Read Online Song Of Time by Ian R. MacLeod - Free Book Online Page B

be one or other for me soon enough. But that, as much as the continued need and compulsion to practise, is why I must still go through these motions each day.
    The automatic piano waits. I could announce any piece in the standard repertoire, tap in the beats, and it would start to accompany me. I can specify mood and pace. Piano or forte . But I’d rather do it this way. Stagger in, and let the damn thing catch up. So my hands pick the sliding notes of—here, and for blank moment, I actually don’t know what it is myself—but, yes, it’s that old warhorse, Kriesler’s Praeludium . It pours out from my violin, and I, like the piano, must follow. Then, we are riding together. My fingers dance. The notes flutter and rise and the lid of the automatic piano gleams with the reflection of a woman who, despite everything, can still play a pretty mean fiddle.
    Perhaps my drowned man doesn’t like music, for he remains resolutely asleep even as, with what feels like an unnecessary amount of fuss and clatter, I put aside my violin. And I still haven’t got the measure of him. He’s clean-shaven, for a start—a flurry of sunlight catches on grains of barely incipient stubble—and his golden, curly hair has been recently trimmed. Why would anyone so well cared-for be abused, tied up, then abandoned to the sea? None of it makes any sense. I touch the subtle wood above the automatic piano’s keys. A screen appears. The entire repertoire of Western music and much of that of other cultures is offered to me. But my bladder gives a twinge just as I settle on Debussy’s The Girl With the Flaxen Hair, and, with an instant need which I haven’t felt since childhood, I know I have to go and pee.
    The first lovely fall of notes drifts from the music room as I scurry along the darkening hall, then the sound grows muffled as I close the toilet door and pluck at my clothing. The seat is ridiculously far down, absurdly cold, then, and even though I’m bursting, I have to sit and wait until the tiny dam finally breaks in a disappointing trickle. The automatic piano has chosen to play the doomy chords of The Submerged Cathedral by the time I’m finally empty and splashing myself in the guttering taps. My neck prickles as I bury my face in a towel. Who is in there playing? Claude? Me ? Then, a wave of relief; good though the automatic piano is, you can still tell that it’s just a machine.
    Feeling somewhat better and something more like myself, I head back to the music room. Inside, my drowned man’s sitting up with his arms wrapped fearfully around his body and his eyes are flickering wildly against the twilight as the automatic piano dips its keys. I hobble over to make it stop.
    Sudden silence. The shocked air exhales.
    “I thought you were asleep. I’m sorry…”
    There’s a slight change in the eyes as he stares up at me.
    “You understand what I’m saying?”
    He’s conscious of his nakedness. A hand clutches pointlessly across his thigh.
    “I found you on the shore.”
    At last, he blinks.
    “You were nearly drowned. I rescued you. I brought you here. You slept. Do you understand?”
    An almost nod.
    “What’s your name?”
    His lips begin to shape. Could it really be Adam? But no sound emerges.
    “I’m Roushana Maitland. I live here.” I don’t say alone. “This is Cornwall.” Which could, depending on where he comes from, be either ridiculously specific, or a wild over-generalisation.
    He half-raises the hand which was covering his thigh in a trembling gesture towards the space of empty air beside the piano. He makes a stuttering noise. I lean forward. He tries again. “I saw…”
    “You saw? Saw what?”
    The hand falls. His eyes trail back to settle on me. But reluctantly. Waking up alone in a strange house with a piano played as if by ghostly fingers, what is he to think?
    “What did you say your name was?”
    A small shrug.
    “I thought you said your name earlier. I thought you said Adam.”
    He repeats