as the sun plunges gracefully into the sea.
This is my favourite moment of the day here, when nature itself seems to be still, watching the spectacle of the King of the Day, the force it relies upon to grow and flourish, make its journey into sleep.
We are able to be here together far less than I’d like, so the moment is even more precious. The sun has gone now, so I can close my eyes and listen to Xavier playing. I have performed this concerto a hundred times and I’m struck by the subtle differences, the nuances that make his rendition his own. It’s stronger, more masculine, which is, of course, how it should be.
I am ‘off duty’, with no engagements until the middle of next week, but Xavier must leave for a concert in Paris tomorrow, so this is our last night here together. When he’s finished playing, I know he will appear on the terrace with a glass of rosé from the local cave , and we’ll sit together, talking of nothing and of everything, and luxuriating in the tranquillity of our rare solitude.
The heart of our life, the energy that binds us both together, is inside the house. When I bathed our son, Gabriel, and put him down for the night, I knelt quietly alongside his cot, watching as the tension fell from his face and he drifted off into sleep.
‘Bonne nuit, mon petit ange,’ I whispered, tiptoeing out and closing the door softly behind me.
I’m glad that I am able to share a further week here with him. Some mothers have the pleasure of watching their children twenty-four hours a day, catching each smile, each new skill they learn on the path to adulthood. I envy them that, for I don’t have that luxury.
As I stare at the darkening sky, I contemplate the question that has turned around in my mind since the day that he was born, wondering whether I should have put my career on hold to watch him grow. I can’t develop my thoughts, however, for here is Xavier with the promised glass of rosé and a bowl of fresh olives.
‘Bravo,’ I utter, as he kisses me on top of my head and I raise my hand to stroke his face.
‘Merci, ma petite,’ he replies.
We speak in French together, his bad English verbs deemed worse than my dreadful French accent.
Besides, it’s the language of love.
He sits in the chair next to me and swings his long legs up on to the table. His hair, as always after he’s been practising, is standing on end, which gives him the appearance of a gigantic toddler. I reach across to him and smooth it down. He grabs my hand and kisses it.
‘It is sad I must go tomorrow. Perhaps next year, we could plan to take the whole summer off and be here together.’
‘I would love that so much,’ I reply, watching out of the corner of my eye as the moon unveils itself, taking the place of the sun and becoming Queen of the Night.
Xavier’s already pale skin is bleached whiter in the moonlight. I never tire of looking at him. He is so extraordinary. If I’m a creature of the day – of the sun – with my dark skin and dark eyes, then he is of the night – the moon.
His dramatic, aquiline features, inherited from his Russian mother, could never be described as classically handsome. His nose, for a start, is too long, his eyes – glacial in their blueness – set too close together. His forehead is furrowed and high, his thick black hair of a straw-like texture. His lips are the only perfect thing on his face, girlish in their fullness – pink, plump pillows – which open when he smiles to reveal a set of large, white, strong teeth.
His body is out of proportion: legs that could double as stilts they are so long, carrying a short upper torso which makes the length of his arms and his elegant, talented fingers seem as though they’ve been grafted on to the wrong body. He towers over me, a good foot taller than I am. There is not an ounce of fat on him and I am sure he will stay that way for the rest of his life. The nervous energy that even in sleep will not let him rest, as he
This is my favourite moment of the day here, when nature itself seems to be still, watching the spectacle of the King of the Day, the force it relies upon to grow and flourish, make its journey into sleep.
We are able to be here together far less than I’d like, so the moment is even more precious. The sun has gone now, so I can close my eyes and listen to Xavier playing. I have performed this concerto a hundred times and I’m struck by the subtle differences, the nuances that make his rendition his own. It’s stronger, more masculine, which is, of course, how it should be.
I am ‘off duty’, with no engagements until the middle of next week, but Xavier must leave for a concert in Paris tomorrow, so this is our last night here together. When he’s finished playing, I know he will appear on the terrace with a glass of rosé from the local cave , and we’ll sit together, talking of nothing and of everything, and luxuriating in the tranquillity of our rare solitude.
The heart of our life, the energy that binds us both together, is inside the house. When I bathed our son, Gabriel, and put him down for the night, I knelt quietly alongside his cot, watching as the tension fell from his face and he drifted off into sleep.
‘Bonne nuit, mon petit ange,’ I whispered, tiptoeing out and closing the door softly behind me.
I’m glad that I am able to share a further week here with him. Some mothers have the pleasure of watching their children twenty-four hours a day, catching each smile, each new skill they learn on the path to adulthood. I envy them that, for I don’t have that luxury.
As I stare at the darkening sky, I contemplate the question that has turned around in my mind since the day that he was born, wondering whether I should have put my career on hold to watch him grow. I can’t develop my thoughts, however, for here is Xavier with the promised glass of rosé and a bowl of fresh olives.
‘Bravo,’ I utter, as he kisses me on top of my head and I raise my hand to stroke his face.
‘Merci, ma petite,’ he replies.
We speak in French together, his bad English verbs deemed worse than my dreadful French accent.
Besides, it’s the language of love.
He sits in the chair next to me and swings his long legs up on to the table. His hair, as always after he’s been practising, is standing on end, which gives him the appearance of a gigantic toddler. I reach across to him and smooth it down. He grabs my hand and kisses it.
‘It is sad I must go tomorrow. Perhaps next year, we could plan to take the whole summer off and be here together.’
‘I would love that so much,’ I reply, watching out of the corner of my eye as the moon unveils itself, taking the place of the sun and becoming Queen of the Night.
Xavier’s already pale skin is bleached whiter in the moonlight. I never tire of looking at him. He is so extraordinary. If I’m a creature of the day – of the sun – with my dark skin and dark eyes, then he is of the night – the moon.
His dramatic, aquiline features, inherited from his Russian mother, could never be described as classically handsome. His nose, for a start, is too long, his eyes – glacial in their blueness – set too close together. His forehead is furrowed and high, his thick black hair of a straw-like texture. His lips are the only perfect thing on his face, girlish in their fullness – pink, plump pillows – which open when he smiles to reveal a set of large, white, strong teeth.
His body is out of proportion: legs that could double as stilts they are so long, carrying a short upper torso which makes the length of his arms and his elegant, talented fingers seem as though they’ve been grafted on to the wrong body. He towers over me, a good foot taller than I am. There is not an ounce of fat on him and I am sure he will stay that way for the rest of his life. The nervous energy that even in sleep will not let him rest, as he
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