Scarlett still didn’t know this, but Pnina had been my friend of a friend. I had gone to see her around a year after Elliot’s funeral. I had told her that I had feelings for Scarlett. At the time, Scarlett had been too young, and I gave her mother my word that I would take my place in the shadows, as long as she allowed me to keep an eye out for her.
When Scarlett turned eighteen, I showed up again. Pnina wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement, but she gave me her blessing. She had asked me to promise her something: not to hinder Scarlett’s career. When the time came, I would let her go.
Pnina had filled me in on Scarlett’s life in Paris, up until it was time for me to reclaim a permanent role in her life again. Her mother was against our marriage. She thought Scarlett was too young, but she wasn’t against me loving her. Her mentality sometimes confused me, but when I tried to make sense of it all, I sometimes thought that in her own way she wanted us together. She knew how much I loved her daughter, and she wanted that for her. She didn’t have it.
On the other hand, she had a damn fine way of making Scarlett feel like nothing but a tool in her quest to gain approval from Maja Resnik. Even now she worried about how the old ballerina would have felt.
“Times change,” I said. “Her career is different than Maja’s. I don’t like it either, but she gave me her word that those are the last of that kind.”
“She has always been so…willful! Even to her detriment at times. She has always had something to prove, though never to me. Spiteful, is what she has always been to me.” She looked me in the eye, went to say more, but stopped. Whatever she was going to say, she decided to go in another direction. “We will be flying back with you for opening night in Milan. Her sister and husband will also be in attendance. After the performance, we would like to see your new place in Tuscany.” She flung a hand toward her husband, who took pictures with two women half his age. “Your father in law has insisted upon it.”
The crowd began to move toward us then. A line of seats had been sectioned off for Scarlett’s family and friends. Emory waved to me after he took a seat next to the old Emory. Mitch and his band came out not long after. He introduced himself, and then his band, Poisonous Dawn, giving a short speech about Scarlett and her career afterward.
I felt, rather than saw, Charlotte stiffen when he asked the crowd to make enough noise that Scarlett could feel how proud of her we were in Italy.
Violet called her when Mitch started to sing “Tiny Dancer.”
“This is all for you, Ballerina Girl.” Violet laughed into the phone. “Listen in, Sandy.” She held up her phone like a lighter.
A screen behind Mitch and the piano he played highlighted Scarlett’s life as a dancer. Beginning when she was a baby and her grandmother had her in tutus.
“Auntie Scawlett!” Paul yelled, running in circles, trying to dance. “She looks so big up dere, BRANDPOW.”
Yeah, she always does.She tore across the screen like a fucking tornado, her feet moving almost too fast to keep up.
As much as I appreciated how much the city honored her, the heart was missing from the celebration. My heart. A burn equal to the one I had for Nemours, but separate, made my jaw tick. Ettore. The gun underneath my sweater felt like a secure weight. A promise.
The song came to an end, Scarlett bowing for the crowd in her graceful way, and with it, roaring applause.
Marjorie waved at me, dodging people who were headed toward the statue. “Brando,” she said, taking me firmly by the arm, squeezing my bicep. Her voice rose high, though the music had stopped. “It’s time to unveil the famous ballerina of Natchitoches!”
I stood before the silent crowd, thanking them for taking the time to honor Scarlett and her accomplishments, apologizing for her schedule and her absence because of it. Afterward, I repeated a Shakespeare quote (fitting, I said, because she would soon be Juliet):When you dance, I wish you a wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that.
“This is such an honor,” I said. “If Scarlett were here, she would be rendered speechless by the attention. She’s far too polite to quote herself, but since she’s not here, I’ll take the liberty to do so.” The crowd laughed and then became silent again. “If love is like magic, so is dancing; in order to be enchanted, we must surrender to it.”
This was met by echoing applause before the mayor took over. I had requested that her parents remove the covering. The shadows were where I belonged, recreating that night in the snow. Looking up at the sky, I knew it was coming soon, and I almost craved it.
Judging by the crowd’s reaction, the statue was every bit as gorgeous as the dancer it portrayed. When only a few people lingered, I came closer, examining the bronze figure. The likeness made every hair on my body rise. It was my wife, the first night I had watched her dancing in the window of her parents’ dance studio, which was directly across the street.
The statue was set in the middle of a fountain, and water flowed from her waist in a way that created the illusion of a tutu over her legs, standing en pointe, graceful arms rounded above her head. Copper and silver glinted underneath the illuminated water. People had made wishes.
Violet and her kids, along with Mitch, Mick, Emory, and Old Emory, came to stand next to me, and the nine of us stared at the girl we all loved done in bronze.
“Sandy has come a long way.” Violet sighed. “She was always destined for bronze status. Now when I get lonely for her, I’ll come here and have a chat.”
Even after they had left, I remained, sitting there with an immortalized version of my wife. The tiny sprays of water that dove away from the main stream, showcased by warm lights, made it seem like snowflakes surrounded her in the cold air.
Nemours. Ettore.
Both enemies came to mind unwelcome. The latter of the two was out there waiting. He wouldn’t take the easy road. He was out for vengeance, and whatever there was between us would be met face-to-face, man-to-man. No cowardly violence about it—not even death. One of us would suffer. It was old-fashioned honor at stake.
A late-coming group hovered, and I sighed. The cloud of a warm breath from my mouth was the only proof that I had done so.
“Hi,” she said, taking a seat next to me.
I bent over, squeezing the bridge of my nose. “Janet,” I said.
“Jane,” she corrected, but kept on. “I see the city finally decided to put up a fountain. The birds have a place to crap now, instead of on my car.” She laughed at her own joke. Then she went on and on about—work?“Enough about me. How have you been?”
