Late in the Season by Felice Picano Page A

that.”
    “Just testing.”
    “Who’s Fiammetta?” she asked. She was dying to know whom or what he thought could compare to her.
    “A young lady in thirteenth-century Florence, whose favorite hunting falcon has flown off. She sends three suitors to find a new one for her, equal to the first in speed, beauty, and prowess. Every time they return with a great hunting bird, she criticizes their selections. Each time she describes her falcon to them, it’s different: more fabulous than before. Each suitor goes farther and farther away from her, for longer periods of time, searching for a falcon she will accept. When they return, Fiammetta’s idea of the falcon has become more exaggerated. Two suitors give up eventually. But one, Gentile, continues to search. You see, he’s come to think of Fiammetta herself as so extraordinary, so unobtainable, that he believes no bird he will ever encounter can come up to her—to his own—expectations.”
    Stevie would have to ponder that fable later on, she thought. Meanwhile, she had a question: “Does he marry her at the end, anyway?”
    “See the show.”
    “How can I, if it isn’t even completed yet?” Then, “Do you think I’m like that? Chasing after rainbows? Is that why you told me her story?”
    “No. Chasing after ideals, perhaps. But don’t stop.”
    “And you?” She meant to ask if he were that ideal, and unobtainable.
    “Oh, naturally, I’m still going after a few ideals too, although I ought to know better by now. Otherwise I’d stop writing music, stop writing shows. I’d give up looking for the perfectly appropriate melody, the most wonderful new modulation, the ideal form for a song.”
    She wondered if what he was saying explained why he always seemed to be looking just to one side of her, or any object he observed: as though he were looking for the music inside it. It was thrilling to think that besides being so handsome, so desirable, he was also an artist. Would he one day write something for her? A song? A show?
    So she led them into a conversation about theater and the music world he moved in—the people, the names, the entrepreneurs, directors, writers. Jonathan smiled indulgently as though he’d been waiting for this, but he did allow himself to talk about it. Doing so, he revealed another side of his personality; he was sincere and comic at the same time, blasé but intensely opinionated, yet never critical of anyone. His main targets of abuse seemed to be the various systems he’d gotten involved with—publishing houses, recording labels, conglomerate producers. He told her that he preferred live cabaret performances of his songs best of all—or intimate stage productions in small theaters. It was all getting out of hand now, his career expanding too quickly, onto Broadway stages and who knew, films too. Of course, he understood that was a natural progression, given the need for good material in all media. And he did like the challenge of a big stage, a large orchestra and cast. So long as he could still return to his origins, to small theaters, whenever he wanted to.
    He said he was merely being realistic. But Stevie thought he was finer than that—in touch with himself and his wants and needs, overmodest, mature, filled with integrity.
    Then he looked at his watch and said it was time for him to go.
    It was barely eleven o’clock.
    “I still have work to catch up on,” he apologized. “Thanks for a lovely dinner.”
    She’d somehow expected he would stay longer, make it easier for her. What could she do all night by herself, after all this stimulation? She’d go mad.
    “Come by for that bookshelf checking,” he reminded her.
    She almost said yes, she would, right now. But he had work to do. She mustn’t get in the way of his composing. That would be the worst thing she could do.
    “Tomorrow afternoon?” she asked.
    “Anytime.”
    “Good night,” she said, brightened by this.
    And was rewarded. He said good night, and