Page 36 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt

‘I do not know. Many months.’

‘We will not survive without you.’

‘That is where you are wrong. If I do not leave, I do not think any of us have a future. I promise on your beloved mother’s life that I shall return for you... Pray for me, wait for me.’

I nodded meekly.

‘Remember the words of Laozi. “If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are going.”’

I rolled onto my front, hoping a positional shift might rid my brain of that particular memory. I felt a stabbing sensationin my chest, and realised that I had not yet removed the pouch from around my neck. Was it possible that, for the first time in months, I had forgotten about its presence?

As I passed the drawstring over my neck, I permitted myself a look within. The room was dark, but bright moonbeams shone through my window. The light caught the sharp points of the item inside, and I marvelled at the shards of yellowy-white that danced about the walls. It pained me to think that something so incredibly beautiful could cause so much pain and suffering. Jealousy can make human beings do terrible things.

I contemplated what my next move would be. I had traversed arctic deserts and mountain ranges in the hope that I would see my father once more. Did I believe he could still be alive? Even if I confessed that I felt the odds were slim, how could I put my search on hold having come so far?

The truth of the matter was that in the Landowski household, I had found shelter, safety and now, with the promise of tuition from Monsieur Ivan, so much more. I threw back my bedcovers, slid my feet onto the wooden floor, and walked across to the window. The milky light of the moon illuminated the courtyard below, and I stared up at the gleaming celestial sphere which hangs above our planet.

‘Are you out there, Papa?’

I carefully unlatched the window and let the cool night air envelop me. I came from the cold, and still liked to feel its crisp freshness on my skin. All was still outside, and I drank in the night. As I looked up at the clear sky, I searched for my guardians. Sure enough, there they were, the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades. Their presence was a certainty, which is perhaps why I found so much comfort in them. Whatever might change in my life, whatever losses I might still have to endure, the stars would always be there, looking down on creation foreternity. I noted that, tonight, it was Maia who was shining the brightest, as she always did in the winter.

‘Maia,’ I whispered, ‘what should I do?’

I was always childishly hopeful when I spoke to the stars that one day they might actually reply. After I’d shut the window and turned around to get back into bed, my foot brushed against something and I nearly tripped. I looked down to see my violin case, which I’d failed to slide all the way under the bed. The thought of playing for Monsieur Ivan at the conservatoire produced such a sense of excitement and glee in me that it had a dizzying effect, and I climbed back under my blankets.

After placing the leather pouch between my legs, I pulled the bedding tight around me. In my short life, I had already endured more trauma than any human being should ever have to. For the first time in years, I found myself in a place of safety, surrounded by people who seemed to care for my well-being. Would it be so wrong to spend a while at the Landowski atelier? If indeed Papa was alive, would he chastise me if I were to postpone my search for him? More likely, he would be a little proud of what his son had achieved. I had crossed dangerous borders to escape the horror of my former life, befriended a famous sculptor and, most impossibly, become a student of the esteemed Conservatoire de Paris. My father’s voice crept into my head:If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are going.

Yes... yes. If I were to continue my journey now, with only the vaguest of information to guide me, the fate I feared most could well become my reality. I would have to return to stealing food and drinking rainwater, not to mention trying to find shelter along the way. I doubted it was the life my father would want for his son.

It was decided. I would stay with the Landowski familyfor as long as they would allow me to. Then I would complete the task that had brought me here in the first place: the search for my father.

‘When is your birthday, boy?’ Monsieur Landowski asked, as Evelyn presented him with a pile of forms from the conservatoire. ‘These papers require a lot of information which I do not know. Your date of birth, an account of your experience on the violin... and, some might argue, principally your name.’ He chuckled and shook his head. ‘Young Bo. You’re going to need a surname, you know. Do you already have one?’

I hesitated.

‘One that you would be willing to share with me, for the purposes of your enrolment at the conservatory?’

I thought for a moment, and took out my paper. I began scribbling some of my favourite words: stars, aurora, serendipity, Pleiades... Ah, yes... that had about the right number of consonants and vowels to create something interesting. I scribbled further, rearranging letters as Monsieur Landowski examined the forms. I handed the scrap paper to him.

My name is Bo D’Aplièse.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Bravo, young man. You have successfully invented a name that will serve you well at the conservatory. As for your previous experience... well, who better to write it down than yourself. He handed me the papers. Underl’expérience antérieure de l’élève, I wrote:

No technical training or professional experience.

Monsieur Landowski looked at my effort and said, ‘Goodness, youareyoung, dear boy! One of the mostimportant things anartistecan learn is to sell himself!’ He noted the surprise on my face. ‘Do not confuse this with arrogance. One may remain modest, but also know one’s self-worth. Perhaps you might talk about when you first began to play.’ He returned the forms to me. I thought for a moment, and put pen to paper:

I have played the violin for as long as my hands were large enough to grasp the neck. I watched my father play and marvelled at the way his bow danced over the strings. He was kind enough to share his passion with me. At first, I learnt to play by ear, copying my father note for note. This is still my favourite method, for others find it magical. However, my father dedicated a generous amount of time to teaching me sight-reading, and I have come to understand ‘natural harmonics’ as if they were themselves a spoken language. My father would often tell me that playing can improve memory and attention span, as well as mental function and overall health. I am unsure if I have benefitted from these things, but I know that when I play, time stops, and I travel to a place that is not on this planet; I dance on the wings of the universe.

I returned the papers to Landowski. ‘Perhaps you should be a poet, too,’ he said. ‘Tell me, who was your father? Where is he now?’

I shook my head.

‘Well, young man, wherever he is now, in this universe or the next, I am confident that he would be proud of your achievement. As am I, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

I met Monsieur Landowski’s eye.

‘Young Bo, I am a sculptor. It is my job to immortalise another individual’s essence, forever, in stone. The client must sense theemotionin the piece, they mustfeelsomething. In this respect, I am adept at knowing what lies beneath the surface of an individual. And you, young monsieur, have known great pain.’