The sound this time was like a summons, authoritative and plangent at once. I was standing by a café, trying to get whatever relief I could from the spray of the mist dispenser, when I heard it, carried on a wave of heat maybe, the same thermal that blew the mist towards my face. A series of descending notes to the lowest string, then a matching ascent with just a hint of melody in the progression. Here we go again, I thought, someone’s calling me, and perhaps my act of forgetting had been too effective, because I began walking towards the source without forming an image of who it was. And the progression kept going, as if the notes obeyed some sweet mathematical algorithm that didn’t want to end. I know now it was the prelude to the third cello suite – in time I would get to hear all of them, and that she practised them in sequence. Life begins and ends with Bach, she would tell me, and there turned out to be more truth to that than I could ever have imagined. But for the moment I just followed the sound. I would lose it traversing a bank of houses, then turn down another street and there it would be again. And I found myself at the entrance this time, with the river of sound flooding the arch with its tiled ceilings, tracing its arabesque round the balconies inside. And I walked, of course, up the steps, towards the open door and she was inside, playing, in a white summer dress appropriate to the heat of the day.
Hello again, she said without breaking the stride of her bow. Have you come to tell me something?
What could I tell you? I asked.
I don’t know, she said. Something. About why you’re here.
Because I heard you play.
About what you do.
You want to know what I do?
And she must have come to the end of the prelude then, because she lifted her bow.
I find people, I said.
Ah, she said. Like a detective.
Sort of, I said.
You must be a good one then.
Why do you say that?
Because you found me.
And she returned the bow to the strings and I wondered was it the shadow of the instrument between her legs, then realised it couldn’t be. There was something staining her dress, spreading from where she wrapped the cello between her legs, and it was red. Blood. She was bleeding, and didn’t know it.
You’re bleeding, I said.
What? she asked, and her eyes were half-closed as she was lost again in her playing.
I moved towards her, touched the dress around her calf and raised my finger, soaked with blood.
I know, she said.
Don’t move.
I won’t. Let me play.
You need a hospital.
I don’t, she said. It’s what happens.
What?
After you lose a child. Bleeding.
Has it happened before?
Yes.
Stop playing.
I can’t. I won’t. Music is the only thing that helps.
That’s insane. You’ll damage yourself.
I’m already damaged.
Is that why you were on the bridge?
Yes. You brought me back. So I’m yours now.
What does that mean?
But I already knew, somewhere inside me. I had cheated her out of what she wanted. She was alive now, and the fault was mine.
And she stopped her bow.
Help me up, she said.
I took the cello from between her legs and rested it on the sofa. I put my hand beneath her armpit and brought her to her feet. She laid her head against mine then, with an infinite weariness, and I felt the nausea of sudden panic. I needed to get out of there, but didn’t know how.
The shower, she said. Let me take a shower.
I helped her towards it, and once in the bathroom, she raised her hands towards the ceiling, like a little girl.
Pull the dress off.
I did that and she stood there, almost naked but for a pair of cotton knickers that were half red, half white.
You could rinse it, she said, in cold water, while I shower.
She stepped inside the shower unit and the water came down the sad mottled glass, gradually steaming it, obscuring the shape of her body and the ripples of pink it left.
You can go if you like, she said.
I was filling the basin with cold water. I rolled her dress in it, kneading it, so the blood spread out through the water like printer’s ink.
I can’t just leave you here.
Yes, you can. I’m all right now. I expected this.
And I was desperate to go just then. I felt I was drowning, in someone else’s life.
Can I check on you again?
To see if I’m all right? Yes, you must. Just tell me one thing.
There was the barest outline now, of a naked body behind the misted glass. The voice carried over the hissing steam.
What?
Are we to be friends, or lovers?
What kind of question is that?
Friends help each other. Lovers hurt each other.
Is that the rule?
Generally.
I dried my hands on the only towel there. I began walking very quietly towards the door. For some reason I didn’t want her to hear me going.
Can we be both?
I turned, and there she was. Standing in the wettened dress. Like a drowned thing again, and the cloth that had been white had a soft, drenched patina of pink to it.
Both? I asked, rather stupidly.
Yes. Both would be good. For a change.
You put the dress back on, I said.
Yes, she said.
I had just rinsed it.
It’s hot, she said, too hot. I can’t play in this heat.
But she sat, back on the sofa, and began plucking at the cello strings.
And you want to go now. Yes, she said, I understand. But you must answer, before you go. Can we be both?
Perhaps, I said.
Ah. Only perhaps.
She raised her wet face to me and presented a brave smile.
You want to think about it, don’t you?
Perhaps I do.
So. Think about it. And you must kiss me before you go.