CHAPTER40
Back in his dressing room, Ian stripped and showered and dressed in the second shirt Kiki had thoughtfully supplied. The noise of a happy orchestra filtered through his closed door.
For almost a year now, these moments after the music and the applause, when the adrenaline rush faded and the lost hours of no sleep became an intolerable burden, these had been the hardest of all. The absence of his former passion and fire had formed a bitter, acrid taste that had rendered him physically ill, so nauseated he had often vomited. So he had banished everyone from his dressing room following concerts. Including his ex-manager. The thief.
He stood facing the wall-sized mirror now, his bow tie dangling from one hand. Ian’s reflection served as a means to inspect his internal state. The emptiness was still there, but different. No ashes, no bitter flavor to the moment, no enduring agony over what was no more. Instead . . .
Ian could not name how he felt. Nor, he decided, was it necessary. Not tonight.
As he slipped the tie around his neck, there was a knock on the door. “Come in.”
Israel Saban opened the door. “I am not disturbing?”
“Not at all, Maestro.” When the conductor glanced around the empty room, Ian added, “I asked everyone to meet me upstairs.”
“Ah. The quiet moment. So very necessary.” He stepped inside. Saban wore a fresh shirt and formal wear, his hair gleaming damp. “A word?”
“Of course. Can I offer—”
“We are due upstairs. And I must fly to New York.” He closed the door. “We should come together, you and I. There is a piece I have been arranging. Mozart’s work begs for a Rodrigo-style dance. Full orchestra, the great booming noise, and in balance, the guitar. Mozart does the light ballet of sound better than anyone.”
“Maestro, I don’t know what to say.” Ian fumbled for the stool, seated himself.
“But you will consider?” Saban looked genuinely worried. “I have been searching for the right partner. When I heard you tonight, I thought to myself,Finally.”
Ian debated, then decided the man deserved honesty. “The reason my manager vanished was because I said I wanted to take a year off. I needed this. I’ve felt like the passion for music was gone.”
“This need I very much understand.” Saban leaned against the door. Crossed his arms. Frowned at the floor. “A year. Well, if I must wait a year, I must.”
“Maestro . . . Thank you. So much.”
“You will tell me if you become ready before the year is over?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent.” He opened the door. “In the meantime, you must come visit me in Milan. I will do my best to tempt you back into the arena. Good food, wonderful wine, beautiful Italian ladies, and my music. Who knows? Perhaps you may decide the year of freedom must wait.”
After he departed, Ian remained where he was, staring at the empty space.
