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“How much?”
“One hundred dollars.”
“That’s too much!”
“Yes, but she wanted us arrested. The cop had better things to do. He talked her into taking the money. Now let’s forget about it. We have a filing cabinet! Hurrah!”
“Hurrah!” I put all of the music into the drawers. We admire the filing cabinet for a few more minutes, then I lock the closet door, and we go downstairs to make dinner.
Later, Alba stands in the dark living room, staring out the front window at the blizzard. I embrace her from behind and look out over her shoulder. The whole world is filling up with snow.
“It was so strange seeing all the files at once,” Alba says. “I have to write faster.”
“You have time.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. Sometimes I have panic attacks because I can’t see a way forward—everything is so tangled . . .”
I wait for Alba to keep talking. Is she still thinking about music, or about Zach, and me, and her? “It’s so quiet tonight,” I say. “All the trains have stopped. Let’s play some music.”
She fetches her violin. “What do you want to play?”
I bring out the score, feeling shy. “I found this in the thrift store the last time I was here. Do you want to try it?” It’s Richard Strauss’s Violin Sonata in E-flat Major, Opus 18.
Alba scans the score and shakes her head. “You don’t ask for much. I bet you’ve been practicing this without me?”
“I might have run through it once or twice.”
“You are incorrigible. All right. Let’s try it.” She tunes up, then plays through it alone. I listen carefully. Then we try it together. It is satisfyingly difficult for both of us. Strauss wrote this duet when he was first in love with Pauline de Ahna, the soprano who became his wife. Our instruments sound beautiful together; the piano happens to be in tune. We play for a long time. When we stop, Alba stands with her eyes closed for a moment, then lowers her violin. I stand up, go to her and put my hands on her shoulders. She is trembling.
“Will you marry me?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “I will. Yes.”
Lucky Day
Thursday, May 14, 1981 (Alba is 27, Oliver is 26)
Oliver: I arrive in the back garden of the Yellow House early in the morning. My feet leave dark prints in the dew on the grass. This is my favorite sort of coming-to-the-house, when it’s very early and warm and birds are singing hard, auditioning for their mates-to-be. I stand still at the back door, listening, and then enter the house quietly. In the kitchen I see signs that Alba is here. A few dishes are stacked by the sink, waiting to be washed; a single wineglass sits on the table. I drink a little water from the tap and then pad through the house, up the stairs, and open the bedroom door carefully. Alba is asleep, curled toward the center of the bed, her face crushed into the pillows, her bare shoulder showing under the dark splay of her long hair. I insert myself between the sheets and Alba opens her eyes without quite waking. I stroke her arm. She turns onto her back and we lie there for a while as the sun angles over the houses and under the train tracks, into our room, onto the bed, so that our legs are warmer than our stomachs under the sheet.
“I knew you would be here today,” Alba says.
“How did you know?”
“We’re getting married today, Oliver.”
“Married! Today?” Although I know we are married, or will be married, I have never given much thought to how that might be achieved. I begin to worry. “Don’t we need papers? What about the rituals? Is today an auspicious date? Are you sure it is today?”
“Um. I’m not sure. Oliver.” Alba reaches over and draws me closer to her. “You’ve never mentioned any rituals. But our marriage license is stuck on the front of the fridge with a magnet, didn’t you notice?”
“Is it?” My panic must be evident on my face.
“Shh,” Alba whispers. “I have instructions. A list. In your handwriting.”
“Okay.” We find each other’s hands. Mine is sweaty. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do my best.”
I wonder what I should wear. I have suits here, but they are all muted shades, black, gray, tan; I even have a summer suit, but it is white linen. It would be unlucky to wear white or black, colors of mourning, to our wedding. I wander down the hall from the bathroom to my own room. When I open the door I see red: there is a red suit laid out on the bed. It’s a Western-style suit, but red! I laugh out loud and Alba says, “What?” from the bathroom. I show her the suit and explain about red, the color for brides and grooms in China. “It means good luck, prosperity,” I tell her. Alba nods. There’s a red dress hanging in her closet, just the right shade. We marvel at our future selves who have provided for us like xiǎo jīnglíng, anticipating all our needs.
Later in the morning, after we’ve had our coffee, showered, shaved, dressed and consulted the instructions repeatedly, we get on the El and ride downtown. Alba looks very fine in her red dress. It’s not a qipao, but it is the correct shade of red, nearly floor-length, and she has gold shoes! She has pinned her hair up; she is wearing lipstick and eye shadow. I have never seen Alba wear makeup. She looks very beautiful. We are terribly grand in our wedding clothes, and the other passengers smile at us.
