12. Chapter 12
‘Karl suggested we promenade,’ Cassius lied. ‘After our first outing proved such a disaster.’ He smoothed the stiff corners of his freshly starched collar. Caught his fingers before they drifted to fidget with his buttons.
‘Is that a new waistcoat?’ She shifted her parasol from one shoulder to the other.
‘If I am to believably court the soprano, then I ought to dress like a man who she would deign to allow herself to be courted by.’ He held out his arms. ‘What do you think?’
He could almost feel the serpentine journey of her gaze. Over his shoulders, across the new waistcoat, then draping over his trousers before idling on the bright sheen of his shoes. He’d stopped by a bootblack on his way over, just to be certain every part of him shone.
For the farce.
All of it for the farce.
‘You look… as I would expect a gent who was trying to impress me to look.’ Odette spun her bracelet.
Rubies. He tried to place the prince or whoever had bought her the gems, and while the memory poked at him, he could not land on a name.
When she tucked them under her sleeve, he no longer cared to dredge up the detail.
She was entitled to her past, just as he was to his, and with the sinking sunlight turning all the soft, yellow hues of her hair into spun gold, with her cheeks flushed pink from exertion, it was surely the least interesting thing about her.
Odette never stopped absorbing the world, and even here, right in front of her home, she tipped her chin to lean into the breeze that whispered its way between them.
‘You look lovely,’ he offered.
‘Thank you,’ she said, like the compliment was a surprise. She twirled her parasol, sending little flecks of light scattering around her like crystals. ‘What did you have in mind?’.
‘For what?’
‘For our outing.’ Odette descended the few steps between them to land on the path. ‘Where did you want to go? I can have the horses hitched?’
‘The park.’ Cassius pointed over his shoulder. ‘Just for a stroll. Over there. The patron may see us. We can show how responsible we are in our courtship, and then Karl will know he has nothing to worry about. But if the journalist has upset you and you don’t feel safe…’
‘Daniel will keep watch. I’ve stared down worse opponents. It’s just been some time. And if a journalist is hanging around, we ought not to waste him. A responsible stroll might solve many problems.’
He offered his elbow. ‘Shall we?’
A responsible stroll. Those were almost the exact same words he’d recited to himself while pacing the length of his townhouse that afternoon.
As he’d continued to pack and sort through the last decades of his life, he had failed to fight off the recollection of her body heaving against him, of her moans in his ear and her sex tensing around his fingers.
The evening before, the vision of her parted lips and that marvellous note had tormented him, and the morning had not dimmed the lusciousness of the memory.
Nor had his attempt to recall other women or past assignations.
Not even a quick tug on himself had helped.
He had come, not to avoid the temptation of further transgressions, but to fortify himself against the memory.
To return their relationship to something like it had been before.
To re-establish some necessary distance.
When they reached the park on the opposite side of the road, Cassius allowed Odette to guide their path. As the rumble of carts and carriages faded, the silence between them grew, tangling into some awkward, uncomfortable knot.
‘I also wanted to talk to you about… about what happened in the pit,’ he said.
Her arm stiffened against the curve of his elbow.
‘We are both adults. We both enjoy the company of others. It is natural for us to be curious about one another. Yesterday was a long day. Emotions ran high. We were simply two people dispersing the… the nervous strain and pressure that had accumulated in our bodies. It would be far worse if we were spotted engaging with others to meet our respective needs.’ Cassius baulked at his implied confession of fidelity to a pretend courtship.
‘Unless you are meeting with someone in secret—’
‘I have not contemplated meeting with anyone since we started our… our pretence.’ Her words tumbled from her in a gush. ‘I wouldn’t dare risk my opera.’
‘And I wouldn’t risk my release. I mean, Karl signing my release. I would not risk my position in Vienna.’ There. That was what he’d meant to say.
‘Yesterday was…’ Odette fidgeted with the tips of her gloves. A little twist of a mischievous smile turned her lips. ‘An unexpected distraction. But an enjoyable one. Wouldn’t you say?’
And now he was also smiling. The pair of them strolled along, grinning at one another like naughty children who’d feared they’d been caught out but were realising they had got away with a trick. ‘Incredibly enjoyable.’
‘But not to be repeated,’ she said.
‘No. That would be too great a risk for both of us.’
Gravel crunched beneath their heels, but with an unexpected echo. Then a burst of giggling followed soon after. Cassius threw a look over his shoulder. ‘Can you not go anywhere without being pursued by legions of devotees?’
Odette cast a glance behind them, then laughed.
‘These are not devotees. They live in my street and come to the park to play. They’re Lawrence and Wilhemenia’s children.
The younger ones, at any rate. They have ten in total.
Rosanna and Johannes were little children when I arrived, and now Rosanna has a baby of her own. Johannes is travelling the world.’
She smiled with the warmth of a doting aunt, and maybe a flicker of longing.
Did she want children? Were there any secret ones hidden away somewhere?
Or a tragedy? But before he could condense his curiosity into an appropriate question, one of the small people ran ahead of them.
A boy, tall and thin as weeds with tan-and-chocolate freckles scattered across his nose, stopped before them.
He held out his left hand, then his right, then his left.
‘I’m Amadeus,’ he said, fluid and confident as a flute. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’
Cassius coughed. ‘Wrong hand,’ he said in a low voice.
Fear swept over the boy’s face, the kind that Cassius knew only too well. ‘Don’t tell,’ the boy whispered. ‘I’ve been trying so hard.’
He was too tall for Cassius to kneel before him, so instead, he leant over.
The younger children watched on, dirt and curiosity framing their expressions.
‘The trick,’ Cassius said, ‘is to watch people like they might be boring. Like you aren’t interested in them.
Then, when you are certain you have the proper hand, offer it.
They will be grateful of your attention, and you won’t make a mistake. ’
Amadeus searched Cassius’s face, then broke into a wide smile. ‘You too?’ he asked.
Cassius raised his left hand and spun it with a little flourish. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Did someone say something to you, to make you worry? Something unkind?’
He cast a look across the park, where none other than their patron was walking the path away from the chapel, flanked by two women in bright pastel skirts and white blouses.
‘Mrs Crofts?’ Odette asked, her voice thick with anger. As if she was about to cross the gardens and tear both the woman and her opera to shreds.
Amadeus shook his head. ‘One of her pastel ladies. She said that being left-handed was a sign that I was not a good person. I was…’
‘A sinister,’ Cassius asked. ‘Untrustworthy? Cursed?’
The boy nodded solemnly.
‘What if I told you it was true?’
‘I’m cursed?’ No more fear, only horror remained on the poor boy’s face. A horror he remembered from his own young days.
‘Maybe not cursed. But a powerful sinister… if you want to be. Let me show you. One left hand to another.’ Cassius strode across to an oak.
He snapped off a short twig and swished it through the air a few times.
‘Our kind make the best assassins. The best sword fighters. The best magicians. Even the best conductors are left-handed.’
Odette coughed. ‘Conductors?’ she asked, not even bothering to hide her scepticism.
‘I was referring to Wagner,’ he said, feigning churlishness. Sniping. Musical sparring. This was more familiar ground between them. Much better. ‘As I was saying. The left-handed are the best at everything. Do you know why?’
The boy shook his head. A few of the other children, all younger than Amadeus, had gathered around him. They watched Cassius, mesmerised.
‘Because we have the element of surprise. Everyone is looking for what is familiar, for what is common. They all watch the right. A left hand keeps them on their toes. It forces them to pay attention. The right hand can hold a baton’—Cassius flipped the twig along his fingers—‘but the left is for expression. Like this.’
Cassius pointed the twig at one of the children, the next shortest in height from Amadeus. ‘Who are you?’
‘Nova!’ the little girl replied.
‘Nova, you are my flute,’ Cassius said. The little girl raised her hands, her fingers wiggling in the air like she was touching the holes of an instrument.
‘My violin.’ He pointed to the next shortest, another girl.
Another boy, far younger, wobbled, then fell to his bottom with a thud.
‘Percussion,’ Cassius said. ‘And you’—he offered the stick to Amadeus—‘can be the conductor.’
‘I can?’ The boy touched the twig as if it was magic, not just a piece of wood snapped off a tree behind them mere moments earlier.
‘If I can, then you can.’ Cassius flipped the twig so it spun one revolution in the air, caught it, and presented it again.
‘You still have to hold the baton in your right hand. Otherwise it’s too confusing for the musicians.
But the left is for the expression. The nuance.
And, of course, to keep the musicians on their toes. ’