Page 47 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
In all honesty, I had no opinion on the subject, and said as much.
‘It is a beautiful instrument. Mellow, sonorous, transcendental... it possesses a wide variety of tone, from the calm and solemn lower register to bursts of passion in the uppermost register. It reminds me a little of you. In your life, you have known immense pain and suffering. And yet, there is something of the hero about you. I cannot help but sense that, despite it all, you are destined for greatness.’
‘On the cello?’ I asked sincerely.
Monsieur Ivan chuckled. ‘Perhaps on the cello, yes. Perhaps elsewhere. What I mean to say is that the cello is something of a split personality. On the one hand, it plays the part of the solid, if melancholic bass instrument, but on the other, it aspires to the passion of a heroic tenor. I think it will suit you.’
‘I have never played such a large instrument. But of course, I am willing to try anything you suggest, Monsieur Ivan.’
‘Good. The best part of my plan, of course, is that the cello rests comfortably between the legs. There will be no need to employ those heavy shoulders of yours in the same way the violin requires. It is my own second instrument, so I will instruct you myself.’
And so I began to play violin on Tuesdays and cello on Fridays. Initially it had felt alien to have such a large object placed between my legs, and to hold my bow at stomach level. But I had thrown myself into it wholeheartedly, and was pleased with my progress. Of course, I am not in possession of a cello, so am unable to practise at home. If anything, it has sharpened my mind and fuelled my desire to make the most of my tuition at the conservatory.
I suppose I felt the need to take up my pen once more because tonight is Christmas Eve, and my father used to impress upon me that it was a time to reflect on the previous year, and to mark the passing of time in one’s mind. Therefore, I have been thinking a great deal about Bel... but perhaps not as much as Monsieur Brouilly, who has been a wreck since his return from Brazil. Needless to say, I continue to assist in the workshop, as Laurent, though physically present, is elsewhere in his mind. A few days ago, he heard me practising ‘Morning Mood’ on the bench outside the atelier, and approached me with tears in his eyes.
‘Where did you learn to play like that?’ I returned his stare. ‘Who gave you the fiddle? Landowski?’ I nodded. ‘I see,’ he said quietly, ‘that like any artist, you speak through your craft. Truly, you have a gift. Treasure it, won’t you?’ I smiled and nodded once more, and Monsieur Brouilly placed a hand on my shoulder. He gave me a small wave goodbye, then wandered off to further contemplate his own misery in the bars ofMontparnasse, which is where he seems to spend all of his time outside of work.
Last night, I was woken by a strange wailing noise coming from outside my window. I checked my clock. It was just after two. Unless Père Noël was making a particularly early stop at the Landowski atelier, the noise belonged to someone altogether more real. I removed the leather pouch from between my thighs and hung it around my neck. Then I cracked the window and looked down into the courtyard below. I spied the figure of Monsieur Brouilly, and next to him, several bottles. I quickly concluded that attempting to get any sleep was going to be a futile effort, and my father had taught me that at Christmas you should seek opportunities to help your fellow man. I took my cue, and reached for my warmest coat. Then I gently opened my bedroom door, padded downstairs and left the house. I followed the sound of sobs to the courtyard, where I found Monsieur Brouilly with his head in his hands. I thought what a good job it was that he had chosen to cry below my window at the back of the house, rather than any of the family’s at the front.
As I approached, I deliberately made my footsteps louder so that he would notice me, and in his stupor not mistake me for the Ghost of Christmas Past. This had the desired effect, and Brouilly spun around, knocking over a bottle in the process. I instinctively put my finger to my lips, and laid my cheek on my hands to mime ‘sleep’.
‘Bo. I am sorry,’ he sniffed. ‘Did I wake you?’ I nodded. ‘Oh dear. I am ashamed. You are the child here, not I.’ I went to sit down next to him. He looked at me, slightly perplexed. ‘I assure you, I will be quiet now. Please, return to your bed.’ I pointed up at the moon, and then to Monsieur Brouilly’s heart. ‘Monsieur Landowski is very kind to keep me on here, when clearly at the moment I am about as useful as meltedchocolate.’ Brouilly chuckled suddenly. ‘He even agreed to send me to Brazil, when he knew full well that my purpose went beyond the safe delivery of theCristo. He is a great man.’ I pointed to myself. ‘Quite right. He has shown both of us immense humanity.’ He looked down at me. ‘You have grown a great deal whilst I have been away. Filled out, too. And I do not just mean physically. It is pleasing to see you beginning to flourish. Bel would be so happy. If only I could tell her.’ I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. ‘You wish to know what happened? In truth, I am still trying to work it out myself. We were together in Rio. But we both knew I had to return to Paris. I could not let my opportunity with Monsieur Landowski fade away. I begged her to come with me, and to leave that pathetic little slug Gustavo. I thought she would choose me, Bo. But she did not. And that is that. I may never understand why.’ Brouilly sobbed, and I placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I understand that since I have been away you have gained a special friend in your life, is that correct?’ I nodded sympathetically. ‘Can you imagine your life without her now?’ I shook my head this time. ‘Perhaps then, young man, you can understand a little of the fate that has befallen me.’ Brouilly sobbed again. ‘You know Bel’s gentleness better than most. After all, you would not be here without her.’
This was certainly true. In all honesty, I was a little surprised that Monsieur Brouilly had returned to Paris at all. From what I had seen of Bel and Laurent in the atelier, there was no doubt in my mind that they loved one another. If I were to place a bet, I would have staked everything on the two of them running away to some far-off corner of the world, where they would have been happy with only each other. Of course, as I had already learnt in life, sometimes love is not enough to keep two people together.
‘You know, she didn’t even come to say goodbye to me. Perhaps she would have found the prospect too traumatising. In the end, she sent her maid with this.’ Brouilly reached into his pocket and produced something white and smooth. ‘Do you know what this is, Bo?’ I squinted, but in the moonlight I recognised what Laurent was holding out. ‘A tile from theCristohimself. It became a tradition amongst the workers to write messages of undying love on the reverse, and have them sealed on the statue for eternity. Here.’
He handed me the tile, and I held it up to my eyes. I could just make out the inscription:
30th October 1929
Izabela Aires-Cabral
Laurent Brouilly
‘I have thought a great deal about her decision to give me this tile. In doing so, she has chosen not to bind our love forever, but to return it to me, unreciprocated. As a consequence, I do not wish to keep it in my possession. Please. Have it.’ I tried to force it back into his hand, but Laurent would not accept it. ‘Perhaps you do not understand, Bo. If the reception to theCristois as welcome as I predict it will be, this little tile will one day have quite a value, I imagine. It is a gift. Maybe you will sell it.’ Laurent stood up, stumbling slightly against the wall as he did so. ‘Or perhaps you will keep it forever. As a reminder that you must never lose the one you love. Or you will become like me!’ I stood up too. ‘Lost love is a curse, Bo. It hurts. Not just in the mind. It has the ability to make your very core ache. I hope for you that you never have to experience what I am feeling.’ He reached down and grabbed the one bottle with a remnant of liquid within it, and took a dramatic glug, then looked up at themoon. ‘Odd, don’t you think?’ I glanced at him quizzically. ‘She is on the other side of the world, but now she will be looking up at the same thing.’ He closed his eyes, and stood for a moment. ‘Well then, goodnight, little Bo. I look forward to working alongside you in the workshop. And a Merry Christmas to you.’
With that, Laurent Brouilly staggered away into the night.
I returned to my bedroom, and placed the soapstone tile in the pouch alongside the item I continued to protect, climbed into bed, and placed it once more between my thighs. The pain Brouilly was suffering was deep and visceral. I sent a silent prayer up to my Seven Sisters to look after him and, of course, Bel too.
Christmas Day was magical. Under the grand fir tree, which was decorated beautifully with candles and paper ornaments, I was amazed to find there was a gift for me.
‘Père Noël was very impressed that you have been so helpful to Monsieur Landowski in the absence of Monsieur Brouilly, so was keen to reward you,’ smiled Madame Landowski.
The package was a recognisable shape. I delicately removed the brown wrapping paper, and then unclasped the large leather case beneath. Inside was one of the most magnificent instruments I have ever seen. The cello had a slick, spruce top, and glistening maple on the back and sides. It was so well polished that I could see my own face in it, and as I removed it fully from the case, a pleasing smell of vanilla and almond wafted into my nostrils.
Monsieur Landowski put a hand on my shoulder. ‘It is made by the German craftsman G. A. Pfretzschner, so barring any accidents, it should last you a lifetime. Monsieur Ivanpredicts you will grow quickly, so I thought an adult size would be appropriate. I enquired about it myself.’ Madame Landowski shot him a look. ‘I mean to say that Père Noël asked me to enquire about it on his behalf.’
Instinctively, I threw my arms around him.
The generous gift was far from the best part of the day, however. The family knew all about Elle from Monsieur Landowski’s regular conversations with Monsieur Ivan. As a result, they had been kind enough to suggest I invite her for Christmas dinner. Although I had initially been nervous, it turned out to be a joyous affair, and my soul soared as I looked around at the table full of people who meant so much to me. Elle, of course, acquitted herself magnificently, captivating the Landowskis with her charm and easy nature.
After the food, an air of melancholic malaise descended on the room. One by one, the Landowski family slipped away from the dining table onto one of the living room sofas, accompanied by a book, a puzzle, or to catch forty winks. Elle and I helped to clear the plates, and after, we put on our coats and I took her to the bench outside the atelier.
I put her hand in mine and steeled myself. I had been planning this moment for the last few weeks. It was Christmas Day, Elle was here, and I knew what I wanted to do. The time was right. I looked up to my shining guardians for strength, and, finally, the words I had longed to say for so long left my mouth.
‘I love you, Elle.’
