‘What ails you today, petit monsieur?’ Monsieur Ivan threw his gaunt arms in the air. ‘Over the last few weeks, you have improved significantly. Your shoulders, they are much looser. This is very good! I knew that spending some time with your peers would be beneficial.’ I didn’t stop to tell Monsieur Ivan that it was peer rather than peers that had yielded the improvement. ‘But today, you are like an ice statue! So tense and full of angst. Tell me, what ails you?’

Monsieur Ivan was not wrong in his assessment of my mental state. After a few sessions where I had made sure to adhere meticulously to all of his instructions, smiled at his witticisms and nodded along as he ranted about the pay some orchestras offered, today was the day I had steeled myself to ask him about Elle. I put pen to paper.

Thank you for your suggestion of attending recreation at the Apprentis d’Auteuil. It has changed my life for the better.

Monsieur Ivan shrugged smugly. ‘No need to thank me, young Bo.’ He tapped his temple with his index finger. ‘Never let it be said that I do not know how to get the best from my pupils, whatever age they may be. It does not answer my question, though. Why are you so tense today? Is all well in the Landowski household?’

Yes, thank you. Monsieur Landowski and family are in good spirits. I have a question to ask you that is personal in nature.

‘Oh. I shall steel myself. Do not be embarrassed, young man. We are émigrés, remember. Here for one another.’ Monsieur Ivan sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘This question, is it perhaps . . . anatomical in nature? You are embarrassed to ask Monsieur Landowski or Madame Evelyn? Fear not, I remember when I was a young man, and was surprised to learn that the male body experiences certain changes that—’

I frantically waved my arms and shook my head. That was not a conversation I wished to have with Monsieur Ivan, or, for that matter, anyone. I hurriedly scribbled.

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 writing Her.

‘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! Our petit scout 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 when raising 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 lesson to 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.

‘My Lord . . . my Lord . . . my Lord . . .’ Monsieur Ivan continued to repeat this refrain, shaking his head and biting his nails as he worked out his response. ‘Young Bo . . . Or not Bo, as we are both aware, I am simply lost for words.’ He stood up and grabbed me, giving me an embrace so firm that the air was crushed out of my lungs. ‘But I knew it! Émigrés. We are strong, Bo. Stronger than anyone can ever know.’

‘Monsieur Ivan, if anyone were to ever find out . . .’

‘Please, petit monsieur. We are bonded by our place of birth. Remember, I understand the land from which you have come, and the trauma you have lived through. I swear, on the graves of my family, that I will never utter a word of what you have just spoken to me.’

‘Thank you, monsieur.’

‘I feel moved to tell you that I believe your parents would be very proud of you, Bo. Your father . . . do you truly believe that he still lives?’

‘I do not know.’

‘And the . . . item you mentioned, is it still in your possession?’ Perhaps this is the one part of my tale that I should have kept from Monsieur Ivan. As I had learnt, greed can infect minds and drive the rational insane. He sensed my hesitation. ‘Please, I have no interest in it, you may be assured of that. I merely mean to tell you that you must protect it at all costs. Not because of its material value, you understand, but because it may well be used as a bargaining chip to one day save your life.’

‘I will. I do.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Now, please, tell me more about Elle. After what you have faced, I understand the significance of having such a friend in your life.’

I related her story to him. ‘She is a very special person, Monsieur Ivan, to remain so positive and brave despite her circumstances. I think she is a little like gravity, pulling all towards her.’

Monsieur Ivan chuckled. ‘Ah, Bo. Now I see. I think that perhaps she does not pull everyone towards her, but only yourself. God help you, young man, as if you didn’t already have enough problems, you are in love!’

‘I do not know if it is possible for an eleven-year-old to be in love.’

‘Don’t be silly, petit monsieur! Of course it is! Love doesn’t care that you are so young. She has you in her grasp, and now you are a slave to her.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? Please, there is no need to be sorry! It is something to celebrate. Indeed, if you were older, I would pour you a vodka and we could talk long into the night about your passion.’

‘Will you see her, Monsieur Ivan?’

‘If I discover what you have shared with me is an elaborate ruse to get your girlfriend through the doors of the conservatory, I shall rain down hellfire on you . . .’ He held my gaze, before breaking into an enormous grin. ‘I am joking, petit monsieur. Of course we will see her. Monsieur Toussaint teaches the flute, and Monsieur Moulin the viola. She will have her audition. Needless to say, though, if we arrange to provide tuition, the professeurs will not work for free.’

‘That is catered for by a charitable individual at the orphanage.’

‘Very well. I will arrange details and let you know upon your next visit. Am I to assume that when you return through that door, you will go back to being mute in our lessons?’

I paused to think. ‘No, Monsieur Ivan. We are bonded by our place of birth.’

‘Thank you for your trust, petit monsieur. I assure you that you will not regret placing it in me.’ I nodded, and reached for the door handle. ‘One more thing. You have told me all but your true name. Will you share it with me?’

I did.

‘Well. Now it makes sense.’

‘What does?’

‘Why, when you play, you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.’

In the end, Elle’s audition had been a formality. Monsieur Ivan had certainly intimated as such when arranging it.

‘Little Bo, I have had to tell a small white lie to ensure that your girlfriend is guaranteed acceptance.’

‘She is not my girlfriend, Monsieur Ivan.’

‘Of course she is. Anyway, needless to say, the other professeurs would be none too happy about the conservatoire turning into a crèche.’

‘What was the lie?’ I asked nervously.

‘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 be rearranged, 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 narrated The 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 in our 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.