Lydia's Violin

by Mary Gordon

"A Triumph," said her husband, "Utter and complete."

Lydia covered her face with the thick pillow, one of the four that the hotel had provided. She had begun contemplating traveling with her own pillows; actually she preferred something less puffy, less cloudlike: something with some hint of durance or resistance or resolve. "Triumph," she said, not knowing whether Robert could hear her through the slippery goose down. "More like a rout. The lions were victorious. The virtuous musician was slashed to ribbons: nothing left."

Robert picked up the newspaper. "You have to listen to this, 'sheer unequaled musicality . . . passion mixed with restraint.'"

"Enough," she said. "I'm sick of hearing about myself. It's bad enough I have an interview this afternoon. Coffee, please, and croissants, and about ten gallons of fresh orange juice."

"It's two in the afternoon. You sure you wouldn't want lunch?"

"Oh, yes, lunch . . . I'm embarrassed to order breakfast."

"You're a star, you're allowed to have breakfast at two."

"All the more reason not to: just because I'm allowed. Order a chicken Caesar salad. But I will have juice and coffee all the same. People have juice and coffee in the afternoon, perfectly normal, respectable people. Don't they?"

"Absolutely," he said, picking up the phone. He ordered the salad, coffee and juice for her, and for himself, a roast beef sandwich on rye with mustard and a bottle of light ale.

When the order came, she lifted the cover on her salad. "I can't stand it. Whose idea was this?" She watched him take a bite out of his sandwich; she saw the gold light of his ale in the tall glass.

"I made a terrible mistake," she said. He looked at her face. No one had ever looked so sad. No face had ever expressed, so unequivocally, regret.

He pushed his sandwich over to her. "Here," he said.

"Oh, darling. It's just that I absolutely need something robust. If I have to face an interview this afternoon."

"Help yourself. I'll get something outside when you're in the bath."

"You're too good to me."

"It's true," he said. "But then, I'm married to a genius. So perhaps I'm not good enough."

The full story can be found in our current issue, Fiction 56. Please follow the 'subscribe' link for information on ordering.