Mme Aquamarine

The scene was the venerable Montecito Hotel, squatting like a self-assured dowager at the corner of Olive Mill and Coast Village Road in sleepy Montecito, California.  On the first floor was a large salon; its windows afforded passers-by a view of civility and afforded occupants the sight and sound of passing traffic.

It was summer, August 14, 1983.  The occasion was the wedding of a close friend and colleague, Leonard Monroe, a well-established Los Angeles attorney, to a charming nurse and administrator, Suzette van Saun.  This was the second marriage for each and we applauded their well-earned, well-considered and unabashed happiness.  (“We” included my then-wife, Andrea.)

The wedding party was small (20 or 30 people) and distinguished (attorneys, judges, some interesting entertainment industry people).  Early in the proceedings, I, seated at the piano, accompanied as Andrea sang two wedding songs chosen by the groom.  (For days I had practiced, developing a reliable and accessible arrangement, rehearsing over and over the choreography of moving from one chord to the next until I could do a fair imitation of a pianist.)  As we finished, the real pianist hired for the occasion appeared and quickly re-claimed control of his instrument.

Then it was time to eat.  We hit the buffet table and quickly surveyed the room, hoping to pair up with some lively, interesting young people.  I was disappointed to find that the only empty seats were across from a round-faced octogenarian couple, to whom our host guided us.  (“Wow, thanks for nothing, Leonard: here’s to a boring lunch.  Oh, well, let’s smile and be polite.”)

Introductions were made, and things started looking up:  I already knew the gentleman by name and reputation, although we had never met.  He was Col. Max Von Rossum Daum, a travel agent from Novato and a former Air Force intelligence officer.  Leonard had met him on one of his many trips and they had remained friends over the years.  Col. Max was an elegant, interesting chap.  I was relieved.  This wouldn’t be so bad after all.  But then, he and I never did get to chat.

His wife, Jo, was a pretty little lady.  As we ate, she complimented our performance.  Then she said, quietly, “I knew Sir John Barbirolli.”  From that instant she had my full attention.  (Sir John had not only been a well-known conductor, but a cellist of note.  I had met and played under him once and had swapped cello stories with him.  The connection between us was that Sir John had conducted the second performance ever of the Elgar Cello Concerto.  The Soloist, Beatrice Harrison, then owned and played the Peter Guarneri cello which I had later acquired.)  As she sat in a club chair, framed by the drapery of the window facing Coast Village Rd., Jo Von Rossum Daum told us her story:

“I was a young widow from Seattle.  I went to New York to study art.  I was very pretty, bubbly.  It was unusual in those days for a young lady to lead as adventurous a life as I.  I was called Mme Aquamarine, for the color of my eyes.  I was very popular.

“One evening at a cocktail party, I noticed a man standing across the room.  He was as short as I was.  We met.  He was John Barbirolli.

“In the days and weeks that followed, we became close friends.  We introduced each other to our respective worlds.  I took him for his first visit to the Automat.  He was fascinated.  He invited me to sit in his box at Carnegie Hall when he conducted the N.Y. Philharmonic.  I introduced him to ballroom dancing.  It was a magical time.

“After his time with the orchestra, he left New York to resume his career in England.  We corresponded from time to time, and I went on with my life.”

She glanced at her husband of 50 some years.  “I met Max and we married.”

Max sat silently, impassively (his intelligence skills at work?) revealing no sign of whether the story amused, annoyed or bored him.

Taking a sip of her tea, she continued: “Eventually, I wrote to John and told him of my marriage.  Two years later Max and I were in New York for a visit.  Sir John was guest-conducting at Carnegie Hall, and Max took me to the concert.  Afterward we went to a reception in the Green Room.  After a while, Sir John appeared.  Our eyes met across the room, but at first we were separated by a crush of well-wishing admirers.  It took several minutes for me to reach him.  Finally we were together.  He took my hand, gazing briefly at my wedding ring and longer, more intently, into my eyes.  We didn’t speak, just stood motionless--oblivious to the room, the crowd, to all but the moment.  Finally we wished each other well and good-bye.  Then he was drawn away into the crowd.

“Later I heard that he had married Lady Barbirolli, the oboist.  We never met  again.”

She paused, sipping her tea.  Her eyes said all the things I was thinking--about the automat, the what-ifs, the ballroom dancing, the might-have-beens….

Lunch was over.  The reception was winding down.  After perfunctory hello-goodbyes to the interesting young couples, and thanks to our hosts, we said farewells to Col. Max and Mme Aquamarine.

Jo Von Rossum Daum died a few years ago.  She was 80.  She left a son, a career officer, and her husband, Col. Max.  I only met her that once, at Leonard and Suzette’s wedding, but whenever I hear the music of Elgar, I think of Sir John Barbirolli, and I think of Mme Aquamarine.