Free Eighty Days Blue by Vina Jackson Page A

too.’
    â€˜That’s good to hear. It’s always tough taking over, especially from someone more experienced. I never know whether to be soft or firm, how to win respect without being the bad guy.’
    â€˜Well, I’m enjoying having you here.’
    Perhaps it was the excitement from tonight’s music that made me keep talking.
    â€˜Would you like to get a drink?’
    He stared at me, making up his mind. I hadn’t ever considered dating any of my previous conductors – they’d all been well into their older years – so I wasn’t sure what the ethics were. Besides, it wouldn’t be a date, just two travellers having a drink together. I guessed he must be new in the city too.
    â€˜Sure,’ he said with a grin.
    We went to an Italian café on Lexington. I ordered an affogato, vanilla ice cream with coffee and a shot of Cointreau. The waiter, an American Italian with a booming voice and an electric-blue apron, served it on a tray, the ice cream in a stemless martini glass sitting atop a white saucer with a red napkin and a long-handled silver spoon alongside, the piping-hot espresso and the liqueur lined up behind in shot glasses. He poured the liquid over the top of the ice cream with a flourish and then returned with two biscotti on a plate.
    Simón eyed my elaborate concoction and then his own simple glass of red wine.
    â€˜I feel a little jealous,’ he said.
    I handed him the spoon. ‘Go ahead, please.’
    He paused before accepting this gesture of intimacy and taking a spoonful. ‘Hmm, it’s good.’
    I took the spoon back, the stem still warm from the touch of his hand, though the scoop was icy cold.
    â€˜In Venezuela,’ he said, ‘we eat coconut and caramel for dessert.’
    He enunciated the ‘c’ in each word in a way that suggested that he was thinking of something else, hotter than coconut or caramel, but the expression in his eyes was nothing more than warm and friendly. If he was flirting, I couldn’t be certain.
    â€˜An excellent combination. How long have you lived in New York?’
    â€˜I was born here. My mother worked on Wall Street. She met my father on holiday. He was playing in a band. He emigrated to be with her but never managed to settle in, so we moved back to South America when I was a child. They’re still there. I spent most of my childhood travelling between the two cities. I studied music in Caracas. Began by learning the violin . . .’
    â€˜Oh? Why did you give it up?’
    â€˜I wasn’t very good at it. I was always distracted when I was playing by the sound of the rest of the orchestra. I wanted to control everything.’
    I laughed. ‘A natural conductor, then.’
    â€˜I suppose so. You play very well, you know. You play like a Latina. You have passion.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ I demurred.
    â€˜I’m not just flattering you. But you’re hemmed in by the constraints of an orchestra. Your sound would work better alone, solo.’
    â€˜That’s very kind of you, but I don’t know if I could. I’d be terrified on stage alone.’
    â€˜You would get used to it. I think you’d enjoy it.’
    He reached out his hand and for a moment I thought he was going to take my hand in his, but instead he picked up the spoon and took another mouthful of ice cream.
    Did he mean it? I wondered. My modesty was only true to a point. I would love to play solo for an audience, though the prospect scared as much as it excited me.
    We sat in silence for an awkward few seconds. I scraped the remaining drips of my dessert up with my finger, my focus on the melting ice cream to distract from the sudden discomfort between us.
    â€˜I’ve enjoyed the last few weeks,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘I like the American composers. Philip Glass, particularly.’
    â€˜That’s good,’ he laughed. ‘Though I don’t think