and other similar clubs. Paul loved the Ocean front, the power of the winds that silenced the pain of the soul. A low-key community, a mixture of farmers, fishermen, and Silicon Valley nerds.

Three days before your performance I received a call from Stanford Hospital:

 “Are you Laura? Paul recorded you as emergency contact! He is in the ICU unconscious. Just needed to let you know.”

“What happened?”

“He was found unconscious in his home by his agent; it could have been a suicide attempt with benzodiazepines. Fortunately, it must had just happened. The paramedic resuscitated him and with a gastric lavage and respiratory support he should be fine. The EEG is active, but consciousness has not returned. We must wait and see.”

By the time I arrived in California and went to the hospital, Paul was recovering. He denied the suicide intent but agreed to suicide watch.

Jerry had saved his life. The night before the accident, Jerry was distraught by a conversation they had. Paul was drunk, the speech was slurred, words made no sense except for the recurring theme that life was not worth a penny.

“Sell Wayne’s and my copyrights and use the money for the homeless.” He told Jerry before hanging up.

So, Jerry jumped on the first flight from New York to San Francisco and, when he opened the door in El Granada, found Paul lying, barely breathing on the couch of the living room.

I asked Paul:

“Did you thank Jerry for saving your life? If it wasn’t for his devotion, you would probably be dead now.”

“Yup! And he would have to find another customer!” answered Paul.

As much as I adore him, I was really upset by the cynical remark, and I could not control myself.

“Paul, Jerry cares about you, he has been taking care of you and Wayne for years. He is the reason why you have a stable income and you have not squandered your fortune. He protected both of your baffled souls. Jerry loves you. Your cynicism is totally inappropriate”

Paul looked at me with astounded eyes. Then to justify, he said:

“Sorry, it was just a joke.”

“Yes, but it is not funny!”

“Well, Jerry would probably laugh!”

“Paul…” I continued. “You can destroy yourself, kill yourself if this is what you wish, but that is not going to change what happened to your mother, Naomi or Wayne. If you want to amend, think of those who love you. Do not disappoint more of us. We are asking nothing more than for you to be happy. You have all that a man could have, talent, money, and a most interesting soul. Your regrets are unfounded. You did not do anything terrible to anyone. Yes, you could have done better. We all could have done better. Myself too, with my marriage, with my friends, my parents. But this is all in the past. It is the future that counts. Here, is your opportunity to amend. Stop that worthless machoism, that senseless, contrived, and unproductive self-pity. Get back to real life. Accept that there is nothing wrong to say: “Thank you” to those who love you. There is nothing wrong to cry whether you are chopping onions or not.”

***

This is why Paul could not come to your performance.

Yet, as I was about to leave his hospital room to go back to New York, he called:

“Lauretta, please tell that young woman, that I am sorry for not being able to make the premiere.”

See? He remembered and cared for you!

And now you know Paul’s story. I made it as short as I could. Are you sure that you still care for him now that you know what you are getting into?”

And Giselle replied without hesitation:

“I love him. Even more now than before. I feel Paul inside of me. I understand his soul: it is difficult to feel when one is overwhelmed by emotions.”

“Then, let’s give him a call!”

***

“Paul? How are you? You sound good! Are you home? I have an admirer of yours sitting in front of me, at your place. It is Giselle, the ballerina! She is so great but, even more important, she is so nice! She is a Broadway star just like you! Do you want to say hi to her?”

The phone was passed to Giselle’s shaking hand.

‘Hi Paul, I am Giselle, the girl that you met in the cafeteria in Milan. I know that you will not remember but I want you to know that in those few moments you shaped my life.”

But Paul said:

“Giselle, I remember you. I remember your name, and I remember your eyes and I remember that you wanted to be like me, and I remember that I told you that I wanted you to be better than me! Now you are! I heard about you and not only from my cousin. You are making history and thank you for liking my music. Maybe, one day, when I am better, we could see each other again, if you would like.”

“I would very much like it.”

***

By the end of the narrative, dinner was over, darkness had descended on the park and the two ladies looked at each other while enjoying a glass of Amaretto di Saronno.

The night was getting old, the emotions had taken a toll and Giselle accepted the offer to sleep over at Laura’s place. Laura made her sleep in Paul’s room.

As she laid down in Paul’s bed, she hugged his pillow that destiny had preserved for her. She recollected the chain of events from the day she met Paul till this unforgettable evening when she spoke to him again. All seemed natural and logical. Everything was predetermined since the day of her birth. Someone had been watching them both from a distance.

Continued in: Serendipity