She had persuaded him that it would be a good idea to stay on over Sunday night and drive back mid-day on Monday. And after their evening snack she was looking through the gramophone records alongside an expensive radiogram.
“What kind of music do you like, Andrei—no don’t tell me—it’ll be Tchaik and Rach won’t it?”
Aarons laughed. “You’re dead right.”
She looked at him. “You know—that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you laugh. The Sag Harbor air must be doing you good.” She paused. “Back to the music. You ever heard of a guy named Korngold?”
“No.”
“Most people haven’t. He writes music for films so with a name like that he’s wide open to cracks like—oh yes, Korngold—more corn than gold—but he wrote a beautiful fiddle concerto. See what you think of it.”
She sat down watching his face as he listened to the music. For her Korngold was like a piece of musical litmus paper. If you were dismissive or indifferent to it then you were an outsider, but if you were moved by it then you were worth bothering with. She saw the tears on Aarons’ cheeks and was happy about him. He was curable, or at least he could be patted into shape and made human. He would probably always be a Stoic, it was too late to change that, but maybe she could make him into a vulnerable Stoic. Vulnerability for Tania Orlovsky was what humanity was all about. What disturbed her was not so much Aarons as herself. She knew that she didn’t really need to put him through her little Korngold test. All that old Russian blood in her veins was leading her astray. She knew that she was half in love with Andrei Aarons and she didn’t know why.
As she watched him listening to the music she wondered what he would do if she just upped and told him she loved him. She smiled to herself as she imagined the horror on his face. He’d probably head back to Moscow.
But she learned her first lesson about surprises when, as she was driving them back to the city, he offered to take her to a night-club that evening. She would have bet her silver dollar that Aarons had never been in a night-club in his life. He had wondered why she laughed aloud when he explained about Sam and his sister.
Sam had taken Andrei off in the interlude to meet the other musicians in the band and Tania sat alone with Anna.
“How long have you known Andrei?”
Tania shrugged and smiled. “A few weeks.”
“He said you’d taken him to Sag Harbor for the weekend. That must be the first holiday he’s had in his life. How did you persuade him to go?”
Tania laughed. “I just told him.”
“I’ve never seen him looking so alive, it must have done him good, the fresh air.” She paused. “Or maybe it was you. How did you meet him?”
“We had a mutual acquaintance. A relative of mine.”
“Your name’s Russian, do you speak Russian?”
“I can but I don’t. I read Russian books sometimes—novels and poetry. Classics not modern stuff.”
“Can I ask you something personal?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “But maybe I won’t answer. So ask away.”
“Why do you bother with Andrei? He must seem rather dry to you.”
Tania shook her head slowly. “Not dry, reserved maybe but not dry. It happens to people who devote their whole lives to some cause or other.”
“You still haven’t said why you bother with him.”
“I admire him, his devotion to a cause, his mind and his loyalty.” She shrugged. “I guess I just like him the same way you do.”
“How do you know what way I like him?”
“He told me how you had waited so long before you married—waited for his sake.”
“Are you part of his work?”
“Not the way you mean. I guess I love the dream but I know too much to believe in it. Do you believe in it?”
“No. I’ve never believed in it but I believe in Andrei and I go along with it.”
“Does he involve you in his work?”
“He used to but that stopped when I got married.”
“Because Sam didn’t know about Andrei’s work?”
“Yes. He still doesn’t know.”
“What about your brother? Is he involved?”
“You’d better ask Andrei.”
Tania looked away and then back at Anna. “They’re coming back. Don’t worry about Andrei. He’ll be all right.” She smiled. “Is it OK to bring him here again?”
“Of course. Sam’s very fond of him.”
She stood looking around the living room. It was the first time that he had invited her back to his apartment. It was a large room with a high ceiling and it had obviously been recently painted. All of it white. And those were its only virtues. To describe it as masculine would be an abuse of words. It was a room entirely without character. Not a picture, not an ornament, not even a book, and God knows where he had found the furniture. It looked as if it was from some film-set for a film about Russian peasants. The best that you could say for the furniture was that it was built to last. It was not badly made, the heavy mahogany and the horse-hair stuffing were genuine but both ugly and incongruous in this setting.
When he came back with tea for them both she said, “Who was that man you spoke
