But the Saki wasn't there tonight. I found it under S.
It's just a little thing, of course. Utterly trivial. Nothing else in here is out of place, that I can see. Nothing's missing. But it means that somebody must have been in here today – somebody who went through my books (maybe my other things as well) amp;, not knowing Saki was Munro, misfiled it.
Can't believe it was Sarr or Deborah. They've always been respectful of my privacy here, and anyway, when could they have come in? I can't remember a time today (except dinner, of course) when I wasn't here, either in this room or right outside the door.
Oh, well, maybe I'm wrong; maybe the heat's getting to me. I suppose I might have stuck the book back in the wrong place myself, late last night when I was sleepy, or when I was working today.
Just to play safe, though, I'm going to start hiding this journal. There are too many things I wouldn't want either one of them to read – I mean, all those stupid daydreams about Deborah…
I can hear them at their prayers right now, over in the farmhouse; until just a few minutes ago they'd been singing hymns. Comforting, to hear sounds like that on a night as dark as this.
But when I think about them poking around in here amp; then not telling me, it gets my dander up.
Meant to write a letter to Carol tonight, after putting it off for several days, but now I'm just too tired. I'll probably have trouble getting to sleep, though; my eyes itch amp; I can't stop sniffing. Must be the dampness.
He was waiting for her at the subway stop in front of the Dakota, a picnic basket on the ground beside him. He brightened when he saw her. 'Carol,' he said, waving his hands for emphasis, 'you look like a dryad come to life.'
'A what?'
'A wood nymph, a tree maiden.'
She laughed. 'Thank you. I feel like I just stepped out of "La Sylphide." Or maybe the Saint Patrick's Day parade!'
She was all in green tonight – in that beautiful green dress he had bought her, beautiful even if the fit was a little loose and the hem a little too high, with green shoes she'd discovered in Rochelle's closet, and even a green scarf at her throat. The scarf she had thought of herself, just before leaving the apartment, knowing that Rosie would be pleased. She was beginning to anticipate his taste.
Of course, she had white on underneath. But even the most puritanical man in the world couldn't object to that; absolutely nothing showed through the tightly woven material of the dress. In fact, she had been a bit daring tonight and hadn't even put on a bra; it was all in perfectly good taste, of course, it wasn't as if anyone could actually see anything, but when she breathed she could feel the dress rub ever so lightly against her nipples, so that they stood out against the cloth. She had never walked around this way before. It felt good, now that she'd done it. It felt good to know that men would be watching her, wanting her, good to know that she was desirable to them. Slowly but surely, she told herself, I'm coming along…
'Come,' he said,*we want to get a good seat.' He reached for her hand. He had already picked up the basket, an old-fashioned wicker one with a blanket folded over the top and the handle of his umbrella peeping out in front. Together they crossed the street to the park.
Crowds of people were already streaming in the same direction, moving up the paths toward the Great Lawn. Most of them, like Rosie, were carrying baskets or tote bags or blanket rolls.
'I've never been to one of these before,' said Carol, as they passed beneath the trees. It felt strange, to be walking through what was virtually a forest in the midst of all these people.
'You don't know what you've been missing,' said Rosie. 'This is the way music's meant to be heard, underneath the stars.'
She looked up. There were no stars yet – the sun would not be going down for almost an hour – but behind the canopy of branches the sky was already growing dark.
'They're up there,' said Rosie. 'Take my word for it.'
The trees suddenly gave way, and before them lay the broad expanse of the Great Lawn, acres of it, already covered with human figures. She couldn't remember ever having seen so many people gathered together, except in pictures of Woodstock. It’s like a religious event, she thought, with a feeling of excitement, and she was suddenly very happy about being here, among all these people, not just in the park, but happy about being in New York where special things like this could happen, happened all the time.
'Do you want to sit up close,' Rosie was saying, as they picked their way among the people and the blankets, 'or is halfway back okay?'
'Oh, this is fine,' she said.
He stopped at the first open spot of ground and, with a flourish, laid out the blanket. Reaching into the basket, he began to pull out paper plates and silverware.
'Wait till you see the dinner I've packed!'
There was French bread, and goose-liver pate, and deviled eggs, and cold chicken, and Rosie's own sweet golden wine, and strawberry tarts for dessert. It was absolutely perfect, like a dream, almost, to be sitting here on Rosie's blanket among this happy crowd (some of them surely envying her right now, it was such an extravagant dinner), with the food spread out before them and the band shell in the distance and, behind it, the towers of Central Park South glowing gold in the sunset.
They were still eating, finishing the last of the wine, when the orchestra began to take its seats. She could hear it tuning up, one instrument at a time, then increasing in volume and complexity until the sound swelled into a wave.
Suddenly applause swept the crowd, and heads turned; the conductor had appeared. There was an interlude of silence – and then the music began, a gaily seductive piece that made her want to sway her body in time. 'It's Dvorak,' Rosie whispered. ' "Slavonic Dances." Afterward I'll play you something even nicer.'
'On what?'
He smiled. 'You'll see.'
It was dark now, with the only light coming from the band shell and the distant buildings. She looked in vain for a moon.
'Sorry,' said Rosie. 'No moon tonight.' She hadn't realized he'd been watching her.
'That's a shame,' she said. 'I would have liked a full moon overhead. It would have been just the right touch.'
He shrugged. 'This month has two full moons, one at the beginning, one at the end, which makes it pretty special. Right now you'll just have to make do with starlight.'
The stars had come out – the brighter ones, at least, that could penetrate the haze – by the time the orchestra reached the second half of the program.
' "The Rite of Spring," ' said Rosie, as the haunting tones of a bassoon floated in the air.
'I know,' she said. 'I love it. I've always wanted to see the ballet but never had the chance.'
'The inspiration for it was the image of a naked girl dancing round and round before the elders of her tribe – round and round until she died.'
Her heart beat faster. 'Yes,' she said, 'I can picture it.'
The night grew even darker as the piece progressed; the crowd was still and silent. Lying back on Rosie's blanket and gazing up at the sky, Carol found it easy to forget where she was, and where the strange, discordant music was coming from, with its undertone of menace and ancient evil. At times she almost imagined it was directed at her alone.
Toward the end, as the woodwinds became strident and the kettledrums pounded like a pulse beat, he turned to her again. She sensed him looking down at her in the darkness.
'Carol, you're not tired yet, are you?'
'No. Why?'
'I just thought, since you're lying down… '
'No, honestly, I was just enjoying the music' Had she somehow offended him? She sat up.
'Then you're not tired?'
'Not at all.'
'Good.'
Suddenly, with a drumbeat and a blare of horns, the music ended. The meadow echoed with applause, and then people around them were standing, folding blankets, and pushing slowly through the darkness toward the paths out of the park.