Disclaimer: The main characters don't belong to me, but the rest does.
Listening: "Ian Bostridge - Britten: Songs - Sonneto XXXVIII (Music Clip)"
—
Dear Diary,
Last night, I sent Mr. Destler an email.
It read:
"Dear Erik,
I just wanted to check if you were alright. So, are you?
If you're not too busy, it would be nice if you could come have tea at our apartment this afternoon.
Yours truly,
Christine"
I struggled a bit with "Mr. Destler" vs. "Erik", but the purpose of the email was to be comforting, so the latter won out. I also realized after sending it that the "yours truly" was a bit weird, but oh well.
After sending it, I went to sleep.
When I got up this morning, - around 10, it being a Saturday,- I found that Mr. Destler had already answered:
"Dear Christine,
I am fine, thank you for asking. I think I was just a bit tired.
Actually, would you and your father like to have tea at my apartment for a change? I could come pick you up. Please let me know.
Yours always,
Erik"
On the one hand, I was intrigued to see what his apartment looked like, but on the other hand, I felt slightly wary. I decided to ask Dad about it over breakfast. After all, the invitation was for the both of us.
"Dad? Mr. Destler invited us to have tea at his house this afternoon."
He smiled absentmindedly. "That's nice."
"What should I tell him?"
"I don't know, darling," he said, as he meticulously buttered his toast, with an air of absolute concentration.
"Dad! Do you want to go?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, I have work to do…" He took a bite from his toast. "But you go, and have fun."
"But wouldn't it be a little strange to go alone?"
He shrugged again.
After breakfast, I went back to my room, and sat down in front of my computer to reply to Mr. Destler's email. I would have to decline, of course.
But I couldn't find any way of phrasing it that didn't bring to mind the unbearable image of Mr. Destler's tears.
So I wrote:
"Thank you for the invitation. Dad can't come, but I can. Should I bring anything? Also, when should I expect you?"
He responded five minutes later, saying that there was no need for me to bring anything, and that he would be picking me up at 4 o'clock.
By this time, it was already noon. I prepared a salad for lunch, which we ate at 1, then I set myself to getting ready.
I was feeling strangely nervous, almost giddy, and I couldn't decide what to wear. I combed my hair painstakingly, and spent quite some time fixing my makeup. (I always tend to stress about being a guest at other people's houses, and Mr. Destler was a teacher!)
I just had time to bake some cookies and stack them neatly into a box, and then it was 4 o'clock and I ran downstairs.
Mr. Destler's Mercedes was waiting. I got in, feeling very self-conscious.
"Hi."
"Good afternoon, Christine."
Some Britten song was playing on the radio, and somehow it made me even more nervous than I already was. For the first time, I found the smell of Mr. Destler's cologne unsettling. Incapable of small talk, I looked out the window.
It was a nice winter's day. The sun shone brightly in a clear sky, and the air was crisp. A layer of fresh snow covered the sidewalks, like icing on a cake. I found myself regretting that Christmas was past.
The car eventually stopped in front of a respectable-looking, three-story red brick building.
We got out of the car, and into the building.
Mr. Destler lived on the third floor. Apparently, each floor was rented as an individual apartment, and his was the top one. When we got to the third floor, he unlocked the door, and stepped aside to let me in.
His apartment had tall ceilings and windows, white walls, and the room we were in was elegantly empty, except for a few pieces of furniture and a baby grand piano. It was a nice apartment, and lighter than I'd expected, but the emptiness was a little depressing.
On a low coffee table, he had set out an array of expensive-looking cakes and pastries. Next to the table was an odd couple: a big black leather armchair, and a foldable picnic chair.
Seeing me stare at that last item, Mr. Destler said apologetically: "I'm not used to receiving guests. I would have moved the piano bench over, but that would have looked odd."
The picnic chair certainly didn't look odd.
He gestured for me to sit in the armchair. I did so after placing my box of cookies on the coffee table, feeling a little self-conscious about how inelegant it looked next to the rest of the sweets.
Mr. Destler briefly left the room to set the water to boil, and when he came back, we had the most fascinating conversation about Schubert's 'Winterreise', while I ate far too many cakes.
At some point, Mr. Destler walked over to the piano the illustrate a point, and then we were singing and playing for about three quarters of an hour.
The thought of neighbors crossed my mind eventually (it didn't look like there was any sound insulation), so I asked him:
"What are your neighbors like? I suppose they can hear you playing?"
He shrugged. "There's only an old lady living in the apartment below us. She mostly keeps to herself, and has never bothered me."
An old lady. Alone…
"Mister - Erik, do you suppose she'd like some cookies?"
He looked at me with some surprise, but said: "I can't see why not…" He seemed very pleased with me. "Good thinking, Christine!"
We went downstairs, and rang at her door.
An elegant little old lady of about eighty peeped her head out of the door, and had quite a fright at the sight of Mr. Destler's tall masked figure. "Oh dear me!" But then I spoke, and she seemed reassured.
She seemed very grateful for the cookies, and the company, and since she was already a great admirer of Mr. Destler's playing and had heard us singing earlier, she had us sing excerpts from "West Side Story" to her. She has a nice upright piano, perfectly tuned, (in case her son visits - "he's quite good, you know,") and Mr. Destler and I did a good job of the "Tonight" duet.
I had the usual dreamy reaction to Mr. Destler's singing. I mean, come on: "Always you, every thought I'll ever know, everywhere I go, you'll be!" in a rich, masculine voice… A girl has to swoon a little, if she has a heart!
Anyway, the old lady's name is Ruthie, and we shall be visiting her again next week!
Mr. Destler drove me home around 9 in the evening, and we parted good friends. All is well!
