Sunrise By the Sea by Jenny Colgan

Chapter Seventy

The sun was directly in her eyes as she marched up the hill, which meant at first she couldn’t quite figure out what she was seeing.

The door was open to Alexei’s house, and there was a lot of noise. The next thing that happened was several large objects were hurled out of the house, including a pair of his boots and his treasured bust of Beethoven (Marisa hadn’t known who it was and had once asked ‘who is that angry-looking but quite handsome man?’ and Alexei had gone into rhapsodies), which smashed straight onto the stony ground in a million white pieces.

Marisa stood stock-still, not knowing what was happening. A loud voice, shouting, came from inside the house. It was obviously Russian and Marisa froze in case they weren’t actually shouting, in case this was just what Russian sounded like.

As a teapot hurtled through the door and followed the bust into shattering in pieces, Marisa winced. One, they were definitely angry, and two, that was her teapot that had crossed the balcony one day and somehow never made it home.

The next thing to appear in the doorway was a tiny person.

Marisa blinked in the light, but it was immediately clear who it was. The girl had an incredibly long neck, but the rest of her was absolutely tiny; a small heart-shaped face, little upturned nose, slender but muscular arms and legs, and a compact and incredibly strong-looking torso.

Her blonde hair was pinned ruthlessly tightly on her head, making her neck look even more swan-like than it did already, and her expression was absolutely furious. She didn’t stop yelling, kicking things out of her way, walking backwards – with utterly perfect posture and poise – down the steps, her feet slightly turned out like a duck.

She turned round at the bottom, hurling a few more insults back up the steps, then saw Marisa, who was conscious she was staring, and possibly had her mouth slightly open, so she closed it, instinctively shrinking back a little.

The tiny woman came up to her, frowning. Her lovely face was spoiled by its malicious, twisted expression. She looked Marisa up and down, several times, then in perfect English sniffed loudly and said, ‘Well. Obviously it’s not you.’

And without another word to explain herself, she flounced off down the hill, no bit of her fury denting the iron-rod straightness of her back.

All thoughts of getting changed forgotten, Marisa found herself running up the steps. What on earth had gone on?

At the entrance door she stopped. The beautiful sitting room was in utter disarray: tablecloths pulled down, books and papers a whirlwind, the piano lid slammed shut with papers trapped in it.

And there, in that same position and same place she had found herself that very first night, curled up, back to the wall, in the furthest corner of the apartment – was Alexei.

‘Alexei?’

He looked up, flinching. When he saw it was her, consternation flashed across his face.

‘Marisa . . . I . . .’

He extended a weak hand as if realising the impossibility of coming up with a reason for why things were how they were.

‘Are you all right? Why were you throwing things?’

He blinked his slow blink.

‘No. Not me throwink thinks.‘

Suddenly, and seemingly to his surprise, a tear rolled down his cheek.

‘Oh! Dearest!’

Marisa pulled a tissue from her bag, and in different circumstances he would have smiled, just a little, to see her as organised as ever (no registrar ever goes anywhere without a tissue).

‘Was that . . . Lara?’

He nodded.

‘What was she doing here?’ Marisa found herself asking, even though her heart was shrivelling, turning to dust inside her. She didn’t need to ask, not really. They’d had a reconciliation, obviously, because he had never been over her, obviously, and now they’d had a fight again, obviously, and now she’d broken his heart all over again, so he was back to square one, which meant that for all her goodwill and willingness to be brave and to live up to her new life – in fact, she couldn’t. She couldn’t have what she so desperately wanted.

She hid her face to hide how disappointed she was. Her friend was desperately sad, and it was her job to cheer him up.

‘She is dancink nearby. I said, come, see, maybe, what new life I haff.’

‘So she could share it?’ Marisa was incredibly impressed by what a good acting performance she was putting on, even as her heart felt like it was breaking. If she had the slightest doubt about the strength of her feelings for him, it was all gone, now, in an instant, now that everything was lost.

‘No. I do not know why. I think I want to say, look, how good I liff without you.’

‘She didn’t agree?’ ‘No.’

‘Oh. What did she say?’

‘Always. “Look at you in your little house with nobody to play for and there is people in St Petersburg and people in Moscow and you are here which is where it is nowhere! And your music is no good!”’

‘It’s not nowhere,’ said Marisa. ‘You love it here!’

‘She says I am very, very sad man.’

‘That’s not what it sounds like from my side of the wall,’ said Marisa.

‘She makes me feel so sad.’

Marisa sat down next to him against the wall. She barely came up to his shoulder. Her heart felt like it was breaking. But she still had to be a friend for him.

‘Well, when you are sad what do you normally do?’

He shrugged.

‘Music. But I am too sad for music.’

‘I cannot believe you are saying that.’

He stared at the floor, still distraught.

Marisa sighed. And took a deep breath.

The idea of doing what she was about to do would have felt utterly preposterous, even before she’d become ill. On the other hand, now she’d found her courage, it felt that she didn’t even know how many different ways she could push it if she wanted to. Well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

And although the man she had thought about so very much, who had become so dear to her, was sitting next to her, crying about some other stupid girl, she couldn’t help it. She was going to try and help him anyway. Because he had helped her, more than he knew.

As they sat there together, she cleared her throat, opened her mouth . . . and started to sing.

In the quietest, most mouse-like voice, barely audible. But it was singing, nonetheless.

E cedo a vostri desideri . . .

mi fai la tua amante. . .

At first he didn’t turn, didn’t react. Very softly, but tunefully, she carried on with her nonna’s favourite song, or at least her favourite song that wasn’t a hymn.

Lontano di noi sapienza

più tristezza

Her voice trembled but she thought hard about the words and their meaning:

Wisdom is so far from us . . . there is so much sadness . . . I want a precious instant . . . where we will be happy. I want you.

He turned to her.

‘That is beautiful,’ he said in his low growly voice.

Marisa shook her head.

‘It isn’t,’ she said. ‘I was just trying to reach you.’

‘Don’t stop.’

‘Do you understand the words?’

‘Of course.’

‘You speak Italian?’

‘That song is not Italian. Is everybody’s song.’

He stood up finally, and moved towards the piano, beckoning her, then sat down and began to play a simple waltz time.

‘Sing with me,’ he instructed.

‘This is so stupid that you know how to play everything.’

‘Everyone knows this,’ he said. Then he looked at her.

‘But your way is my favourite. Sing!’

She was shy now and was speaking more than singing. But somehow the words came to her, even as she realised how intimate they were.

Il mio corpo sia tuo

– that my body is yours

Il mio labbro sia tuo

– that my lips are yours

Il tuo cuore sia il mio

– that your heart will be mine . . .

But her voice remained true, and then Alexei took up the melody again, played it faster and faster till it sounded like an old-fashioned fairground ride, and she leant against him as he finished with a flourish and turned round, grabbing her and sitting her down on his knee.

‘Thank you. You haff cheered me up very much,’ he said.

‘We are two survivors clinging to a life raft,’ said Marisa, smiling. ‘I suppose we have to cheer each other up. That’s what friends are for.’

But, she thought. But I want to be so very much more than that. I planned so much more than that. Her heart had even leapt when the ballerina had looked to see if she was the person Alexei must have mentioned.

But then she had seen him. In the very depths of despair, completely cast asunder by love for somebody else.

As soon as she said the word ‘friends’ he let her go, as if she was burning him.

‘Yes,’ he muttered ‘Friends. Of course. That is what we are. Thank you. My friend.’

She was standing up.

‘I should go,’ she said. ‘I’m just off the plane.’

‘Yes! Oh no! Your nonna! Oh, my zaichik!’

He gave her a huge hug and she allowed herself, just for a moment, to feel totally lost once more in his arms, even if she contrasted it sadly with the last time she had stood there: when her nonna was still alive; when she had had so much hope.

‘I am so sorry. We shall cling to this life raft together, no?’

‘Yes.’