“Nobody.”
“Not even the occasional...?”
“I don’t do the occasional.”
“Never?” he asked, almost baffled.
“Never.”
But I could hear my tone stiffen. He
was trying to be playful, prodding, bor-
derline flirtatious, and here I was coming
off as mirthless, dour, and, worst of all,
self-righteous.
“But there must have been someone
special?”
“There was.”
“Why did it end.”
“We were friends, then we were
lovers, then she split. But we stayed
friends.”
“Was there ever a he in your life?”
“Yes.”
“How did it end?”
“He got married.”
“Ah, the marriage canard!”
“I thought so too at the time. But
they’ve been together for years now.
They were together before he started
with me.”
At first, he didn’t say anything but he
seemed to question the whole setup. “Did
the two of you remain friends?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted him to ask, yet I
loved being asked.
“We haven’t spoken in ages, and I
don’t know that we’re friends, though
I’m sure we will always be. He’s always
read me extremely well, and I have a feel-
ing that he suspects that if I never write
it’s not because I don’t care but because
a part of me still does and always will,
just as I know he still cares, which is why
he too never writes. And knowing this is
good enough for me.”
“Even though he’s the one who got
married?”
“Even though he’s the one who got
married,” I echoed. “And besides,” I
added, as though it dispelled any am-
biguity, “he teaches in the U.S., and I’m
here in Paris—kind of settles it, doesn’t
it? Unseen but always there.”
“Doesn’t settle it at all, if you want to
know. Why haven’t you gone after him,
even if he is married? Why give up so
easily?”
The near-critical tone in his voice was
hard to miss. Why was he reproaching
me? Was he not interested then?
“Besides, how long ago was it?” he
asked.
I knew my answer would leave him
totally stumped. “Fifteen years.”He held the door for the six or seven
who were starting to leave the hall, and
seeing they were filing out without hold-
ing the door or thanking him, he smiled
broadly at them, finally thanking them
for the tip. I must have been beaming.
What a lovely way to surprise someone.
“You’re not displeased then?”
I shook my head. Like you needed to ask.
“What were you planning after class?”
“I usually have coffee or a juice some-where.”
“Mind if I join?”
“Mind if I join?” I mimicked.
I took him to my favorite café where Igo after teaching and where sometimes
a colleague or a student joins me as we
sit and watch people race along the side-
walks at this time of day—people on last-
minute errands, others looking to put off
heading home and shutting their door
to the world, and then some just rushing
from one corner of their lives to another.
The tables around us were all filled with
people, and for some reason that I’ve
never been able to define, I like when
everyone seems bunched together, al-
most elbow to elbow with strangers. “Are
you really not displeased I came then?”
he asked again. I smiled and shook my
head. I told him I was still not recovered
from the surprise.
“Good surprise, then?”
“Very good surprise.”
“If I didn’t find you at the conserva-tory,” he said, “I was going to try ev-
ery luxury hotel with a piano bar. Very
simple.”
“It would have taken you a long time.”
“I gave myself 40 days and 40 nights,and then I would have tried the con-
servatory. Instead I tried the conserv-
atory first.”
“But weren’t we planning on meeting
this coming Sunday?”
“I wasn’t too sure.”
That I didn’t object or say anything to
gainsay his assumption must have con-
firmed his suspicion. Indeed, our silence
regarding next Sunday’s concert made us
smile uneasily. “I have wonderful memo-
ries of last Sunday,” I ended up saying.
“So do I,” he replied.
“Who was the lovely pianist with
whom you were playing?” he asked.
“She’s a very talented third-year stu-
dent from Thailand, very, very gifted.”
“The way you looked at each other
while playing clearly suggests there is
more than just teacher-pupil affinity be-
tween you.”
“Yes, she came all the way here to
study with me.” I could tell where he was
leading and shook my head with mock
reproof at the insinuation.
“And may I ask what you’re doing
later?”
Bold, I thought.
“You mean tonight? Nothing.”
“Doesn’t someone like you have a
friend, a partner, someone special?”
“Someone like me?” Were we really go-
ing to repeat last Sunday’s conversation?
“I meant young, sparkling, clearly
fascinating, to say nothing of very
handsome.”
“There is no one,” I said, then looked
away.
Was I really trying to cut him off? Or
was I enjoying this without wanting to
show it?
“You don’t take compliments well,
do you?”
I looked at him and shook my head
again, but without humor this time.
“So no one, no one?” he finally asked.From Find Me: A Novel by André Aciman.
Copyright © 2019 by the author and reprinted
by permission of Faber & Faber Ltd.
was just finishing a master class
devoted to the last movement
of Beethoven’s D minor sonata
when suddenly, at the door, there he was,
standing with his hands in the pockets
of his blue blazer, looking a touch gawky
for such an elegant man, and yet not in
the slightest bit uncomfortable.
I
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