Epilogue
The crowd arrives as a purple dusk turns to night, women in cocktail dresses and men in well-cut suits filling the Generalife gardens of the Alhambra with low chatter and the clink of champagne glasses.
Nocturnal jasmine from the nearby Moorish orchards scents the warm Andalusian night air, and the illuminated palace fortress slumbers in ocher sensuality on the adjacent hill.
“Christ.” A white-faced Benny peeks through the towering wall of precisely manicured cypress trees dividing our backstage preparation area from the stage, his eyes wide as he gapes at the vast open-air amphitheater. “This is more terrifying than the Royal Albert Hall.”
Thankfully, Director Dittorio’s arrival saves me from answering. Our small orchestra gathers around him, each face as tense and nervous as the next.
“Tonight must be exceptional.” His voice, despite being uncharacteristically low to avoid attracting the attention of the crowd beyond the trees, is no less commanding.
“Ludovico Einaudi himself is in attendance, and ve perform his piece tonight at his own request—vhich is vhy, as you know, the stage has been modified to fit both orchestra and piano.”
He meets each set of eyes sternly. “Ve vill not fail to make this performance the best, the most transcendental, of any International Music Festival ever held here. Ve vill do this together.”
His eyes cut to me, leaving no doubt as to who, specifically, his comment is directed to.
He nods curtly and stands aside, gesturing to the orchestra to take the stage.
Obediently they file along the narrow purpose-built pathway through the cypress trees.
“Good luck,” Benny whispers as he passes, but I barely hear him.
I glance at Dittorio’s grim, set face. Over the past couple of years, he’s ceased to frighten me.
I’ve begun to rely on his exacting methods, his uncompromising search for perfection.
The precision his instruction elicits from me is exactly what made Einaudi take the extraordinary step of personally requesting that the festival allow us to perform “Divenire,” his most famous piece, here, in the famous Teatro del Generalife, amid trickling fountains and ethereal gardens, rather than in the austere marble grandeur of the Carlos V palace.
It is the honor of a lifetime—and an opportunity with life-changing potential.
The thought is terrifying.
As if reading my mind, Dittorio puts his hand on my arm as I begin to make my way through the cypress trees.
“Your husband,” he says curtly. “He is here tonight, no?”
I nod, something delicious uncurling in my belly. “He is.”
“Good.” He says the word with his deep, heartfelt German inflection: Gut. “Like this, you play the best.”
I know.
And it has never been more true than it is tonight.
Taking a deep breath, I walk through the trees, passing the sound designer’s station neatly tucked between them, and step onto the stage.
The orchestra is already seated in a semicircle either side of the gleaming black Steinway, tuning up beneath the umber lights, Benny’s cello to my left as I take my seat.
Unlike the intimate stone and still water of the Patio de los Arrayanes or the vast acoustic masterpiece of the Carlos V, here the open-air theater is entirely at one with the cosmos and the first night stars.
Terrace after terrace of faces hover dimly in the gathering darkness, silent and expectant.
I’m barely aware of Dittorio taking the stage, nor the moment when the lights go down.
But the moment my fingers land in the first of Einaudi’s iconic cyclical patterns, my left hand a grounding bassline while the right spins a fluid, continuous wheel of notes, I am one with both the piece and the natural world around me.
And tonight, it’s more than that.
Tonight, I’m playing the endless, delicious months at sea, the salt breeze flowing through the open doors and Alexei lying on the sofa nearby, silent, still, and reassuring.
The dark, velvet nights of being taken apart with devastating precision, each cell of my body melted and rearranged into something else entirely.
The sunshine and laughter of Lars’s slow recovery, him and Alexei playing chess in a Sicilian courtyard, one hesitant movement at a time until, finally, Lars manages to win.
The tears and quiet joy of watching him and Benny exchange rings in the Bellinis’ orchard, Alexei at his side, Sergei smiling proudly in the front row.
The discovery of a crumbling, sun-drenched two-hectare Moorish ruin just outside Granada, with views of the Alhambra in the distance and ancient architecture just begging for restoration.
The sudden realization that we’d found our home. In a city with music on every street, laughter on every face, and joy in every worn stone.
The acoustically perfect studio Alexei had finished in record time, before work even began on the rest, so I could practice in peace.
His quiet, satisfied smile when he took me to see a discreet swathe of land tucked deep in the surrounding mountains, perfect for the large server center he needs now that Phantom has outgrown Miami—severing his last tie to the legacy that held him so long.
The gradual trickle of invitations for me to play: Vienna, Berlin, Paris, Amsterdam, London.
Then finally the extraordinary, groundbreaking invitation to play tonight’s exceptional event.
But none of that is why the music is humming from my every cell and dancing in the air around me like a living thing.
My hands fly across the keys in the final movement, strings soaring around the amphitheater in a rich dome of ambient sound, and I feel the first movement of the tiny invisible life inside me.
The final chords reach a crescendo. As they slowly fade, the audience is completely silent, still caught in the exquisite magic of the piece, the last notes reverberating deep into the night.
Then, as one, they leap to their feet, whistling and stamping, the applause only swelling as the orchestra takes their bows.
Dittorio takes my hand and walks to the center of the stage, quite uncharacteristically beaming as we take a joint bow. I search the audience until I find Alexei’s face, his eye patch gone, eyes blazing up at me with such love and pride it makes my heart ache.
Beside him, Lars blows kisses to Benny, shaking his head in admiration.
Dittorio and I turn to welcome Ludovico Einaudi to the stage, to a roar of approbation from the crowd. Microphone in hand, he thanks Dittorio, to rapturous applause.
Then, taking my hand in his, he draws me forward, into the spotlight.
“Damas y caballeros,” he begins in Spanish. Ladies and gentlemen. “Con ustedes . . .” I give you . . .
He turns to me with dramatic flourish.
“La Condesa Naryshkin!”
The Countess Naryshkin.
The title itself may be dead, I think as I take a final bow. But our legacy will live on.
Catching Alexei’s eye, I touch my belly surreptitiously. His eyes drop to it, then rise back to mine, narrowing in question.
I nod, blowing him a kiss, and a slow smile curves his mouth, his eyes deepening in wonder.
Our names may change, but our world never truly does.
It might at times be dark. It might often be dangerous.
But it is also rich, thrilling, and filled with the kind of passion most people can only ever dream about.
I take a last look at the audience, then turn to where my family is already crowding toward the steps at the edge of the stage to congratulate us.
I am safe.
I am home.
And I have never known such joy.
THANK YOU for reading!