Love Begins in Winter Read Free

dozen Agatha Christie Penguin paperbacks. In another, engravings of birds.
    Tomorrow I will return to New York, my home for almost a decade now. More concerts at the end of the week. One at the Lotos Club, another at a fund-raiser for Central Park, then Los Angeles—a concert at the Hollywood Bowl—then San Francisco, then Phoenix.
    I love New York but miss the silence of rural Europe. Americans are literal. I think my brother would find a wife here in five minutes.
    Bach’s Suites for Solo Cello were written as pieces intended to teach but contain a mystery musicians unravel without knowing why; a map that shows the position of other maps. They are as popular as the stock pieces I play by Mozart and Haydn. Bach’s Suites for Solo Cello are actually my biggest sellers. Bach and my brother helped buy my small apartment in Brooklyn. My brother doesn’t know I know, but he bought thousands of copies of my CD and put them in his employees’ Christmas bags. My brother’s employees love him passionately. If there were a war on, they’d become his private army. It’s amazing how he’s done so well in business. He’s crushed all competition. He’s been on the cover of business magazines worldwide. For reasons known only to my brother and me, he has almost single-handedly made Renault the most popular brand of small car in Europe. I even have one here in New York. Everybody wants to know what it is. They always pronounce the “T”. I have a mechanic in Queens. He’s from Senegal and also grew up with Renault automobiles. In fact, I park it at his house and he uses it to drive his six kids around. I haven’t seen it in almost two years. My brother doesn’t know but would approve of the whole situation. My brother and I have the same brown Renault 16s, both from 1978. Perhaps we hold on to our childhoods because we can’t hold on to each other. His girlfriends are always surprised when their millionaire boyfriend picks them up in a 1978 Renault 16.
    An hour after my performance in Quebec City I walked right past my hotel into the maze of old streets. The rain was too beautiful to miss. Then I found Le Saint Amour, a little French restaurant. The food reminded me of home. I explained how I don’t drink because I’m allergic, but the waiter brought little glasses of wine for me to sniff as I sank my fork into foie gras, filet mignon, truffled lentils. I’m not really allergic to alcohol; the opposite actually—my body loves the stuff.
    The restaurant was packed with couples. A teenage girl sat quietly with her father. She was angry or disappointed with him. He knew it but pretended not to be bothered. I think all children are disappointed with their parents if they’re lucky enough to get so close.
    I left an enormous tip. I shall never forget my waiter. He kept trying to speak Italian, even though he knew I was French. He kept mentioning his daughters. He wore glasses that made him look too old. He loved being a waiter. He said that each meal was a memory. He said that he was a part of something good that had not started with him and would not end with him. As I left the restaurant, I felt a stabbing sadness. I would never see him again.
    I passed several cold shops. Everything was closed. Puppets in a shop window stared out into the street, pretending not to see me. I walked carefully across the icy cobbles. It was snowing now, but only lightly. The buildings were silent, their occupants asleep inside. It was after one and so quiet I could hear the buzzing of streetlights as I walked under them.
    The city looked different. I stood in the middle of the square before Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, a small gray, crooked church. They once filmed a sad film there. It was about a boy whose father was a failure. Going back somewhere at night is almost like haunting the world after death.
    I kept walking, making eyes at the statues, naming each one like a