Page 135 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt

The few days I spent in Bergen were blissful. I took luxurious strolls through the Bergens Fjellstrekninger, warmed myself by the log fire in the evenings, and filled up on Astrid’s famous mutton and cabbage stew. By the end of my stay, I think even Felix had warmed to me – particularly after I tuned the upright piano which had once belonged to Pip.

When it was time to leave, I boarded a ferry from Bergen to Amsterdam, and from there used the train network to get me to Paris. If Elle had returned to the city, who would she have chosen to contact? Landowski? Brouilly? Perhaps Madame Gagnon? Part of me longed to speak with Monsieur Ivan, but I knew that returning to the Conservatoire de Paris was inadvisable, given what had transpired between myself and Monsieur Toussaint all those years ago. Landowski’s atelier in Boulogne-Billancourt was where I had to start.

The house looked just as it did in my memories. The white stone exterior was perhaps a little faded, but was still covered by thriving purple wisteria. I stood there for a while, drinking in the place that had been my home as a boy. My eyes fell onto the bench that I used to play my fiddle on. I strolled over to it and sat down, closing my eyes, and drifting back into the past...

‘What do you think you’re doing?!’ shouted a familiar French voice. I opened my eyes, and turned to see a greyer, plumper Evelyn storming towards me across the grass. ‘This is private property!’ My face had broken out into a hugesmile at the sight of one of my kindliest saviours. Oh, it wassovery good to see her again. ‘I say again, what on earth do you think you’re doing? Don’t make me get the broom!’ I continued to sit motionless on the bench, staring back at her. ‘Who are you?’

‘Hello, Evelyn,’ I said, standing up. I now towered at least a foot over her. As she looked into my eyes, I saw a flicker of recognition. Her expression immediately softened.

‘It cannot be...’ she whispered. ‘Bo?’ I held my arms out to her, and she grabbed me tightly. ‘Bo! Oh Bo! I never thought I would see you again.’ She detached herself for a brief moment to look back up into my face. ‘Oh, my sweet boy. You’re all grown up! What a happy day!’ Once again, tears formed in the eyes of an individual who appeared very pleased to see me. If I might take a moment to flatter myself, a pattern was beginning to form.

‘I have missed you very much, Evelyn.’

‘And I you! You must come inside! Monsieur Landowski is here. Careful, little Bo, you might give him a heart attack!’ Evelyn took my arm and walked me in through the familiar hallway. ‘It is still just me here most of the time, with Monsieur Landowski’s work taking him all over the globe. What has become of your life? Are you a famous musician now? What about that boy who was chasing you? Did you make up? And what about little Elle?! What has become of her?’

Her avalanche of questions revealed that she and Elle had not crossed paths since we left France all those years ago. I tried to hide my disappointment. ‘Much has changed, Evelyn.’

‘Clearly. For one, you speak more than you used to!’

‘What’s this racket?’ Monsieur Landowski’s booming (but now slightly croaky) voice echoed through the corridor. He appeared from around the corner, in the same smock he had worn twenty-five years ago. The little hair that remained onhis head was a wispy white, as were his trademark moustache and beard. We stood face to face in the corridor for a moment. ‘Boy!’ he said eventually. ‘Ha!’ He shook his head, before turning and gesturing for me to follow. ‘Come. I could use some help. Evelyn, would you put some tea on? Then perhaps you can join us in the atelier.’ She squeezed my arm and disappeared off to the kitchen. I followed Monsieur Landowski into his workshop, where, on the table, was a near-finished stone sculpture of a dancing woman. Her arm was thrown up elegantly above her head, and her face cast down towards the floor.

Landowski picked up his chisel and began to delicately tap at her flowing hair. ‘Pass me the finer instrument from the workbench, would you?’ Without skipping a beat, I did so. ‘Well, what do you think?’ He nodded to the sculpture.

‘You have not lost your touch, Monsieur Landowski. Is she a flamenco dancer?’ I asked.

‘Indeed.’ He took a moment to step back and admire his work. ‘I am quite proud of this one.’ He turned to me. ‘Now then, boy, you are back. Does that mean you are finally safe?’

I sighed. ‘It’s a hard question to answer, Monsieur Landowski.’

‘Hmm. Well, don’t worry about that rogue Toussaint from the conservatoire. Your old teacher Monsieur Ivan dealt with him.’

The mention of Monsieur Ivan’s name brought a smile to my face. ‘He did? How?’

Landowski chuckled. ‘Ivan was from Moscow, and was angry. Need I say more?’

I shrugged. ‘Probably not.’

‘Toussaint ended up leaving Paris. We never heard from him again. The rats crawl back to the sewer in the end.’

‘How is Monsieur Ivan? I would dearly love to see him.’

Landowski leant on his workbench. ‘I’m sorry, Bo. He died several years ago now. We kept in touch after you had gone to Germany. He often spoke of you, and predicted great things.’ Landowski looked me up and down. ‘But clearly you do not play anymore.’

I was bewildered. ‘How did you know, Monsieur Landowski?’

‘You look joyless. Soulless. Therefore, I wager you do not play.’ Evelyn returned with the tea. ‘Thank you, Evelyn. I do not know what I would do without this one, boy. She runs my entire life in France, from bedsheets to scheduling. My memory is not what it once was, is it, Evelyn?’

Evelyn laughed. ‘You are still sharp as ever, Monsieur Landowski.’

‘You have to say that, I pay your wages! Anyway, please do take a seat as our old friend tells us everything about his life.’ Evelyn made her way to the dusty old sofa at the back of the atelier.

‘Before I begin, may I ask where the rest of the family are, Monsieur Landowski?’

‘Most of them are still in Rome.’ He pointed to his sculpture. ‘I’m only in Paris because I have to finish this commission. I began it here when I was bored of my ailing mother-in-law’s prattlings last Christmas.’ He delicately stroked the stone face. ‘It’s for a private client from Spain. I hope you don’t mind if I continue to work whilst you speak, Bo. I’m already delayed on this piece. I have to finish it off today.’

‘Not at all, Monsieur Landowski.’

‘Thank you.’ He picked up his chisel again. ‘Oh! Marcel made it into the conservatoire by the way.’ He chuckled. ‘He studied under Marguerite Long, and now composes professionally.’