He hadn't turned up for
work. There had been no calls, no apologies. It was completely out
of character, that's what his fellow players said, though none knew
him very well. They couldn't tell you if he preferred dogs or cats,
tea or coffee. He was quiet, competent, and reliable, they knew
that. But that was all.
His sister raised the
alarm. She had left several messages for him, with a creeping note
of concern in her voice. The messages went unheard, she realised,
letting herself into his flat a week later and retrieving them
herself. No-one else had called. His violin, a 1914 Audinot, sat in
an open case on his bed. His dress suit hung behind the door in a
cellophane poncho, and five white shirts, similarly sheathed, jostled
in the wardrobe like commuters. She found his shoes on the table in
the narrow kitchen (the table was a hinged flap meant to drop down to
save space but there was only him and the stay underneath, disused,
was now immovable). The left shoe had been buffed to a dark
brilliance, its pair lolled on its side, streaked with dried-out
polish. A cigarillo had burned itself out in the ashtray. An open
window. The absence of dust was a kind of bareness.
He reappeared after a month. His sister had never seen him with a tan, even when they were
kids. His eyes, too, seemed more deeply coloured.
He had sat at the table
smoking, polishing. A blackbird settled briefly in the plane tree
outside his window and rehearsed, twice, a trill of pure notes. He
knew that if he did not get out right then, at that moment, he would
never get out.
He came back to sell
the violin. He'd find something cheaper and live for a while on the
difference. Learn the language, offer lessons, feel the sun on his
neck.
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