The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [96]
THEY MET FOR coffee the next day. “You know,” Richie remarked, “this is what normal people do when they first meet—have coffee, maybe go to a movie.”
“Their loss,” said Maria, who—despite her doubts—felt incapable of abandoning the more brazen personality she had cultivated the night before. “I don’t know about you, but I barely have time to breathe with all the shit they have me doing around here.”
“Too true.” Richie looked at his watch. “But since by my calculations we have at least twelve minutes together, you could at least fill me in on some of the basics.”
“Such as?”
“Okay, I’ll start. I’m from Hartford. My father pushes paper for an insurance company, and my mother takes care of my three younger brothers—I’m the oldest. Musically, I’m all about jazz—Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Mingus, Monk—but I like some orchestral stuff, too. Alexander Arutiunian is a hero.” He leaned back and sipped his coffee. “Okay, your turn.”
Maria felt her stomach flip, and she spoke slowly. “I’m a soprano. I’m not a fan of Judy Caswell. What else do you need to know?”
“Seriously.”
“Okay, my favorite singer is Inge Borkh, and Anna likes to think that if I can torture myself for the next twenty years, I might one day have a place in the dramatic repertory—”
“That’s an undertaking,” Richie said, with a mix of admiration and familiarity that pleased Maria.
“Everyone says you have to be at least forty to attempt it.”
“And what do you think?”
Maria sighed. “I’ll let you know when I’m forty.”
“Okay—what else besides singing?”
Maria swallowed nervously. She hated feeling so naked and vulnerable, despite the fact that this was exactly what she wanted to show him. “I was adopted—I grew up in a small town called Castle Shannon outside of Pittsburgh—I was an only child, but now I’m an orphan because both of my parents died a few years ago in a fire.”
“Wow—I didn’t know all of that. I’m sorry.”
The second he said this, Maria felt the nervous, stricken version of herself deliquesce, to the point where she couldn’t even imagine what she had to fear. “It’s okay,” she said and allowed him to hold her hand. “It was really hard at first, but Anna pretty much saved me. If there’s another place where—you know—‘life goes on’ more than it does here, I’d like to see it.”
“You’re even tougher than I thought,” he mused. “You’ll make a good diva.”
“Who’s stereotyping now?” She smiled.
“I am.” He stood up and blew her a kiss from his palm as he ran out, since he was already late for class.
TO MARIA’S RELIEF, as she spent more time with Richie, she found that unveiling parts of herself—and her past—made her not only happier but also hopeful, and not just about their future but about her ability to find a sense of equilibrium, so that she no longer felt so consumed by her singing. It helped that he was equally dedicated to his trumpet—and to her ear, equally talented—so that she never felt guilty spending so many hours on her work, knowing he was doing the same.
One day she declared to Linda that she was in love, and to feel the words roll off her tongue made it seem true. That summer, after Linda went to London with a young artist program, Maria and Richie for the most part lived together; they spent nights huddled in her room—which thanks to Anna had an air conditioner—where their whispers and sighs mixed with the quiet hum of the fan. When they were alone, everything was perfect, and even with her dumb filing and photocopying job at the Met, she had more time with Richie than she could ever have imagined, particularly on evenings and weekends; it was—as they both noted repeatedly—like they were a married couple. They went on walks, and the city—hot and deserted, especially