Page 35 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt

Floriano laughed. ‘My dearest Maia, I would not have it any other way. Remember that it was I who encouraged you to return to thecasaof the Aires-Cabrals. And it is I who now tells you that, whatever you discover in that diary, you will find peace in knowing the full circumstances of your father’s connection to Brazil. What would my readers think if I presented them with a story only half told?’ Floriano moved his hand onto Maia’s stomach, and leant in to whisper. ‘Remember, in order to have hope for the future, one must look to the past.’ Maia felt immediately reassured, her partner’s easy nature providing the tether she needed to dive back into the past once more. ‘When will we tell the others, by the way? I know you’ve discussed it with Ally, but surely your sisters will start to question why you have swapped wine for water?’

‘Gosh. I’d thought about announcing it on the trip, but now there’s so much more happening... Would you mind if we waited a little longer?’

‘Of course not, my dearest. I will follow your lead.’ He leant in and kissed her. ‘I am glad that our littlebebêis going to know exactly who his grandfather is.’

‘His?What makes you so sure it’s going to be a boy?’

He chuckled and shrugged. ‘Sorry, I misspoke. Although, what can I say, it would be nice to have a littlegarototo share the pain of supporting the Botafogo football team.’

‘Agreed. It would certainly take some of the pressure off me.’

‘Quite. Now, I imagine you wish to have the room to yourself as you begin the diary?’

‘Thank you, Floriano.’

‘Not at all. Remember that I am close by if you need me.’

He made his way through the open double doors, and closed them behind him. Maia surveyed the empty room before heading over to the sofa, pages in hand. The silence, save for the low hum of theTitan’s engines, was just what she needed to focus on the task at hand.

1929

Monsieur Landowski made a point of coming out from the atelier to meet me and Evelyn upon our return from the conservatoire.

‘Well?’ he enquired, with what seemed like genuine anticipation.

‘Monsieur Ivan declared him a triumph, and would like to tutor Bo twice a week,’ Evelyn replied.

The look on Monsieur Landowski’s face had caught me off guard. His eyes lit up and he broke into an enormous smile.

‘Ah! Excellent! Congratulations, boy. Very well deserved.’ He clasped my hand and shook it vigorously. A smile appeared on my lips too. It had been so long since another human had shown an interest in my own happiness that I wasn’t quite sure how to react. ‘This is good news,’ Landowski continued. ‘With your permission, I shall raise a toast to you tonight at dinner and tell the family.’

I removed my scrap paper from my pocket, scribbled something, and held it up to Monsieur Landowski.

Money?

‘Young sir. It is the privilege of oneartisteto help another. I have been immensely lucky in that I have been generously compensated for my commissions. I will not hesitate to help you.’

Thank you, monsieur, I scribbled, fighting the tears that were forming.

‘Are you aware of the Prix Blumenthal, boy?’ I shook my head. ‘It is a large financial prize awarded by the American philanthropist Florence Blumenthal – and her husband George – to a young artist, sculptor, writer or musician. I am one of the jurors here in France. I have always felt a little... odd about giving someone else’s money away, so I am happy to personally provide assistance on this occasion. Plus, I am sure that one day, you will find yourself in a position to help others. Be sure to accept the privilege.’

I nodded emphatically.

That evening, the Landowskis were all sincere in their congratulations – apart from Marcel, who spent the entire evening looking as if he had consumed a sour gooseberry.

As I lay in bed, I considered how fortunate I had been to collapse in the garden of this particular household. I had been so exhausted, malnourished and dazed that I merely fell where I stood, and crawled under the nearest hedge for shelter. It might have belonged to anyone, and my fate could have been determined by the local gendarmerie. I might have been sentenced to an orphanage, a workhouse or psychiatric care, given my refusal to speak. More likely, of course, I would have died that night under the French stars. But my angel, Bel, had been my saviour. Had it been mere coincidence that she had found me? I thought of my starry guardians, the Seven Sisters. Perhaps they had sent her to me, just as I believed they had kept me safe on my impossible journey...

I do not doubt that the Landowski family find some romance in the mute boy from under the hedge, who possesses a talent for the violin. It is probable that they are concocting stories about just who I am. The fact is, of course, that whatever fiction they are theorising about, the truth is more devastating than they could possibly imagine.

I must continue to remind myself that the Landowski atelier is not the end point of my journey. I have set out into the world with a purpose, and it is not yet complete.

I shut my eyes and thought of what my father had said to me on the last day I saw him:My son... I fear the moment has come when I do not have a choice about whether to stay or go. Our situation is not sustainable. I must try and find help.

My heart sank and I was consumed by an urgent anxiety. ‘Please, Papa. You can’t go. What will we do without you?’

‘You are strong, my child. Perhaps not in your body, but in your mind. It is that which will keep you safe whilst I am gone.’ I threw myself into his arms, the warmth of his being enveloping me.

‘How long will it take?’ I managed, through ever-increasing sobs.