Devotion by Howard Norman Page B

of the composition, how the surface of the crust of bread seemed etched, crosshatched—that is, had what appeared to be an almost geological history.
    Though he lectured each semester on Sudek’s work, and so already had slides prepared, he originally had planned to discuss a Paris photograph by Brassai. But
Bread and Egg,
taken in 1950, was the work Maggie had referred to at breakfast, and that was the entire reason for his change of mind; it was a way of keeping her close. After class David sat in the classroom staring at the unfinished letter to Katrine Novak, which he set out on a desk like an important exam he suddenly could not remember studying for. He tore up the letter and dropped its confetti into the wastebasket.
Life,
he thought—indeed, using the word “life,” not “circumstances” or “things”—
in just the last twenty-four hours has taken an interesting turn, hasn’t it? I’m gone over this woman. I’ve heard of this happening to other people. I’ve read of it.
    Their second night together began with heightened anticipation based somewhat on the first. Then they abandoned themselves to even more subtle, and not so subtle, exploration; sometimes in a fugue state of amorous devotion you cannot help what you say; at about 2:30 A.M., David said, “I love your body” (a person might say anything, often something, when memory isolates it from its original context, embarrassing), the most complete sentence possible between breaths. At some other point, Maggie slid herself on top of David and, inside a moan, said, “This feels nice.” Then they heard a thud against the wall. They fairly froze; Maggie started laughing; they hung on to each other as if for dear life. David said hoarsely, “Was that a body, do you think?” Maggie’s laughter, deep as it was, made things physically a bit awkward, even difficult for David to breathe, the way she lay spent across his chest, her mouth at his ear, her
breath softly ratcheting down to normal, almost. Yet they hadn’t in the slightest moved apart.
    â€œI believe it was Miss Brockman’s cello case,” she said.
    â€œHer cello case?”
    â€œShe had, or decided she’d had, a bad performance this evening. Haydn’s Concerto for Cello and Orchestra in D Major, arranged for the more intimate ensemble. She’ll wreck her room. I’ll have to smooth things over with management. She’ll wreck her room like the Rolling Stones, except all on her own and a bit more demurely. She writes things out on the mirrors in lipstick. Some amazing phrases over the years; she’s quite the pornographer. When she gets really worked up. Maid service gets some interesting reading when Miss Brockman’s in town and doesn’t play well.”
    David barely began to slip from Maggie; she held him still; David was grateful for this; they’d wait for the next thing to happen. “Do you suppose her cello was in the case?” he said.
    â€œOh, lord, no. No, no, no. You see, after the concert, I caught a certain familiar look on her face. I told our stage manager, Alistair, to provide the cello safe conduct. He got the empty case back to Miss Brockman’s room. Obviously she discovered it empty. That might’ve set her off.”
    â€œAnd the cello itself is where?”
    â€œUpright in my closet, right here in room 334.”
    â€œYou know these musicians very well, don’t you?”
    â€œQuirky natures, many of them. They each have their superstitions and such, which I find interesting. Onstage they like to be observed. Offstage they can be terribly private, some of them. Miss Brockman’s alone a lot, I think. Sometimes I’m her mommy. Sometimes I’m her shrink. Mostly I just get her to the concert on time.”
    â€œOkay, three’s a crowd. Enough about Miss Brockman.”
    They turned sideways, facing each other, continued toward a