Ivan’s Wife is almost in the edit stage. Hardest ending ever. But, who likes simple? Not me. I’ve enjoyed the characters and the crazy parallels. In this excerpt, Dimitri finds his private room invaded. There is an interesting parallel at the end he won’t see coming.
I carefully set down my mother’s picture and listened. It had to be my imagination, like waking up in the middle of the night thinking you’d heard a suspicious noise downstairs. But, when I turned toward the door, I noticed two shadows poised like evil specters in the hallway. It was true. My sanctuary had been invaded.
And the door had no lock.
Another knock. A little heavier this time. But, still oddly rhythmic. Not a man’s knock. One knuckle. Three taps. Hardly a demand to open the door but not tentative either.
“Shit,” I whispered, feeling blood rush like storm troopers to my head. Prickly sensations crept through my body as every muscle readied for battle. Anna. No way could I allow her to get away with invading my private space. A place that, until now, was known only to me. The safe haven where I talked with my mother.
Two more chapters and Ivan’s Wife is finished. The final two chapters are challenging but my characters will come through. In this chapter, Dimitri arrives in Moscow for his father’s long awaited opera.
It was easy to get lost in the magic of the old theatre. I could feel the creative presence of musicians taking the stage to share their art with theatre goers over the last two centuries. Whether it was war or famine, triumph or sorrow, music had the ability to touch the hearts of friends and enemies in much the same way. A myriad of emotions, nurtured through the passing of time, rippled through the theatre and quieted my racing heart. If only music could have united my father and me—if only for a time.
I have thoroughly enjoyed Dimitri. He was a pleasure to develop and I’m not ready to let him go. Thankfully, I have one more edit before the book goes to print.
One of the characters in Ivan’s Wife is a mysterious young girl who comes to live with her uncle after her father’s death. Dimitri doesn’t trust her and suspects she is working against him. When she shows a rare vulnerability, he wonders if there is more to her peculiar behavior.
I admired the palms and the way the shadowy fans stood like giant tarantulas against the night sky. The patio, where Clarissa and I often dined, had a muted glow. Consuelo must have put some wood in the fireplace; my wife always did that when she had something to celebrate. No doubt she was drinking champagne with Ivan to celebrate the funding for her upcoming movie. The veranda, with its towering trees and flaming torches, was the perfect spot for the party of two.
Of course, I was avoiding my niece. I waited for her to utter some deft comment and dart off. But she didn’t. She lingered, slumped with her hair draped in front of her face like a black veil, idly kicking the dirt. She was silent, other than an occasional exhale. With her arms wrapped around herself and her head bowed, she seemed much younger than her fifteen years.
Her eyes were watery and teardrops dangled from her nose and lips like beads on a chandelier. She buried her face in her hands.
My heart fluttered aimlessly in my chest as I stepped back, gawking at the stranger in front of me. Questions dangled in my mind like a game of hangman. Was this a trick? This was not the girl I’d known for a year. Was she laughing behind the tears? Another one of Ivan’s plots? After all, she showed up minutes after my father left. This had to be an act. Ivan bobbed and weaved like a prizefighter; I, however, felt like a fool navigating with rudders in the sand. Her abrupt personality change had to be a trick. No one could change that fast.
Ivan, a famous and celebrated composer, sees his son, Dimitri, as a failure. He discounts him not only for his mental problems but his lack of musical abilities. But, growing up under the weight and criticism of a Svengali only pushes Dimitri’s talent into the shadows. In this scene, we see how Dimitri feels about the music his father could never see.
“Good,” I said, turning back to Delia. There was something about her. She sat with her long graceful arms in her lap, so still yet fluid, her beautiful face holding onto a sight that no one else could see. Every so often, her lips would part as she mouthed the words, “NussunDorma,” an Italian song of love often sung at weddings. I wondered if it might be their song, symbolizing the love she had for her husband. Music stirred people. I’d seen it many times at the restaurant. Many a man and woman dropping their composure over a song, peeling back the shell that life destroyed and exposing the soul that made them human. I’d seen a song transform a monotone heart into an eager kiss full of fire and raging desire.
I took a deep breath, moving my hands in small circles to warm them. Nussundorma was not easily transformed into a solo piano piece. I steadied myself, feeling the keys beneath my fingers as I mouthed the words, “None shall sleep, even you, oh, Princess.” The emotion of the piece took over, breaking the silence of the room, filling me. The notes seemed to touch my fingers and spread outward, melancholic yet stirring. The space between the music and the world disappeared.