The casual reader, should they find themselves engrossed in these pages, may wonder why there is no diary entry recorded for over six years, and how it has come to be that the little boy who was a citoyen de Paris is now on the cusp of adulthood in a new European city. The tale is a turbulent one. In truth, during the past six years, I wrote pages for my diary often. The contents were probably too sentimental for some literary tastes, but stood as a record of the happiness I experienced over the course of my time in France. It is my unfortunate duty to report that the majority of the pages were left in the Landowski household, when I was forced to make an unplanned, untimely exit, due to circumstances that arose as a result of my grave mistake: opening my mouth and talking.

Although, as I write, it is 1936 and I am eighteen years old, I appreciate that it would be lax of me to offer an incomplete story. Allow me to explain. From 1930 to 1933, life in Paris continued for me in much the same pattern as it had for the previous two years: I assisted Monsieur Landowski and Monsieur Brouilly in the atelier, and attended my lessons with Monsieur Ivan at the conservatoire, as did Elle. As we both grew older, we were awarded more and more freedom by our respective keepers – Madame Gagnon in Elle’s case, and Evelyn in my own. We spent halcyon mornings discovering coffee in Parisian cafés, and in the evenings we would wander the streets, each time finding some new architectural detail which would provide enchantment and wonder. My decision to speak that Christmas Day had truly allowed my relationship with Elle to flourish . . . who could have predicted? It was my great privilege to read to her on our picnic luncheons, and to seek her opinions on every facet of my fast-improving life. Ironically, it would be the same decision that would lead to my undoing.

One morning in early 1933, whilst we were in the workshop, Monsieur Landowski made an announcement: ‘Gentlemen! I have some news to impart. It is not of an insignificant nature, so listen carefully. Our journey together is coming to an end.’

‘Monsieur Landowski?’ Brouilly said, the colour draining from his face. After all, he had made the decision to leave Rio to pursue his career in Paris.

‘As of this morning, I have been offered the position of Director at the French Academy in Rome.’ Brouilly did not respond. I found myself feeling similarly anxious, for Monsieur Landowski provided me with shelter, food and, of course, generously paid for my tuition at the conservatory. ‘Monsieur Brouilly, have you nothing to say?’

‘Apologies, monsieur. Congratulations. They have made a fine choice.’ I joined Brouilly’s praise by offering a wide (if artificial) grin, and a solo round of applause.

‘Thank you, gentlemen. Imagine. Me! With an office! And a salary!’

‘The world will miss your talent, monsieur,’ Brouilly said, with genuine sadness.

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Brouilly. I shall still sculpt. I will always sculpt! The main motivation for taking the position is . . . well, I suppose you could say that it is the fault of our young friend here.’ Landowski gestured to me, and registered my shock. ‘What I mean to say is that I have derived a great deal of pleasure, both artistic and personal, from seeing Bo progress during these last few years. Monsieur Ivan says that he is well on his way to becoming a virtuoso cellist. All this, from a child who could hardly stand when we first met. In truth, I am a little jealous of your teacher, Bo! Although I have contributed financially, I wish I could have been the one to nurture your artistic gifts. As such, it is my hope that at the French Academy, I will be able to develop the talent of other young people in my own field.’

My artificial smile had turned into something genuine.

‘That’s a very beautiful sentiment, monsieur,’ Brouilly said glumly.

‘Oh Brouilly! Don’t look so downcast, man!’ Landowski walked over to his assistant and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Do you really think that I would leave you directionless? Before accepting the position, I made some arrangements with our colleague Monsieur Blanchet at the École des Beaux-Arts. You will take up a position as a junior teacher there when I leave for Rome in one week.’

‘Really, Monsieur?’ Brouilly’s eyes widened.

‘Yes. Blanchet was more than happy to accept my letter of recommendation. It is a fine institution, and you will be a valuable asset. They’ll certainly pay you a great deal more than I do, at the very least. Enjoy the regular income whilst you work on your own career.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Landowski, thank you. I will never forget what you have done for me.’ Brouilly shook his teacher’s hand vigorously.

‘It is deserved. After all, I could not have completed the Cristo without you . . .’ After shaking Brouilly’s hand, Landowski held it steady and examined it, then gave him a wink. ‘Your work will live on forever.’ Next he turned to me. ‘Young Bo! Your life will continue largely unchanged. I have no plans to sell the house here, and of course we will be back for summer breaks, and Christmas too. Most of the staff will be forced to take up new positions . . . but Evelyn will remain. Is this agreeable to you?’ I nodded. ‘Good! Then I do believe that it is tradition to celebrate change with a bottle of champagne . . .’

Within seven days, the Landowski family were packed and ready to leave for their new life in Rome. I believe I would have been a great deal more emotional about their imminent departure had it not been for Elle. As long as she remained, I felt invincible.

As Monsieur Landowski had promised, my life was hardly altered, save for me spending more time with Evelyn, who was now solely responsible for the upkeep of the household. I would correspond via letter with Monsieur Landowski often. He would tell me the stories of the young artistes who passed through his doors at the French Academy, and give me updates on the family:

Marcel is working furiously on his piano playing. As you know, he hopes to attend the conservatoire in the next two years . . . I think that he has a good chance. I do not doubt that your presence has provided the motivation required for him to achieve his dreams!

I must say, it was not altogether unpleasant to have the entire household to myself, with completely free access to the library . . . and to the kitchen. I was even bold enough to hold brief conversations with Evelyn. When I had eventually opened my mouth to her, she cried. Looking back now, I lived in a dream-like state, entranced by the intoxicating potion of Elle, music, and what had begun to feel like total security.

How naive I was.

The beginning of the end started in the autumn of 1935.

Elle and I sat in a café on the Rue Jean-de-la-Fontaine. As Elle was older than eighteen, she had left the Apprentis d’Auteuil, and inhabited a dark, dingy room in the attic of a friend of Madame Gagnon’s. She made a meagre wage from cleaning for the owner – Madame Dupont – but accepted it, as the arrangement meant she could still attend her bi-weekly tuition at the conservatoire. I leant back in my metal chair and I looked at Elle, who was sat staring blankly into her coffee. Clearly something was bothering her.

‘Is everything all right, my love?’ I asked.

‘Yes, fine . . . it’s just that Monsieur Toussaint shouted at me during our last lesson.’

I gave her a warm smile. ‘As you know, that’s not unusual at the conservatoire.’

Elle shrugged. ‘I know. But to be quite honest, I don’t think Toussaint has ever really liked me. He believes himself to be above tutoring a novice teenage girl. He is right, of course. But these last few weeks, as he has been attempting to improve my sight-reading, his venom has been particularly poisonous.’

‘Don’t worry about that. I’m sure he is just frustrated that you haven’t learnt the proper way. I had a similar experience with Monsieur Ivan,’ I placated her.

‘You’re right. He did say something odd during the outburst, though.’

‘What was it?’ I asked.

‘He said that if I wasn’t the spawn of the “Great Russian”, he’d force me to stay up all night and study.’ My blood ran a little cold. ‘I asked him what he meant by the “Great Russian” comment, and he laughed, saying that surely I didn’t think that I was in his classroom on merit alone. I continued to press him, and he became enraged, saying that he didn’t have time to teach children, and that Rachmaninoff should climb down from his throne and do it himself.’

‘Ah,’ I stuttered.

Elle frowned. ‘I said that I didn’t understand, and he laughed and told me that he was going to write to the “Great Russian” to tell him his daughter was useless. Then Monsieur Ivan appeared, and asked to speak to Toussaint in the corridor. They stepped outside, talked for a while, then he returned and dismissed me.’ Elle looked at me quizzically. ‘What do you think he meant by that reference to Rachmaninoff?’

I slowly took a sip of my English breakfast tea. ‘I may be able to shed a little light on the situation.’

She looked confused. ‘What do you mean, Bo?’ I sighed and explained the fiction which Monsieur Ivan had invented. When I had done so, Elle looked understandably crestfallen. ‘So . . . I would not have gained a place at the conservatory had it been based on talent alone?’

‘That’s not it at all. Monsieur Ivan said that you were Rachmaninoff’s daughter so you would be granted an audition. The rest, I assure you, was achieved through your musical prowess.’

‘They all think I am Rachmaninoff’s abandoned daughter?’

‘Well, Toussaint and Moulin do. Please, try not to worry. I will speak to Monsieur Ivan at our next lesson and get his account of the situation.’

I never had the chance to speak to Monsieur Ivan. A few nights later, I was woken by a crash as I slept in the Landowski home. My eyes shot open, and I threw the covers from my body. Despite my new life of safety, I was glad to learn that, at least on a subconscious level, my senses remained on high alert. My former existence in the frozen wastelands ensured that I always ‘slept with one eye open’, as my father used to term it.

The clock on my desk showed that it was just past two a.m. Now fully awake, I heard a second distinct sound from the bowels of the house – a door opening.

I was not alone. Looking out of the window and seeing no light in Evelyn’s cottage, there was no use comforting myself with the idea that she had decided to enter the main household at this time of night. I padded over to my bedroom door as softly as I possibly could, and turned the handle with precision. Thankfully, it opened silently. Listening closely, I heard the sound of footsteps creaking on the wooden floorboards below. Instinctively, I felt for the pouch around my neck.

Was it him? Had he somehow found me?

This was the moment I had feared.

Despite the terror now coursing through my body, I knew that I had one tactical advantage over the intruder. I knew the Landowski house well, and based on the crashes and creaks, I had to assume the intruder did not. I contemplated hiding, but knew that would be of little use – it was the middle of the night, and they might simply keep searching until I was found. I thought of running, too – simply racing down to the doorway and sprinting into the night. If it was him, I doubted that the few miles of distance I would be able to put between us tonight would be enough to protect me. Regrettably, I concluded that offensive action was necessary.

I slowly walked over to the top of the stairs, and listened for the footsteps below. It seemed that the intruder was methodically searching the house, as if looking for something. Or, more likely, someone – me. Eventually, the footsteps progressed towards the east wing of the house – the drawing room and the library – and I took my chance. Maintaining my light-footedness, I crept down the stairs to the ground floor, and headed in the opposite direction. I made straight for the atelier, and Monsieur Landowski’s chisels. Picking up the sharpest of the tools, I walked back into the hallway, staying close to the walls to avoid being caught in the moonlight. Once I had reached the staircase again, I stopped to listen. There was silence. Where were they? I took another step forward into the corridor, and a great force whipped me off my feet and into the air. The intruder had grabbed me from behind in an attempt to lock my arms together. I kicked back at my assailant as hard as I could, aiming for the knees. The subsequent yelp told me I had hit my target. The intruder buckled and released their grip as we both tumbled to the floor. I dropped the chisel in the struggle, and scrambled around in a desperate attempt to find it. During those few seconds, the assailant leapt to their feet and hurtled down the corridor towards the living room. Thankfully, my hand brushed the chisel and, grasping it, I stumbled down the corridor after them.

‘Show yourself!’ I shouted, not able to control the rage in my voice. The drawing room was still, and I could only make out shapes of furniture in the moonlight.

‘You were never a coward, Kreeg. Let us see each other.’ The room remained eerily silent. ‘You know, I do not wish to fight you. I never have. I carry this chisel only so that I might defend myself from you. There are things you do not understand . . . things that I long to tell you. Please, come out and I’ll explain everything.’ Still nothing. ‘I didn’t kill her, Kreeg. You must believe me.’ Tears began to form in my eyes. ‘How could you ever think that I would be capable of such an act? We were friends. We were brothers.’ I wiped the tears from my eyes, and tried to remain focused. ‘I only ran that day because I knew you would kill me. I was just a little boy, Kreeg, as were you. Now we are young men and should settle this as such.’ I offered one final statement which I hoped would tempt him out of hiding. ‘I have the diamond. I would never sell it, as you assumed. I can give it to you now. It hangs from a leather pouch that I keep around my neck. Simply show yourself and we will make the transaction. Then you can leave and we need never see one another again, if that is your choice.’

There was a creak from behind the armoire in the corner of the room. I knew that the mention of the precious stone would be enough to lure him out of hiding.

‘A diamond, you say? So that’s what you keep in that pouch.’

I knew the voice. But it was not Kreeg’s. A figure emerged, and in the gloom, I saw a face.

‘Monsieur Toussaint?’

‘You know, for a boy who is apparently unable to speak, you are most eloquent.’

‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’

‘I don’t like being scammed, boy. The Conservatoire de Paris is the greatest musical institution in the world, not a nursery. As you very well know, that little Russian rat Ivan led us to believe that your girlfriend was the lovechild of Rachmaninoff. When I threatened to write to him, Ivan came clean and said he had lied.’ He took a step towards me. ‘I asked him about you. He said that you were the ward of Paul Landowski . . . who I know has taken a position in Rome. So, as penance for swindling me, I thought I’d come and help myself to a couple of Landowski’s vases. But now I know there’s something much more valuable.’ He took another step.

‘You don’t understand.’

‘In fact, there are two things of value in this room, boy. The diamond, which I now know hangs around your neck . . . and you.’

I hesitated. ‘Me?’

‘It stands to reason that this “Kreeg” you mention would be quite eager to know your whereabouts, given the situation you have just readily revealed to me. I’m sure that he’d pay handsomely for information about you.’

‘He’s little older than me, Toussaint. He has no money. And if he finds out you stole the diamond from me, he’ll kill you too.’

Toussaint snorted. ‘There are deals that can be done, boy. Perhaps if I simply end your life now and return the diamond to young Mr Kreeg, we can find a way to split the rewards . . .’ Toussaint slurred his words. He was clearly drunk.

‘Monsieur, please. You are a flautist. Not a murderer!’ I pleaded.

‘Boy, with that diamond in my possession, I can be anything I want to be. Now, come here!’

Toussaint leapt at me, but I had anticipated his manoeuvre and jumped onto the sofa. With my height advantage, I leapt onto his back. But the tutor was surprisingly strong, and was able to swing around so both of us crashed to the floor. I absorbed his full weight and was badly winded as a result. Seizing his opportunity, Toussaint spun around and ripped the pouch from my neck. He threw it to the side before placing his hands around my neck.

I remember feeling oddly peaceful as the life force slowly began to leave my body. There was no immediate panic . . . until an image of Elle entered my head, and I was immediately filled with the urge to fight. Summoning every ounce of strength in me, I took the chisel in my hand and forced it into Toussaint’s arm.

‘Argh!’ he cried, removing his hands from my neck. I seized my opportunity and reclaimed the pouch, shoving it into my pocket.

Suddenly, the room was flooded with light, and a loud scream came from the doorway. I wheeled round to see Evelyn at the door, with one hand on the light switch and the other over her mouth. Toussaint, still cradling his arm, stood up and tried to conceal his face by hunching himself over. Then he barrelled past Evelyn and sprinted out of the front door.

‘Bo! What’s going on? Oh, my dear Lord, is that blood on the floor?’ I nodded. ‘Are you all right?’ I nodded once more through heavy breaths. Evelyn knelt by my side and was frantically searching for any wounds. ‘You will speak to me. Who was that man? Why was he here?’ I looked back at her, stunned. ‘Bo, please. Tell me everything.’

I explained the situation with as much urgency as I could muster.

‘Mon Dieu, Bo. Do you have this diamond?’ I patted my pocket. ‘Good. But you are not safe here now. He may return, and I do not know who with. It is time to leave.’

‘Leave? Where?’

‘Monsieur Brouilly’s apartment in Montparnasse. He will take you in and you will be safe there until I can think of a solution.’

‘I’m worried that Toussaint will go to Elle. He’s her tutor. It is possible he knows where she lives.’

Evelyn closed her eyes and nodded. ‘I think you are right to be concerned. You must go to her first.’

‘But Evelyn, what about you? What if Toussaint does come back here?’

‘Let him come. I don’t think he wants anything to do with me. I will send for Louis tomorrow, and he will come to stay here. Now hurry up. You can make it to Elle on the Rue Riquet in under an hour if you jog. Go upstairs and pack some clothes – only the essentials. I will write down the address of Monsieur Brouilly.’ I scarpered upstairs and shoved some shirts and underwear into my leather satchel.

I took Brouilly’s address from Evelyn, and after a long hug, ran out into the night.

I arrived at Elle’s lodgings on the Rue Riquet drenched in sweat and panting after my seven-mile journey. Her window was at the very top of the house, and I cursed myself for failing to plan this far ahead. I had to resort to gathering some small pebbles from the roadside and launching them at the attic pane. It was a risky strategy, but I had little choice. After a minute or two, it yielded a result, and Elle’s sleepy face appeared.

‘Bo?’ she mouthed to me. I gestured for her to come downstairs. She nodded.

After a few moments, the front door opened quietly, and Elle stood before me in her white nightdress. She embraced me. ‘What’s happening, Bo?’

‘I will explain everything once we’re safe . . . but now I need you to come with me.’

Her face dropped. ‘Is it him?’ she asked, fear in her eyes.

‘Not exactly. But I need you to pack a few clothes and come back down. We’re going to Monsieur Brouilly’s apartment.’

No further explanation was needed. Within minutes Elle had returned and we quietly navigated through the back streets to Montparnasse. Thankfully, finding Laurent’s address proved a relatively easy task, because his window was adorned with pink orchids . . . which I knew to be the national flower of Brazil. Several rings on the doorbell produced a bleary-eyed Brouilly, who, once he had registered that it was I on his doorstep, welcomed us in. He graciously brewed a strong pot of coffee, and I relayed the night’s events to both him and Elle.

‘My God! My God!’ Brouilly kept saying. ‘You are an enigma, Bo. The silent boy. Look how he talks now. My God!’

Elle held my hand, and her presence provided more comfort than I could truly express. ‘Thank you for coming for me,’ she said.

‘If only I hadn’t talked, Elle. I assumed it was Kreeg. I was trying to reason with someone who wasn’t even in the room . . .’

‘Of course you assumed that. I would have done exactly the same.’

I paused to look around Brouilly’s cramped apartment. A dim lamp served to illuminate his collection of semi-finished projects and half-baked ideas. Sculptures, canvases and tools literally littered the place. The chaos didn’t help my mental state, and I put my head in my hands. ‘If only I hadn’t woken up! Toussaint would have taken his vases and been on his way. I probably would have been none the wiser.’

‘I wish that Bel could hear you speak,’ Brouilly said melancholically.

I looked at him. Even after what I had just described, his mind was elsewhere. ‘Have you had any further contact, Monsieur Brouilly?’ I asked.

My former atelier partner had a haunted look on his face. ‘No.’

Eventually, Brouilly brought through some blankets. I insisted that Elle slept on the small sofa, and I placed a pillow on the floor. Elle dropped her hand down and I held it before exhaustion took a hold of me and I drifted off to sleep.

The doorbell rang early the next morning, and Brouilly opened the door to Evelyn.

‘My dears, it is good to see you.’ I raced over and hugged her tightly. ‘Hello, Elle. I am glad you are safe. I have contacted the gendarmerie.’

‘The gendarmerie?’ I said, horrified.

‘Yes, Bo. Do not forget that my employer’s house was broken into last night, not to mention the small matter of Elle’s drunken tutor trying to kill you. Toussaint needs to be apprehended and dealt with. After all, we cannot have a raving lunatic return to the Conservatoire de Paris to tutor vulnerable young people.’

‘But Evelyn, the gendarmerie will want to speak to me! They’ll have questions about the diamond. You don’t understand, I can’t—’

‘I do understand, Bo, perfectly well.’ She took my hand. ‘I have always understood, ever since that little boy knocked on my door for the very first time. You have known more terror in your life than any one human should experience, from forces far beyond the comprehension of a simple woman such as I. So yes, whilst the gendarmerie will wish to speak with you as a matter of urgency, luckily I do not have the faintest idea of where you are.’ She gave me a wink.

Elle spoke next. ‘When the police pick up Toussaint, he’ll twist the story and tell them about Bo’s outburst.’ She looked at me with sorrow. ‘Remember, last night you mentioned . . . killing a woman.’

I clenched my fists in frustration. ‘No! I said that I could never have killed a woman!’

Elle put a comforting hand on my back. ‘I sincerely doubt that’s what Toussaint will say. And remember, Bo, you did stab him with a chisel.’ I saw Brouilly’s eyes widen.

‘Only in self-defence,’ I replied honestly.

‘I know that. But you have no paperwork, and therefore Toussaint will have the advantage.’

I could feel tears stinging my eyes. ‘I will have to run again. As you all know, I am well practised in it. After all, I need to finish the search for my father. If he is anywhere, it will be in Switzerland. I will make for the border. Elle, I—’

‘Will be accompanied by me,’ she interrupted me.

I shook my head vigorously. ‘No, you don’t understand. You have witnessed what an attachment to me entails. I cannot allow you to come with me.’

Elle took my hand. ‘Bo, until I met you, my existence was sad and monotonous. You changed everything. If you are leaving, then I am too.’ She hugged me. Evelyn clasped her hand to her chest, and I saw Brouilly throw his head back in an attempt to assuage any tears.

‘Please,’ I begged. ‘I need you safe.’

Laurent snapped. ‘For God’s sake, Bo, will you listen to her?’ He threw his hands up in frustration. ‘Do you not realise that love is all there is? Take it from one who knows. This young woman worships the ground you walk on, and clearly you reciprocate. Do not make the same mistakes that I have, Bo. Life is short. Live for love, and nothing else.’

I looked into Elle’s eyes, and knew that the matter required no further contemplation. ‘Very well. We will make our way to the border when night falls this evening.’

‘Borders this and borders that!’ Evelyn exclaimed. ‘For goodness’ sake, Bo, do you really think that your Evelyn would allow you to be resigned to such a fate?’

I looked at her, confused. ‘I do not understand.’

She sighed. ‘Ever since the day you arrived in Paris, Monsieur Landowski has known that you were running from something, and that you chose not to speak because you were scared. As a consequence, he was shrewd enough to know that at some stage, you might need to leave Paris. He resolved to help you, and has made plans accordingly.’ Evelyn presented me with a cream envelope. ‘I am pleased to tell you that as of this morning, Bo, you are the winner of the esteemed Prix Blumenthal.’

My jaw dropped.

‘What’s that, Evelyn?’ Elle asked.

‘Do you remember, Bo?’ She looked at me, and I took my cue.

‘It is a prize awarded by the American philanthropist Florence Blumenthal to a young artist or musician. Monsieur Landowski is a judge. But Evelyn, I don’t understand . . . How is it that I have come to win the prize?’

‘Monsieur Landowski made arrangements with Florence in 1930, shortly before her death. Apparently, Miss Florence was very moved by your story, and it was agreed that if you were to face jeopardy here in Paris, you would be awarded the prize, and the subsequent funds used to ensure your safety.’

I was in a state of disbelief.

‘Congratulations, Bo,’ Elle said warmly.

‘Apologies,’ Evelyn smiled. ‘I should have mentioned that the prize will be shared.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Elle queried.

‘You are also a recipient of the Prix Blumenthal. Monsieur Landowski ensured that both of you would be looked after in the event of a disaster.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ Elle said, in a state of shock. I took her hand, a grin creeping onto my face despite everything.

‘Of course, you’ll both be glad to know that a condition of the prize is that you must continue your instrumental studies. You have been awarded it for your musicianship after all.’

‘How will that work, Evelyn?’ I asked.

‘Arrangements will be made for you to transfer from the Conservatoire de Paris to another European conservatory. Luckily Monsieur Landowski is not short of contacts, and I am waiting to hear back from him regarding instructions for your onward journey.’

‘That man with the ridiculous moustache is quite brilliant,’ stammered Brouilly.

‘He is, Laurent. I telegrammed him this morning. He is working out a plan and will inform me of his decision later.’

I was simply lost for words. ‘Evelyn, I don’t know what to say . . .’

She chuckled. ‘Wasn’t that always your problem, young master Bo?’ I hugged her again.

‘Thank you, Evelyn. Thank you for everything.’

She whispered in my ear. ‘Keep her close, Bo. She is a gift from the stars.’ When I pulled away, I saw her brown eyes were glistening. ‘Now!’ Evelyn clapped her hands together, recovering herself. I must return home and await my telegram from Monsieur Landowski. When I come back, I will bring your instruments. Elle, I wonder whether you might pen a note for Madame Dupont confirming that I am your aunt and have permission to pick up some of your possessions.’

‘Good idea.’ Elle went to grab a piece of paper from Brouilly’s desk and began to scribble.

‘Speaking of which, if there are any final arrangements that either of you wish to make before leaving Paris, now is the time. Goodbye, mes chéris.’ With that, Evelyn turned and left the apartment.

The three of us who remained stood in silence for a moment, as the whirlwind began to calm. Eventually, I turned to Elle. ‘We must write letters. There are few things more hurtful than when someone disappears from your life without explanation. I will write to Monsieur Ivan.’

Elle nodded. ‘And I to Madame Gagnon, I suppose.’

I wished to keep my letter to Monsieur Ivan brief, but heartfelt.

Dear Monsieur Ivan,

I hope that Evelyn has been in touch with you, and that this letter finds you safely. I regret that I will not be able to attend Tuesday’s lesson. I wished to write to you to thank you for everything. Not only have you been a finer tutor than any young musician could ever wish for, you have been something far greater – the first true friend I believe I have ever had.

I hope that we may one day meet again. Failing that, I shall listen closely to all future recordings of Parisian symphony orchestras, and see if I can detect the distinct glide of your bow across the strings. Perhaps you might do the same, and this way we shall always keep one another in our hearts.

I wish you to know that I hold you in no way responsible for the events that have unfortunately transpired. Without your ingenuity, and the . . . help of Monsieur Rachmaninoff, I know that it would not have been possible to grant Elle tuition. I am eternally grateful to you for giving us both a chance.

Finally, please remain vigilant of a certain flute teacher. He cannot be trusted. I wanted to give you this information, because, well . . . we émigrés must help one another, mustn’t we?

Bo D’Aplièse

Evelyn returned in a taxi cab with our instruments later that evening. I went to help her unload them, but she put a hand out to stop me.

‘Stay inside, Bo. You never know who might be watching.’ She and Brouilly swiftly emptied the car, and Evelyn waved it off. ‘I won’t be staying long. I have the instructions from Monsieur Landowski. He has a colleague at the French Academy who is also a sculptor from Paris. His name is Pavel Rosenblum. The timing is fortuitous. His daughter, Karine, is about to start her first term at the Leipzig Conservatory. He was able to make some telephone calls, and you have both been accepted as undergraduates.’

‘Leipzig? In Germany?’ Elle asked nervously. I put an arm around her.

‘You are correct, yes. Obviously, as undergraduates, it will probably be necessary for you to adjust your ages a little. I do not anticipate that this will be a problem – you both look older than you are.’

‘When will we leave, Evelyn? And how will we travel to Germany?’ I enquired.

‘Do you remember that my son Louis works at the Peugeot factory?’ I nodded. ‘As luck would have it, he is delivering a new motor car to a client in Luxembourg tomorrow morning. He will drive you across the border, and from there on in it will be safe to make your way to Leipzig on trains. As for documentation, Bo, you will borrow some of Marcel’s papers, and Elle, you will use Nadine’s. As you are both young, I do not anticipate any close scrutiny. You must return them by post when you arrive in Germany.’

The thought of such kindness choked me. ‘Do you know where we will live, Evelyn?’

‘I am informed that you have lodgings in a district called Johannisgasse, organised through Monsieur Rosenblum. It is where Karine is staying. I don’t have many details – all this has been organised in just one day – but apparently it is nice enough.’

I cycled through the remaining practical questions in my head. ‘What about money?’

‘My dears, you are the recipients of the Prix Blumenthal. I assure you, the financial remuneration will be adequate to sustain you during your three years of undergraduate study. Tuition will be paid, and bank accounts established . . . the Prix will see to it all. In the meantime, here is some money for train tickets and food.’ She handed me a brown envelope. ‘You will also find the address of your lodgings in there.’

I looked into Evelyn’s gentle eyes. ‘Evelyn, I will never be able to . . .’ My voice cracked slightly. I had realised that this could be the last time I ever saw her, and my heart was breaking. Without saying a word, she gripped me tightly, and I buried my face in her coat.

‘Thank you for being my petit companion, Bo. Remember, despite everything, there are more good people in the world than there are bad. I love you very much.’ She pulled away and reached into her pocket. ‘I have a telegram for you, from Monsieur Landowski.’ I took it from her and placed it in my own pocket, doing my utmost to hold back the sobs. Evelyn inhaled and gathered herself. ‘Elle! I am so sorry that your exit from Paris is filled with so much drama.’ She embraced her. ‘Look after him, won’t you?’

‘Always,’ replied Elle.

‘Good. Now, Louis will be here at six a.m. sharp. Do you have any letters?’

‘Yes.’ I sniffed, and handed her my note for Monsieur Ivan, and Elle her letter to Madame Gagnon.

‘Rest assured, I shall deliver them safely. When everything settles down, I hope that we will meet again. I will try to write to you in Leipzig, depending on how intensely the gendarmerie intend to follow the events of last night. Be good, the pair of you. And travel safely.’ This time, it was Evelyn’s voice that faltered, and she hurried out of Brouilly’s front door.

‘Do you know, I don’t think I have ever said more than a few words to Madame Evelyn,’ Brouilly said. ‘You are lucky to have had her in your life,’ he said to me.

‘I know,’ I replied.

A sleepless night followed, and on the stroke of six, we heard the rumbling of an engine outside. Brouilly, though bleary-eyed, helped us to load our instruments into the shiny new Peugeot motor car.

‘Good morning, Bo! What a pleasure to have such fine company on this long drive.’ My old acquaintance Louis gave me a grin, and my nerves were calmed.

Before stepping back inside, Brouilly put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Bel knew you were worth saving. Please, keep her in your thoughts. You will be in mine.’

I shook his hand and climbed into the car. Soon, we were driving out of Paris and into the future. As I tried to get comfortable and catch some sleep, I felt a sharp sensation on my outer thigh. I remembered that I still had the telegram from Monsieur Landowski, which I had forgotten to open the previous evening:

‘If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are going’ – Laozi.

Bonne chance, boy.