In England, Katherine mentioned she wanted to learn piano. They were visiting her parents for Christmas and in that quiet village out of London, Katherine reminisced about how she had tried to learn as a child.
“I loved to hear mum play and really wanted to do the same. But I just couldn’t put in the effort. I think it will be a really good thing for me if I can pull it off this time.”
Their lazy afternoons were filled like this. As they traipsed through the surrounding hills and tight horse trails that ran between houses, she would turn her gaze over to him in that way he adored and reveal a nook or cranny about herself. Even bundled in jacket, scarf, and beanie, her light green eyes came clear against the washed-out winter light as she spoke.
“I’m sure you’ll pull it off, he replied taking her hand and cupping it for warmth. “Plus, you’ll have me around this time to help.”
*
Franco flew to Iraq and Katherine stayed in England. The day he landed in the Kurdish capital of Erbil, the US gave the order to kill the high ranking Iranian general, Qasem Soleimani. As the city waited for the inevitable Iranian counter-attack, Franco took shelter in cafes, reading through the books Katherine’s parents had given him.
In the evenings, he would amble around the spacious but empty NGO guesthouse, waiting till he could call her. Katherine had started piano classes and often spoke about how demanding the hand movements were. One night they stayed up late and Franco finally told her how bitterly he missed her.
“I know,” she replied through the grainy image on screen. “That’s the terrible thing about every time we do meet. We have to deal with the leaving again.”
*
The sound of the piano came through the thin wood door of the bathroom. Shower running, Franco ignored his own body wash and reached for Katherine’s. Prying open the cap, he drew in the smell, then slowly spread it over him. The piano notes continued as heat and steam filled the tiled interior. Franco knew he should shower quickly, the train was leaving in two hours. But he did not care. The piping hot water and collecting steam held him now. He stood still and let it wash over him.
“Katherine has improved a lot,” he thought to himself.
*
Winter and summer passed in Iraq and all the while Katherine practised. On their evening calls, she told Franco about the different pieces she was trying to learn. Her teacher had praised her fast progress but pushed her relentlessly.
“It’s like every time I get reasonably confident, he throws the next level on me! I love how challenging it is but I would love to slow down a bit.”
When Katherine got the new job and left for Berlin, Franco was happy to hear she had a piano at the school she was teaching at. The hovering cleaners bothered her, but she took to the new routine well. The evenings were soon filled with excited talk about the life they would establish once Franco arrived.
*
When Franco finally heard Katherine play again, he was shocked by how good she was. Somehow all that off-hand talk of practise exercises had materialized into her coaxing those beautiful sounds in a basement of a German international school. Her fingers seemed imbued with something he had not been there to witness. Their delicate ends suddenly able to finesse sharp melodies from countless possible notes.
When she finished, he told her he was not able to get the job in Germany. He was going back to the Middle East, this time Yemen. Somehow, even further away. When they broke up a few days later, he asked if she would use the piano as a way to get through it.
“Yes, it’s a good distraction,” she replied, her voice already distant. “I’m thinking to buy my own to make it easier. It will probably have to be electronic but at least that means I don’t have to do any tuning.”
*
Franco turned the shower off with a sigh and stepped onto the mat to dry himself. He knew he was late. Roughly running the towel through his hair, he remembered how surprised he was when Katherine mentioned she was moving to Italy. He knew she wanted to stay in Germany and figured that option had failed somehow. In Berlin they had agreed to stay friends so he suggested they meet in Italy. It seemed a good as place as any to see if they really could be so.
*
Katherine was in Genoa, the port city of 20th century fame. Franco spent the first night with her in a piazza. The night was warm and neither wanted the conversation to be interrupted by restaurant staff. Franco bought a six-pack of beers and in an isolated corner they talked.
Katherine mentioned those who came after him and Franco did the same. It had been lightly trodden territory until it was not. When they had broken up, the thought of either with another was like a press on open wound. As they talked that evening, both still felt the discomfort but the healed skin remained intact. They realized it had taken over a year for that to be the case.
*
The second day, they toured the city and visited an exhibition at Palazzo Ducale. Moving from room to room, they occasionally brushed against each other and were reminded about the countless weekends where they had done exactly the same. Franco insisted on trying the local wines after and they moved through bottles and restaurants, finishing at a local wine bar.
Katherine was seeing someone. So was Franco. They discussed them and finally broached the topic of whether they could still be something if they had continued living together. In their heads the idea had been pushed away on multiple occasions. But sitting across each other on the second floor of that bar with an ice bucket and a half-full red wine between them, they re-considered what they had both extensively considered.
“Either way it wouldn’t work. You’re still in Yemen,” Katherine said finally.
“And you’re here,” Franco countered.
They finished the bottle and went home. Franco was sleeping in Katherine’s spare room. As he was getting undressed, she called his name.
“What is it?”
She was a room and corridor away but he could still hear the hesitation in her voice.
“I’m just feeling lonely,” she said.
Franco knew what she wanted. He understood so much about her, her insecurities, her fears, her passions. He knew the conversation that evening had opened a door they both had tried to shut. Whether it stayed open was up to them.
“Do you want me to sleep over there?”
“Yes,” she replied.
*
Katherine finished playing as Franco left the bathroom. He heard the piano lid thud and it occurred to him that he could not relate at all with her playing now. It had become something of its own, something defined by its clear separation from him.
Franco put his jacket on and picked up his things. It was time for him to leave. Katherine had woken up before him and by the time he ambled into the kitchen she had made it clear there was no need to talk about last night. Then she had checked the time and said he should get showered if he was going to make the train.
He agreed but watched her walk over to the piano first. She lifted the lid and glanced over when she noticed him. He did not say anything so she turned back to the gloss white keys, arranged the sheet music in front, and started playing.