was that he’d fall into some kind of sleep, awake sore-headed in the morning, but at least in a fit state to get on the plane to Venice. But the thought was vague, and I think it came to him at that same moment, for he eased himself up a little and carefully placed the bottle, which was now well past half-empty, on his bedside table.
“Give me your hand, Sis. No, I mean the left…”
His fingers traced the calluses of my fingertips, which, much like my playing, had grown both tougher and more sensitive lately.
“It’s down to you now, you know.”
Changing his grip, I took his hand within mine. I felt incredible heat. Incredible lightness. Even now, I still believe that Leo was gone by then—beyond my reach, beyond my pleading.
“I was never made for this, Roushana,” he told me. “If it isn’t now, it’ll be some other day that’s so soon it’ll make no difference. Some infection or glitch, or a loss of will far more protracted and painful that this. That’s why I have to…” He thought for a word. “…go. You won’t do or say anything tonight that’ll spoil things, will you?”
Silently, I shook my head.
“Knew I could trust you, Sis.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Is there anything…?”
“No.” He smiled. “I’ll be fine.”
My brother would have researched what he needed to do: hoarded the right tablets in the correct amounts after having checked the precise results of their dosage. He’d get this thing right. That was how he was. I didn’t doubt it. Letting go of his hand, I leaned over and kissed him. There was a moment’s dizziness as our lips met—as if I, too, might tumble with him into the place towards which he was falling—and then I stood up. I turned away. Quietly, I closed the door of his bedroom.
The house spun with trapped heat and darkness. Down the stairs, the dining room door had been left open, and I could just see the smiling gleam of the exposed keys of the piano. For a moment, the air stirred, the house whispered, and I believed I could hear again, although far more beautifully than they had ever played it, Leo and Blythe performing that Brahms sonata. Then there was silence.
Back within my room, I picked up my violin. Sometimes, you hated your instrument. Sometimes, also, you loved it. There was no need, tonight, for any preliminary exercises or tunings, or even the score of Bach’s Ciaccona . For the first time, the central melody and all phrases drew together in an endless weave, and I realised that Bach, supposedly the most chilly and mathematical of composers, was in fact the happiest and the saddest, the most warm, human and humane. I didn’t doubt, as I played that night, that I was walking in the halls of genius.
SOMETIMES, HE’S SEEMED TO BE MERELY DREAMING—my drowned man or boy. At other times, as I’ve sat here today at my desk or wandered Morryn, half-dreaming, and explored my memories I’ve hurried back to him in this music room, filled with the sudden worry that he might be comatose—or dying. Occasionally, I’ve become near-certain he’s merely been feigning sleep, and has been quietly watching me as I sift through these remains of my life.
Does it represent a failure of will that I’ve brought him here? Certainly, it would be nice, to leave a little mystery, and possibly even a small scandal, behind me. Famous violinist found dead with anonymous male —as if people still cared about such things. I should report him now—alert the waymarks. Perhaps he’s dangerous. He could be a compendium of every worst fear, the bearer of some deadly new virus far worse than the antique plagues which afflicted my childhood, or the human bomb, the patient torturer, the rapist, the robber, the hostage-taker, the madman. But he looks so vulnerable—so deliciously helpless…
I stand over him again now as the shapes cluttered within this music room begin to blur and soften with evening. He moans softly as I lift the blankets. On
“Give me your hand, Sis. No, I mean the left…”
His fingers traced the calluses of my fingertips, which, much like my playing, had grown both tougher and more sensitive lately.
“It’s down to you now, you know.”
Changing his grip, I took his hand within mine. I felt incredible heat. Incredible lightness. Even now, I still believe that Leo was gone by then—beyond my reach, beyond my pleading.
“I was never made for this, Roushana,” he told me. “If it isn’t now, it’ll be some other day that’s so soon it’ll make no difference. Some infection or glitch, or a loss of will far more protracted and painful that this. That’s why I have to…” He thought for a word. “…go. You won’t do or say anything tonight that’ll spoil things, will you?”
Silently, I shook my head.
“Knew I could trust you, Sis.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Is there anything…?”
“No.” He smiled. “I’ll be fine.”
My brother would have researched what he needed to do: hoarded the right tablets in the correct amounts after having checked the precise results of their dosage. He’d get this thing right. That was how he was. I didn’t doubt it. Letting go of his hand, I leaned over and kissed him. There was a moment’s dizziness as our lips met—as if I, too, might tumble with him into the place towards which he was falling—and then I stood up. I turned away. Quietly, I closed the door of his bedroom.
The house spun with trapped heat and darkness. Down the stairs, the dining room door had been left open, and I could just see the smiling gleam of the exposed keys of the piano. For a moment, the air stirred, the house whispered, and I believed I could hear again, although far more beautifully than they had ever played it, Leo and Blythe performing that Brahms sonata. Then there was silence.
Back within my room, I picked up my violin. Sometimes, you hated your instrument. Sometimes, also, you loved it. There was no need, tonight, for any preliminary exercises or tunings, or even the score of Bach’s Ciaccona . For the first time, the central melody and all phrases drew together in an endless weave, and I realised that Bach, supposedly the most chilly and mathematical of composers, was in fact the happiest and the saddest, the most warm, human and humane. I didn’t doubt, as I played that night, that I was walking in the halls of genius.
SOMETIMES, HE’S SEEMED TO BE MERELY DREAMING—my drowned man or boy. At other times, as I’ve sat here today at my desk or wandered Morryn, half-dreaming, and explored my memories I’ve hurried back to him in this music room, filled with the sudden worry that he might be comatose—or dying. Occasionally, I’ve become near-certain he’s merely been feigning sleep, and has been quietly watching me as I sift through these remains of my life.
Does it represent a failure of will that I’ve brought him here? Certainly, it would be nice, to leave a little mystery, and possibly even a small scandal, behind me. Famous violinist found dead with anonymous male —as if people still cared about such things. I should report him now—alert the waymarks. Perhaps he’s dangerous. He could be a compendium of every worst fear, the bearer of some deadly new virus far worse than the antique plagues which afflicted my childhood, or the human bomb, the patient torturer, the rapist, the robber, the hostage-taker, the madman. But he looks so vulnerable—so deliciously helpless…
I stand over him again now as the shapes cluttered within this music room begin to blur and soften with evening. He moans softly as I lift the blankets. On
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