Page 46 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt

‘Merely that your young friend is connected to Monsieur Rachmaninoff, and he himself is keen that her blossoming musical talents be nurtured.’

‘Monsieur Sergei Rachmaninoff?’

‘Indeed. Quite genius, is it not?’

‘But Monsieur Ivan, I don’t understand. Elle lives at the orphanage!’

‘Young Bo, how do I say this with tact... Monsieur Rachmaninoff, though a truly kind and talented man, is renowned for his female protégés, many of whom have resided in Paris. It is, therefore, perfectly conceivable that young Elle is the product of one of his dalliances with a female, and guilt is compelling him to act in this instance.’

‘Monsieur Ivan, I’m not sure that Elle will be able to maintain such a ridiculous facade,’ I countered.

‘No facade is required,petit monsieur. I have informed Toussaint and Moulin that the young girl does not know of her lineage, and Monsieur Rachmaninoff would be enraged if she were to find out. I can guarantee their silence; they would not wish to upset the “Great Russian”.’

‘Monsieur Ivan...’

‘Bo, I assume it is your wish that you should both take tuition at the same time? Schedules will no doubt have to berearranged, and the detail about Monsieur Rachmaninoff will ensure that happens without fuss.’

I had reluctantly agreed to support Monsieur Ivan’s plan, on the proviso that it would, in a roundabout way, provide Elle with an extra layer of protection. Toussaint and Moulin would not dare be so scathing in their criticism of Rachmaninoff’s daughter. Although I must admit, I did feel quite terrible about blemishing the good composer’s reputation.

And so it was that Elle and I, together, became the youngest students at the Conservatoire de Paris. In recent weeks, Evelyn has allowed me to take the bus to and from Paris unaccompanied, provided I check in with her whenever I return home. This concern was somewhat unnecessary considering my experiences during the last eighteen months, but it felt wonderful to have someone so worried about my well-being.

After our bi-weekly lessons, before returning to the Apprentis d’Auteuil, Elle and I have taken to buying ice creams from a small parlour on the Avenue Jean-Jaurès, followed by strolls down by the Seine. This is a privilege afforded to us by Madame Gagnon, who remains thrilled beyond all recognition that I have somehow managed to secure conservatory tuition for her charge. In fact, as the weeks have passed, we have begun to push the boundaries a little more, daring to stay out later and later. Sometimes we take books and pencils down to the water. Elle reads aloud, and I draw. I do not profess to be particularly good, but my landscapes are slowly improving.

A few days ago, Elle rested her head on my shoulder and narratedThe Hunchback of Notre-Dame. I halted my attempt to capture the green horse chestnut tree, and looked down at her blonde hair, then at the rolling river. The May sunlight danced on the ripples of the water.

‘Love is like a tree: it grows by itself, roots itself deeply inour being and continues to flourish over a heart in ruin. The inexplicable fact is that the blinder it is, the more tenacious it is. It is never stronger than when it is completely unreasonable...’ Elle recited. ‘Do you think that’s true, Bo? Can people be blinded by love?’

She looked up at me. I shook my head and grabbed my pen.

On the contrary, I think that love finally allows a person’s eyes to truly open.

I held her gaze. Elle lifted her head to give me a kiss. It was longer than before, and her warm lips moved delicately against mine. When she drew away, I felt light and floaty, and my stomach filled with a pleasant tingling sensation. I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. That made Elle laugh, too. Feeling emboldened, I took her hand and held it in mine. Whenever we have seen each other since, I have not let it go.

She makes me feel safe. Previously, I had believed that was the domain of warm buildings, food on the table and money in the bank. But Elle has taught me that you may live happily without those things, as long as you are with someone you...

After much internal debate and self-reflection, I have concluded that, yes: I am totally, hopelessly and unconditionally in love with Elle Leopine.

I hope that my ability to craft written prose has not diminished over these last few months. In truth, since taking the step of speaking to Monsieur Landowski all those months ago, I have not felt the need to pen a diary for the sake of my kind host, and if somehow you are reading this, you will note that I have done away with the bland inserts designed to placate any prying eyes. It is because I have grown to trust the Landowski family entirely. These kind people continue to feed me and provide a roof over my head.

I suppose that I found it therapeutic to write my innermost thoughts down on paper. Of course, most people are able to verbally express them to a friend or family member, but when I began this process, I did not have that luxury. Now, I have Monsieur Ivan to talk to, and in terms of keeping my secrets, he has been as good as his word. At the start of the autumn term, he had some thoughts to share with me.

‘Bo, I have taken some time to reflect on your progress during the summer break. Many would be envious of the life you are living: tuition at the Conservatoire de Paris, the opportunity to work alongside a world-renowned sculptor... not to mention the attention you are receiving from a certain blue-eyed blonde girl down the hallway.’

I blushed. ‘Yes. I feel very grateful, Monsieur Ivan.’

‘And yet... we have so far been unsuccessful in unlocking the ability totrulyrelax those shoulders of yours.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I am convinced that you possess the ability to be a virtuoso musician. Indeed, your ability on the violin far exceeds many who earn a living from playing.’

‘Thank you, monsieur.’

‘But the shoulders are just not right. I do not think it is a problem we can so easily fix.’

‘Oh.’ Monsieur Ivan’s honest assessment cut through me like a knife.

‘Do not look dispirited, young Bo. I will continue to tutor you on your preferred instrument, of course. But I insist we add another to your repertoire.’ He stood up and walked over to a large case which was resting against his desk. ‘You have grown a lot taller over the summer, which will help us enormously.’ I eyed the case. ‘What do you think of the cello, Bo?’