Page 44 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt

It is about a child at the orphanage, and their musical talent.

‘Oh... I see. I will contact Baudin and have him listen to the boy. Then he will be able to give him a direct critique about how he might improve his chances of admission to the conservatoire. Okay? See! Sometimes problems can be easily solved. There was no need to be so nervous. Now, we will run through the Tchaikovsky again.’

I was already writingHer.

‘Apologies, I should not have assumed gender. I merely thought you would be spending the majority of your time playing marbles and scheming with other little boys. Either way, I will have Baudin listen to her and give her an assessment.’

I had sensed this task was not going to be simple.I wished to enquire about the possibility of her having lessons at the conservatoire, like me.

There was a lengthy pause as Monsieur Ivan absorbed the information. Then he looked at me quizzically, and began to laugh.

‘Oh, no! Clearly, I have made a mistake in sending you to the Apprentis d’Auteuil. Now you are going to try and send every child through our doors here.’ Monsieur Ivan continued to chuckle, then slapped his hands on his knees. ‘As I sense you already know, that would not be possible. The conservatory is for undergraduate study and beyond. We are not a music school for infants. There are many private tutors who devote their time to listening to the screeching and honking produced by children. I’m sure I can find the details of someone willing to tutor your little friend. All right? Now, the Tchaikovsky.’

She is self-taught over many years. I have heard her play and she is supremely talented. I believe she would benefit from conservatory training only.

‘Oh, now I see. That changes everything.’ Monsieur Ivan cupped his hand by his mouth and pretended to shout. ‘The young prophet has decreed that only conservatory training will help his friend! Clear the schedules and ready the tutors! Ourpetitscout has found us the next great genius!’ I cast my eyes downward. ‘Young Bo, I do not doubt that your intentions are good and you are just trying to help your friend, but you are a mere boy, here by special arrangement because Monsieur Landowski has connections to Monsieur Rachmaninoff. Without that connection, regrettably, I never would have agreed to see you. In truth, I was expecting to listen to you play as a courtesy and nothing more. It is only because of your unique ability that we are here. You have a... maturity which is highly unusual in a boy of your age. The conservatoire does not teach children, and that is the end of the story. Now, please, the Tchaikovsky.’

She is also unique in that she is self-taught. I cannot imagine the mental strength that...Monsieur Ivan ripped the paper from my hands and threw it to the floor.

‘Enough! The Tchaikovsky, boy!’

I shakily reached for my violin, and placed my chin in the saddle. I picked up the bow and began to play. Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face, and my breathing was erratic, leading to a plethora of errors. Monsieur Ivan put his head in his hands.

‘Stop, Bo, stop. I apologise. There was no need for my reaction. I am sorry.’

His platitudes were no use; the floodgates had opened, and I was unable to shut them. I realised that it had been so long since I had sobbed like this. There had been dark nights on my journey when my body had gone through the motions of crying, but I was simply too dehydrated to actually produce the tears. Monsieur Ivan rifled through his desk drawers and produced a handkerchief.

‘It’s clean,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘Once again, young man, I should not have shouted at you. You were just trying to help someone. And that is something that should never be discouraged.’ He put a comforting hand on my shoulder.

It didn’t work. I cried and cried. The fact that I had been shouted at merely acted as the catalyst for a release which had been due for many months. I cried for my father, my mother, and the boy who I thought of as my brother, but who now wanted me dead. I cried for the many lives I might have led, had I not been forced to run. I cried as I thought of Monsieur Landowski’s generosity, and Monsieur Ivan’s willingness to tutor me. I cried out of exhaustion, grief, despair, gratitude, but perhaps most significantly of all, I cried for love. I cried because I was not going to be able to give Elle the opportunity which she deserved. My bawling must have lasted for a good fifteen minutes, during which time Monsieur Ivan stoically kept his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘There, there,’ over and over. Poor man. I doubted he would have bargained on such a dramatic reaction whenraising his voice to me. It was unlikely he faced such a problem with his undergraduates.

Eventually, the well inside my body dried up, and I was left taking deep, long breaths.

‘Goodness. I must say that although I am in the wrong, that was a more extreme response than I was anticipating. Are you all right now?’ I nodded, wiping my nose on my sleeve. ‘I am pleased. Needless to say, I think it is for the best that we leave the rest of the lesson for today.’

I am sorry, Monsieur Ivan, I wrote.

‘No need to apologise,petit monsieur. It is clear to me that there is a great deal else at play. Would a friendly ear help? Or should I say, a friendly pair of eyes? Remember, we are émigrés, and even if we shout at one another, there is an eternal bond between us.’

I began to write, but then stopped again. Perhaps it was the internal chemicals released by my tears, but I suddenly felt a sea of calm wash over me. If I spoke, what was the worst that could happen? Perhaps it would lead to my death. Then, at least, I would be in the world beyond, to join my mother, and perhaps my father too. Everything seemed so utterly, beautifully pointless. The desire to unburden myself made me take leave of my senses. So I did the unthinkable. I opened my mouth.

‘If you will listen, then I will tell you my story, monsieur,’ I said, in my mother tongue.

Monsieur Ivan did a double take. ‘My word...’

‘I have lived a short life, but the tale is long. I do not think I will be able to recount everything in the ten minutes we have left.’

‘No, no, of course not. Well, let me clear my schedule. This is important. What about your Madame Evelyn? I will leave a message at reception that we are extending today’s lessonto prepare for a recital.’ He shot up, almost tripping over his wooden chair as he did so.

‘Thank you, Monsieur Ivan.’ I would be lying if I said it wasn’t somewhat enjoyable to have him on the back foot for once.

Using my voice was a little like flexing a muscle that had been resting for months during rehabilitation. It felt fresh, and strange, almost as if it did not belong to me. Of course, I’d used it here and there, to remind myself that I still possessed the ability to speak, and to thank Monsieur Landowski a few weeks ago. But the sentence I had just uttered to Monsieur Ivan was the most I had spoken in the best part of a year. ‘My name... is Bo,’ I said. ‘My name is Bo. I. Am. Bo.’ My voice was noticeably deeper than I remembered it, although nowhere near breaking. What a strange sensation.

Monsieur Ivan stumbled back into the room. ‘All right, we are ready.’ He sat back in his chair and gestured to me.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and told him the truth.

The tale took me the best part of an hour, during which time Monsieur Ivan sat quietly, eyes wide, completely absorbed by the shocking nature of the information I was revealing. When I eventually concluded, with my discovery by Bel under Monsieur Landowski’s hedge, a period of stunned silence followed.