19

BROWN

(Christmas chapter)

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The next song starts, and as one of the analysts starts his loud solo – something about working hard to make a living – Celeste’s back disappears behind the bar.

I hate this.

What kind of an office drinks party is split in two?

No wonder all of their chosen songs are about hard work or working hard, or working for a man, and Benton probably hasn’t even registered the intentional message there. He’s been busy chatting with a new consultant from LA, while persistently ordering bottle after bottle of scotch.

I get up to go to the bathroom, hoping to catch another sight of Celeste.

And I’m not the only one.

Two of Benton’s accountants have also started eyeing her table.

I might be wrong, but I think I overhear one of them saying, “I think she’s married, but who knows.”

I don’t want to make a scene.

So, I hope that she’ll see me, and we will somehow – as per our usual Mr. and Mrs. Brown routine – collide somewhere completely accidentally.

I cross the wide stage area, glancing at their table more than once. But her back is turned to me, and all I can see is the same sleek black dress she wore sneaking into my office earlier today.

Of course, I knew about their annual Secret Santa gifts thing.

Beth kind of ran it by me, indirectly offering me to join, heavily hinting at the fact that I should basically buy something for herbecause, being my personal assistant, she’s the closest co-worker working directly with me, unless you count Benton during our Monday morning meetings and all these outings.

“I’m not really a Secret Santa guy,” I shrugged and declined.

But I’m not a Scrooge guy either.

And I don’t need any secrecy.

I buy presents for everyone every year. Usually, a week before the holidays commence – not too soon to be forgotten and not too late that you might actually miss a few early holidayers.

About a week ago, I took a walk around the block to buy some calendars – my usual present for anyone I kind of know but not enough to buy a personal present for, besides people in finance usually appreciate any reminder of time (time makes them more money) – and I spotted various calendars with daily quotes for success. I couldn’t help myself; it was such an obvious gift for Benton. But as I was filling my basket with a bunch of calendars, a curious thought hit me, and I opened one to see what the next year’s July 18 would say.

SMALL STEPS EVERY DAY

Somehow that is exactly how my being here in New York has felt all these months. And that is how I wished Celeste felt about her life right now as well.

I had to buy it for her.

But then the sales lady asked me if I wanted it gift-wrapped, and none of her Christmas boxes felt special enough.

“Actually, I have a bit of a different idea.” I looked around the store. “Do you by any chance sell picture frames?”

I ripped out the page with the date and framed it in a gold-colored frame, instructing the sales lady to tie a red bow around it.

On my way back to the office, I nearly chickened out of gifting it to Celeste. It suddenly felt way too personal and corny.

But then she walked into my office right after the lunch break today, while I was deep in conversation with one of Benton’s lawyers about something I can’t even remember now because, my God, the second I saw that short black dress, hanging off her hips in a bell shape. Those long legs gliding ever so quietly closer and closer to my desk, I nearly dropped my phone.

There were actual bells ringing in my ears when she mouthed Secret Santa to me.

How I wish it was much later and emptier when she chose to visit my office.

Well, it’s much later now, but more crowded all around us.

I find my seat and decide to wait it out.

The evening is turning wild, though.

Most of the people around Benton’s table have ventured into slurred speech central. It’s clear that Benton’s idea of any kind of business outing means enormous overeating and getting wasted on one or another whiskey. Plus, tonight it also means a detour with a truckload of fried food platters and an occasional order of mini hamburgers.

For a second, my mind wants to do a quick math to figure out how much this fund would gain if he took his partying budget and invested it in some high-risk stock.

Sure, he could lose it all. But who’s the big winner after all the fried food and hangovers?

The band goes through an entire repertoire of songs about hard work – Benton still hasn’t so much as glanced in the direction of the stage.

His main verse tonight seems to be Let’s Grow the Money Tree…the bigger the better, aha aha!

By 11 p.m., the band takes on a smooth jazz routine, and people finally start getting up and either waddling towards the exit or simply leaning against each other for support.

I glance over the bar at Celeste’s table, grateful that she’s also still lingering around.

“Good night, my new friend.” Benton leans in and shakes my hand. I kind of suspect that my eyes are a little bit higher than my chin.

“Night. And Merry Christmas if I don’t see you anymore.”

“That’s right. Chrissmastimeitisss.” He staggers off towards the door.

I walk around the bar, but Celeste is still surrounded by way too many people.

I’m running out of ideas and time, but not hope.

Something catches my eye, and I have this sudden urge to play something.

I walk up to the stage and approach the nearest player, grateful the song’s just ended.

“Good evening,” I point to the saxophone in his hands. “I was wondering if I might be able to borrow your beautiful instrument for a good night wish for my very special friend.”

The sax guy looks me up and down. “You play?” he squints at me.

“A few notes.” I try to appear composed.

“Only the good ones, I hope.” He pulls his hand out of his pocket and hands me a neatly wrapped mouthpiece. “It’s brand new, don’t worry.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Go right ahead.” He nods at the other band members to give me the stage.

I screw on the mouth piece, trying it for size. It’s more or less perfect.

It’s been so many years since I last held a saxophone in my hands that I’m hoping this will be a sort of sense memory, or like riding a bike.

The lights have dimmed, but I can still see Celeste’s table clearly.

Everyone’s gone, but there’s a small group of people still gathering by the exit. All I can do is hope that she’s one of those people, and that this will make her look up and linger behind.

I take a deep breath – mostly for courage, not just air – and give the gentle instrument my best blow.

The sound is both familiar and excitingly foreign.

It’s like smoking an illegal cigar, letting the delicious vapor burn your nostrils on its way out.

I’m not as good as I’d hoped. Plus, I only know My Funny Valentine.

The sax guy is probably rolling his eyes right about now. But I don’t care.

This is kind of fun even if I’m doing it just for me.

Or for you, Father.

I’m playing your favorite tune in New York City – your town. Even if you’re no longer around to hear it.

The round and silky notes that surround the air around me make me remember the few gentle words we exchanged before my bedtimes during all the Christmases at home from various boarding schools.

I stretch it out, blowing my heart into that mouthpiece, expecting for it to reach the farthest depths of his soul wherever it’s transitioned by now. In the fractions of mathematical uncertainty that string together nano seconds of time, I make myself believe it’s a possible thing to feel someone whose body is dead to the world still feel alive somehow by your side.

And then, I simply let go of everything I think or want, or believe, or wish, creating intoxicating musical whispers of all that is now and here.

When the song finally ends, I quietly hand the instrument back to its owner and with an unintentional sigh thank him.

“No problem,” his expression is unreadable. But I doubt he lends his sax to strangers often, so maybe this is a tad uncomfortable, and he only did it because it’s Christmas, and our party paid a rather large tab.

I step down from the stage as they start a new routine, and grab my coat to leave.

This obviously isn’t a late-night spot, judging by the few people seated at the bar.

I scan each and every one of them, still hoping to spot that familiar black dress.

Nope.

I put on my coat and stride towards the bright green Exit sign.

I’m almost by the door when I hear Celeste’s friendly tone inquiring, “Ehkm, excuse me…but aren’t you the famous Mr. Brown, the sax player?”

I spin around, and she walks up to me.

“Where did you come from?” I can’t help grinning like an idiot.

This night has been a real torture sitting so far and not being able to talk to her.

“I was wondering if I could get your autograph or maybe…”

“Or maybe I walk my fans home?”

She blinks animatedly. “Oh my, what an offer. How can I refuse!”

“How many drinks have you had?” I pull the door open for her.

“Too many. And almost none of them were good.”

I let the door go behind us and examine her.

I can’t help it. Her face, those dark blue eyes and the way she opens her mouth only halfway with that foxy smile.

I want to kiss her.

But I also don’t want to ruin this moment.

Plus, the last time I tried that didn’t end too well.

“Wanna walk for a while maybe?” I offer. “I think the cold air might do us both good.”

“Un-Bentonize us, you mean?” She laughs.

We walk in silence for a few minutes, not really feeling like this silence is something we need to fill with words. I love that about her company – it’s light and easy, and I never need to think much.

Even when we talk, things just come to me, and I say them aloud. I don’t think I’ve shared that with anyone else, not even my own family.

Especially not my parents.

“What’s your favorite Christmas song?” she suddenly asks. “I mean, in Switzerland, what do you listen to around the holidays?”

“Let me think,” I can’t just admit our house was forever dead-silent if you don’t count the curt diplomacies exchanged over the dinner table before everyone retreated to their rooms. “I think maybe the Bing Crosby one about a white Christmas.”

She starts humming it, the tenderness of her beautiful voice coming through the soothing tune.

“I think it’s something…I don’t know, not ironic exactly, but special maybe, that you like birds so much while your voice sounds like that.”

“Like how?” she glances at me sideways in alert.

“It’s very…” my own voice catches, and I have to cough to clear my throat. I hope she doesn’t translate it as me being lost for words. “It’s velvety and smooth somehow. Not the typical commercial high pitch either, I like that. I mean, the way you sing; it feels intoxicating.”

Silence.

She keeps looking at her boots.

“Those are some lovely boots, too. Equally velvety.” I finally break the silence.

“No, it’s just.” She looks up, and I can see that her eyes are misty. “I’m sorry. Holidays and all.”

I can see her desperately trying to blink away the tears. When that doesn’t work, she wipes her face with her hand.

When she regains her calm, she clears her throat and quietly explains, “I was a lead singer in a band back in college.”

“That explains it.”

“Yeah, it’s just…”

“Life happened and all.”

“No,” she looks up at the sky. “No, actually Wes happened. And he sort of killed it for me. There are no stars tonight.”

“Celeste, I don’t think you’d see stars any good night around here with all the light pollution.”

“A lot less of it in winter.” She says hopefully.

We turn a corner onto 59th Street, and I can’t help realizing we’re taking the same route as the first night we met.

“Same streets, different times.” She nods, reading my mind.

I nod along.

“So much has changed in these five months.” She concludes.

I let that sink in for a while, giving her ample time to do the same.

“Celeste,” I wait until she looks at me, “has your choice between a promise and happiness changed?”

“I don’t know.” She mutters quietly. “It’s Christmas. You want to believe miracles are possible, right?”

She looks so ravishing right now, her face under a warm glow of the nightly lamppost. And her desire to save all that commitment is simply admirable.

But it’s not realistic and also totally irrational, someone as smart as Celeste should understand that by now.

“Do you love him?” I hear my own voice, not quite believing I actually just asked her the one question I vowed not to ask.

But I need to know.

With her expression so pensive I can’t help remembering our first conversation on the first night we met when she started comparing making a promise to someone you love to fighting for freedom.

She’s a big peace fighter, that’s clear.

Except, I know better, and there’s no peace.

If you marry someone for life, it can only be a quiet battle. It literally turns your life into an unspoken war.

The minutes of silence that pass between us feel like the heaviest, most sexually charged lust suppression I have ever experienced with anyone. It’s like the significance of her response is some metaphorical life or death sentence to my pride.

I want to kiss her so much right now and hail the first cab to take her to my townhouse.

But if she still hopes and believes, and God bless her if she cares to restore her current corpse of a marriage, then it’s not fair for either of us.

As we stand on the corner of 59th and Sixth with only inches between our coats, we’re also still worlds apart when it comes to our perspectives.

She finally starts slowly walking towards the Upper East Side. She’s going home.

To him.

I sigh heavily, but catch up.

I’m a gentleman, and I will walk her home nonetheless.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. When we reach Fifth Avenue, she comes to a stop in front of an unfamiliar building.

Could it be…she’s not with him anymore…

She turns towards me and, for a second, I think she might kiss me good night.

Like for real.

But she locks my eyes and asks, “Where did you learn to play saxophone like that?”

I feel taken aback; I wasn’t expecting her to ask me something like this. “Swiss boarding school.”

She nods.

“No, actually…” I smile, remembering the person who insisted I learned this one song on a classic instrument. “There was this old guy. I think he was either the music teacher’s brother or husband. He used to visit the campus a lot, hang around the school band. I was such a math geek back then. I totally thought I’d learn to play the guitar to get all the babes.”

She bursts into laughter, filling the air between us with white smoke.

“Did it work?”

“Oh, yeah.” I shake my head, mouthing a clear NO! “Anyway, this guy, I think Gustav was his name. He comes up to me one day holding his sax, and he says, I wanna show you something. And he sits down next to me and starts playing…”

“My Funny Valentine.” We finish the sentence in unison.

Our eyes stay locked.

Without breaking the moment, she leans in and very gently kisses me on the cheek, whispering in my ear, “Remember? It doesn’t end like this.”

And with that, she turns around and rather graciously walks up the few steps to the unfamiliar building door.

Celeste departs, leaving my own words lingering behind, the same suggestive whisper I gave to her while we were entertaining my investors from Italy.

And she’s clearly not living with Wes anymore?!

I walk back down to Sixth Avenue and glance at the dark depths of Central Park. I raise my hand and hail a cab in the old-fashioned way, for some reason imagining my father doing just that on another pre-Christmas night in another lifetime, but maybe this same corner.

His choices led him away from here to somewhere else.

Mine have brought me back here.

I get into the landmark yellow taxi and glance back towards Celeste’s new building, a warm sensation spreading to the back of my head.

It most certainly doesn’t end like this.