”Dublin was asleep beneath its streetlights, the autumn night foggy with dreams, while son and father played on. They did not look up from the board, nor did Philip remark when the scent of the lilies arose and filled the room. He breathed their perfume and kept his gaze fixed on the queen, recalling how Anne, too, had smelled of those flowers, and realizing there and then that life repeats itself over and over, and that, though the game might change, its patterns were the same, his son’s loving was his own, and it would be morning before Stephen exhausted himself telling of it and fell across the chessboard asleep.”
Years of living together since Philip’s wife - Stephen’s mother – had passed in a car accident with Stephen’s young sister’s life taken as well, both victims of a drunken priest’s recklessness who walked away with barely a bruise to show for the damage he’d done to this family, a night that had left the two of them emotionally bruised, and eventually emotionally, and physically distant.
The father going through his days bitter for the opportunities he lost to be a better father and husband, regretful for the nights he hid behind his newspaper until it was too late to tuck them in and tell them goodnight, it was too late to tell them he loved them. It was too late for too much, all the things he had not done. He came to believe that his failings were so numerous that God had no choice but to rebuke him in this way.
”He breathed the death in the living room air, the sorrow that lingered in the stairs, until it got inside him. He never knew that a small man could carry so much grief and was amazed that the years did not diminish it but amplified it, until the day three years ago when he had woken up and realized with a huge sigh of peace that at least he was dying. “
And so they lived this way, Philip quietly removing himself from life, and Stephen, never having remembered him any other way, quietly goes his own way, by now a grown man who is a bit awkward and shy, a teacher living on the west side of Ireland.
As if by a miracle, Stephen finds himself at a concert one night, one that features a violinist, Gabriella Castoldi. A concert that changes his life, as though he’d been put under a spell the moment she picked up her bow to play.
”He, too, had been taken from himself by the music; the music offered an invisible opening to another place, and through it, like a secret river, flowed the frustrations, sorrows, and ceaseless longings of everyone there. For each of them, it became the music of themselves.”
After the concert, he stops in a music shop and buys the only copy of any Vivaldi music there, The Four Seasons unable to leave the music completely behind, he brings it home the only way he knows how.
“He had something tangible of the evening and felt an easement of the pressure of desire, knowing that once the music was playing, once he could sit and listen to it, Gabriella Castoldi would be with him again.”
As time passes, lives will connect and some will even re-connect, and their stories will become one love story that encompasses all the different ways of love, and the ways that love is shown, shared, and shaped, through music.
This was quietly beautiful, and, for me, a lovely trip down memory lane, re-visiting through his travels, so many of the places in Ireland that I’ve been and long to be once again. Delightful occasions of happenstance, some delicious prose, and a captivating story, this is a story of love in its many forms and how that changes as we change. A parent’s love for a child, how that relationship changes as the child becomes a man, a man’s love for his father, and his love for a woman who has opened his soul as though she held the key. The way that love changes our vision and the way we see ourselves, how love emboldens us to take on the challenge of a new way of looking at life, at our past choices, and the ones available to us that may change our future. Enhanced by a sprinkling of magical realism, more of a hint than a heavy dose, I was swept away to Ireland once again.