Giuseppe was his name, but the world, he had said, called him the Music Keeper.
Intrigued, curious, as Maggie Beautiful usually was, she had asked him why.
Giuseppe told her that he created custom music boxes for special customers. If she was ever in the business for one, please contact him. She mentioned that the man didn’t look at her, but at Luca.
Out of the blue, she found his card and handed it to me.
Ballerina. Music box.She had wiggled her brows.Custom! That's our girl.
Ours?No, mine.
Still, I thought, special enough.
The old Italian was as peculiar as Maggie Beautiful had described him. She could be overly dramatic, but not this time.
I had to schedule a meeting through his young assistant, Selah, before he would take my order or my money.
I liked that about him.
I liked that he asked questions that would've made another man curious. The gift was for Scarlett; therefore, standards had to be met. Not a fucking thing on this earth was too good for her. Most things, I had found, were not good enough.
Why do you want this?he asked in Italian during our first meeting. Not what I wanted, but why.
I opened and closed my hands, at a loss for words. It wasn't the question but the answer, I knew. I wouldn't fuck this up with clipped words. I'd give him the truth.
“Un momento,” I had replied to him in our shared language, tapping once on my temple with my other hand pressed against my heart.
The truth felt as sharp as glass shards as it came forward.“If I were a writer, a poet, I'd immortalize her in words. If I were a painter, I’d recreate her in canvas. I am none of these things.”I waved a dismissive hand.“You are the master of this shop; I am depending on you to immortalize her in a music box. I want her forever. She's mine.”
All of this flowed out in Italian. It felt familiar with him, right to.
He nodded at this, asked me a few more questions—I didn't realize I had admitted that she was a ballerina until afterward—and then he dismissed me. If he decided to create a music box for us, “a heaven to see,to share,” Selah would be in touch.
Seven days later, she called. The Music Keeper had something in mind. Then she put me through to him so he could ask specific questions. He gave me a date to pick up the end result, right before Christmas.
I didn't even ask him to add this or that. He'd get it right.
Now I stood outside of his place along Canal Street, listening to the streetcar behind me, feeling its rumble underneath feet, shocked beyond words to describe what the man had created.
He had immortalized more than just her.
His store was filled with pre-made music boxes, but Selah had informed me on the way out that he accepted few private commissions. Like winning the lottery, she had said. “Your...love should be pleased. She'll have it forever.”
Forever seemed absurd to claim, almost odd, about an object that would be subjected to time and weather—earthly elements that ate flesh, blood, and bone. Even stranger, though, I believed her, and I left the shop feeling as though I held magic in my hands.
Her. He recreated a part of her.
I held the box—a plain box that had once held cans of Milanese sauce, with sardines, from Palermo—against my chest as though it were responsible for the beat of my heart. I fucking dared anyone to take it from me.
Down the street a ways, I stopped in front of another store. Antiques. People came and went, a few stopping to stare at the window display. Rings were lined up as the main attraction, glistening like snow in the dead of night. Black velvet boxes enticed all of the diamonds’ facets to shine. One in particular caught my eye—different, interesting.
Light to dark.Her and me.
“You can’t be serious, Fausti.” Mitch’s voice slithered around my thoughts but had no power to break through.
He had come along for the ride. While I picked up the package fromGiuseppe, he took the streetcar further down to Café du Monde to grab two orders of beignets and two coffees.Café au lait, I heard her say in my ear with a French twist.More milk than coffee.French could’ve easily been her first language.
Her voice had been at odds this morning with the sweet tone she had used with me then. After Mitch’s stunt at the train tracks, she had fallen deeper into herself, more morose than usual. Which meant that she fell into dance even deeper.
