Building A Dream

     It had been his first substantial commission, designing the Bedford Hills Hotel, over 40 years ago. Like a gigantic wedding cake: sixteen layers of pure delight, and now he owned a slice. The top slice; the icing on the cake. "With a cherry on," he thought. They had named it 'The Robert Barrington Suite'. He was so proud of his namesake. For the last 20 years, he was the principal architect, then senior partner in the most prestigious design and build company in Europe. Now, he deserved his retirement, his music, and at last, his peace.

 He had carefully collated his furniture to suit the majesty of the Hotel's architecture. Bold, blue leather chesterfield sofas faced each other. A desk of the finest walnut by Porada sat under a gleaming chandelier. His premier piece, his Beckstein, took pride of place, where two of the full-length glass panels met, in the almost seamless windows on the corner of the building. Sliding doors opened to a balcony with views across the bay. He felt he could plunge his fingers in the azure blue water, rippling in the afternoon sun. He could see all this beauty while seated at the piano. Life was idyllic; it was peaceful, perched high above the traffic. It was everything he had ever wanted, waited for; nothing could disturb his serenity here.

He rested his head against the piano and softly wept.

   In the studio, on the top floor of the modern concrete block, diagonally opposite the Hotel, a young dancer waited. Her piano player took his seat, opened his score to the right page, and finally played. Her mind followed the notes, ready for the moment she would become one with the music. The lightness of touch was missing. This amateur could never play for her audition. Already she was ahead of him. She stopped, angry with the musician; and at herself for telling Roberto to choose between her and his father. The piano player, embarrassed, fled the room. Nina sighed and switched on the recording, and Tchaikovsky's soaring grandeur filled the space. She breathed deeply and allowed the music to fulfill her, transform her, lift her to pointes, and she was no longer Nina. She was Odette, the white swan, pursued by her ardent lover. 

  The music carried across the void between the juxtaposed buildings; the old and the new, the ugly and the beautiful so incongruous. Intrigued and drawn from sadness, Robert rose from the piano and stepped onto the balcony. Looking away from his expansive and expensive view, he looked down on the concrete 'monstrosity' as he had named it. For a moment, he almost regretted the day he had finally sold up his architectural practice to the top American bidder.  

The enormous glass panelled windows were the only feature the two buildings had in common. Behind a filmy curtain two floors below, he saw the silhouetted figure of a young woman. His hand clutching at his heart, he watched her spellbound as she danced. Robert knew the steps, the way she moved and swayed, the suppleness of her lithe body. Nena, it was his Nena, but how could it be? Nearly 50 years before, he had left her, coerced into joining his father's firm, giving up his dream of becoming a classical musician. How could she be here now?

     He remembered so well that last day. They met outside the Conservatory: she, full of excitement, with wonderful news to share; he, filled with sadness and trepidation after leaving the director's office.

     "Robert," she exclaimed. "It's come, the invitation has come. I am going to dance with Baryshnikov! To be Odile." 

His silence reached across the space between them and clutched at her heart. He saw the pain bleach the blue from her eyes.

     "You've made your decision, then?"

     He had tried so hard to explain. His father would leave him destitute if he did not comply with his wishes. After training with his father's firm and becoming established, he would return to his music career. He would build a house for her, and in time, they could marry. She would find another pianist. Her face froze, whitened, and saying nothing, she turned and walked away. 

     He wrote, but she returned his letters unopened. He tried to follow her career, but the pain was too great. She had turned her back on him and gone, and he had buried himself in his work. In his 50s, he returned to the Conservatory and funded a scholarship. No other son or daughter should need to give up a dream.

     Nina paused her dance, almost aware of the eyes upon her, feeling, as her grandmother would say, "a goose had walked over her grave."

     Robert sat at the piano and played the pas de deux he had played for Nena. The exquisite notes were painful to hear as the memories flooded back, but he had to play, compelled by the beautiful vision below. 

     The music soared, and Nina lifted her head, amazed at the notes falling from the sky above. She took her cue and danced as she had never done before; a new lightness and incredible strength lifted her until finally, she sank, exhausted, to the floor. There, that was her piano player. Could it be Roberto? Had he come back to her?  

     The music ceased. There was nothing, no clue, who had played? Confused, Nina had showered and dressed and prosaically taken the bus home.

     Robert sat in his wingback armchair, trying to understand what had just happened, uncertain whether it had all been a dream. It would not have been the first time he had dreamed of Nena, the love he had surrendered, but it would have to wait. He was tired. Tomorrow he would make enquiries.

     Nina was also making enquiries. Who was the pianist, and why did the music sound so impassioned? Nina half-remembered a story her father had told. Her mother was little help; she had never known her late husband's family well. Granny had told very few tales of her short-lived career. Of course, there were the rumours of a life, and a career, ruined by love for a handsome young piano player. Nina laughed. Did that really happen? Surely not now when you could have it all. Then she thought of Roberto.

      "Oh well," she said aloud. "His loss"

     Nina had booked the studio for a week. It was all she could afford, but she needed space to practice. The audition was a week away. If she didn't get in this time, she might not get another chance. She dismissed the thought of the piano player. It was time to sleep. Tomorrow, she would dig a little deeper.

     For three days, Nina danced, and every day the music from heaven accompanied her. Robert watched for her. He even had men come up from the Hotel below to move the piano closer to the balcony. He knew she heard him. Could he dare to go to her, or would it shatter a dream?

     The poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov and Nena Orlevska was available online: Prince Siegfried and Odile, the Black Swan. Nina stared at the picture. Was that granny? She knew they named her for her grandmother, but Orlevska was a stage name. No doubt it sounded better to the newspapers than plain Nena Robertson. If Nena had danced with Baryshnikov, why was her career ruined? Nina scoured the internet for clues. The 1973 production of Swan Lake had opened to rapturous applause and toured Europe and the United States. And there, in a small paragraph, was her answer. Nena Orlevska had broken her ankle, not her heart! She had returned home for treatment. Nina knew granny walked with discomfort; she had never questioned why. Granny was a model and photographer's muse and had married a poor but handsome actor who appeared in plays off-Broadway. They were never rich. Nina hoped they were happy.

     On the fourth day, she did not dance. Robert stood on his balcony, a small photograph clasped in his hand: Nena in a gold silk gown that clung to her slender body; the night he took her to The 100 Club for the first time. He had loved her that night and ever since. She was the reason he had never married. The dream had revived for a moment; now, it was over. He would never know; no one could tell him anything about the dance studio. His was no hometown neighbourhood where everyone knew their neighbours. He had designed himself into loneliness and isolation. His American institute of Architecture Medal and the congratulatory letter from Norman Foster all meant nothing.

     A tentative knock at the door disturbed his reverie. He was expecting no one: he knew no one. The attractive young woman at the door seemed somehow familiar. 

     "Hello," she said, her smile warming his heart. "I'm Nina. I think you once knew my grandmother. May I speak to you for a while? I have a favour to ask."