Paris is, as my late father used to say, where I left it. The city doesn’t know that anything has changed. In the same way it always has, this city accepts me just the way I am. In return, I love it back.
This week has brought the first cooler breeze of autumn. It is my favourite season. I love the elegance of it, the falling leaves, the signs that everything will be bare and ready for a fresh start. Autumn convinces me that there will be new growth, that there will be spring. It reaffirms my faith in time and order.
I walk the short distance from Gare du Nord to Gare de l’Est. It is enough to remind me that I am here, that Paris is different to my home. This city sings and buzzes and is alive. I listen to the voices as I pass people in the street and try to process the impenetrable chatter.
I wonder how long I would have to live in Paris before I could talk like them, until I could swap casual stories like a native. It would take a lifetime; I am not a natural linguist. I wonder, not for the first time, whether David’s children’s English is accented.
At Gare de l’Est I run down the steps into the Metro. I know the underground system of Paris as well as I know the Tube in London, possibly better.
The train is not busy. My favourite journeys are always those where someone gets on with an accordion or starts a sing-song with a pre-recorded backing track. I have never lost the touristy pleasure in carriage buskers. Those things, to me, are quintessentially Paris.
Some things have become homogenous over the years; the smell of candied peanuts that once used to pinpoint my location exactly is something I’ve found in recent years in London, in New York: the tendrils of this city curling out to grow in other hearts.
I get out of the Metro at École Militaire. No other city has this depth of architecture, this history so plain to see, so obvious on every street corner. This place exists in the imagination of the world, in films and books, in poems and songs. It does so for good reason.
I love this walk, everything about it. I love the gritty sand surface of the paths through the Champs de Mars, I love the Peace Memorial and its etched glass panels; most of all, I love the way the Eiffel Tower looms over everything, reducing us all to the specks of dust we are, making us as tiny and uniform as ants. There’s no avoiding the history of Paris, nothing disguises or hides it and nothing tries to. Behind me, the walls of the École Militaire are peppered with bullet holes from wars, from practices, from executions, and yet, now, in our relative peacetime, it seems so calm and innocuous. Napoleon studied in that building as a boy soldier. He walked in long black boots along the same paths that I’m scuffing my feet through now. It never fails to amaze me or to put me in my place.
When I told Mr Williams about Nadia, he didn’t flinch. His exact words were, ‘Well, she’ll have to paint up the guest room; it’s too dull for a baby.’
‘Aren’t you worried about her being in your house? On her own with a baby?’ I had asked him. We were sitting outside the railway station at Cremona. Mr Williams was on his way to his new life. He had one single leather suitcase beside him.
‘Girls with far less about them than that one have done it, dear.’
I nodded. ‘Humans, we’re a rum lot. I hope she manages.’
He smiled at me. ‘You worry too much. She’s done very well so far, all by herself.’
‘Her parents are going to be livid.’ I was thinking out loud.
‘Not for too long, in my experience.’ He leant back on the bench and let the sunshine light up his face. ‘What is the phrase? Babies bring their own love. I’m sure it’s so, dear.’
Shota was even calmer, more bemused than anything else. ‘I don’t know where these girls put them,’ he said.
I’d asked him to meet for a drink before I went. We were sitting outside the bar I’d first seen him at.
‘Marion had a trumpet pupil couple of years ago; same thing. Only she didn’t give eight weeks’ notice.’
‘Really?’
‘Seriously. Skinny as a bone . . .’
‘A rake, Shota,’ and I remembered that, at college, one of the first things I loved about him was the way he said ‘coming down in cats and dogs’ when it rained.
‘Still haven’t got it.’ He grinned and ran his hand through his hair. ‘Anyway, upshot is – one day she’s having a trumpet lesson. Next day she’s having a baby on the bathroom floor.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I said, ‘what happened to her?’
‘First trumpet in Reykjavik Phil. Just carried on. Plenty of support, Mum helps out, I think.’
I wondered about Nadia, worrying about how much support she would have. And then, like a light, like a birth of my own, I remembered that she has me. She supported me when I needed it and I am more than ready to do the same for her. It would be an honour to be part of her little miracle.
‘She’ll only be round the corner from me,’ I said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘There you are then,’ said Shota. He pushed a business card across the table. ‘I’ve asked her to keep in touch with me; she’s a phenomenal player. I said I’d do some master-classes with her when I’m next in the UK. Maybe even more important now.’
I picked the card up but didn’t recognise the name.
‘It’s Rob’s,’ Shota says, ‘he’s joining the BBC Phil in January and doesn’t know anyone. He wondered if you’d show him a bit of London. One good turn and all that?’
‘Meaning?’
‘I’ll give Nadia some help, contacts and so on if you can look after Rob a bit; introduce him to some people, take him out.’
I said that of course I would. I said, and found I really meant it, that any friend of Shota’s was a friend of mine.
‘And if you want to know more about the Nikolai thing, all that stuff,’ he leant in, his face full of sympathy, and he bit his lip. ‘I can put you in touch with some people who know more about it.’ He put his hand over mine. ‘And the rest of it? Catherine and all that, I want you to know that I’m so sorry. I’d do anything to change it, put the clock back.’
Shota is a good man and I felt for him; it was only fair to let him lose this ghost, put it to rest. ‘Shota, you were a kid. We both were. And kids make mistakes. And you stuck your neck out for me with Nikolai. That still means a lot.’ I stood up and kissed him goodbye. ‘Don’t think about the shit stuff anymore. And I won’t either, okay?’
He hugged me tight. ‘Fresh start.’
The crowds aren’t thick at all under the Eiffel Tower. There is the usual queue at the South Pier, but it is nothing like as crowded as it usually is. I’m sure as the day wears on it will start to get busy, but I will be long gone by then, safe across the river.
I walk north towards the Trocadero and its fountains. I look briefly at my watch to see if I have time to wait for the parade of water, for the sequence to run through. David and I used to watch these fountains in summer when the fine drizzle of spray misted our faces under the parched air. There isn’t time to wait for the fountains, not even for old time’s sake. I’m due at the apartment in a few minutes.
Passy Cemetery is on my left. I think about going in, but, instead, I follow the brick wall along the edge of the road and let myself into David’s building. He knows what time train he booked for me, he has a rough idea of when I will arrive. We have both resisted the temptation to text or speak.
I have not seen him since he appeared in Cremona. I have not spoken to him since his words shattered my heart in Paris.
The brass lock of his front door is from the 1920s; it is as old as the apartment and its frame has been polished gold by hundreds of knuckles as they turn the key.
The French windows at the end of the apartment are open. I can feel the breeze play around my ankles. It is warm in the hallway and music laps gently at the side of my mind. It is Bach, the ’cello suites.
Maybe, I think, heaven looks and feels a little like this.
And then David steps forward from the kitchen doorway. He is wearing a deep green shirt – the top button open – and brown suit trousers. His feet are bare. He looks as handsome as he ever has; maybe slightly taller, wider. I have imagined him as less and the picture I keep in my mind’s eye has diminished. Now I am back, close, beside him, my eyes refresh and correct my memory. He is solid and tall.
He lifts his hands, so slowly, and takes mine in his. He is frightened, I can see, and he trembles slightly.
My lips are dry. I swallow hard and look up at him, at that jaw, his high cheekbones, his perfectly groomed eyebrows.
He turns my hands over in his palms, lifts them to his mouth and softly kisses the backs; one, then the other.
I can smell him, a mix of soap and aftershave, clean smells underplayed with the scent of his skin. I know the smell of him as well as I know myself. I breathe deeply, inhale him. I have missed him like air.
He bends his head and brushes my lips softly with his. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he whispers.
I cannot trust myself to speak. I squeeze his hands.
He looks down at my fingers. ‘You’re not wearing the ring.’
I shake my head.
‘Did it fit?’ he asks.
‘It fitted perfectly. Thank you.’ I drop his hands and reach into my handbag. I take the ring, still in its box, and put it on the side. ‘It was a beautiful choice. Perfect.’
The table I’ve put the ring on is antique oak, a reflection of the framed photograph on it shines up at me. I look at the photograph; it is of me. I look around. I am everywhere. There are as many pictures of me as there are of David’s children. We look like a family. The only picture missing is one of us all together.
‘But you’re here.’ He doesn’t understand why I’m not wearing the ring, why I’ve given it back. David holds me tight, folds me into him and I can feel the muscles in his arm, the strength of his chest. ‘You’ve come back to me, to us.’
‘I’m not staying.’ I whisper the words, almost as if I don’t want them to be true. But I do.
‘Grace, darling, please. Tomorrow, the children—’
‘I can’t stay.’
‘I’ve told them all about you. They’re coming all this way to meet you.’
‘It’s too late, David.’ These aren’t my children; they’re not even my children’s siblings. They are David’s responsibility, as is their disappointment, their confusion.
‘Gracie, please. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll do anything.’
He means it, I can tell. David has, finally, become the person I wanted him to be. He has changed, I can feel it in the way he holds me, I can sense it – almost smell it – from every fibre of him. His longing is real.
But I am not the same person.
‘I’ll never stop loving you,’ I say, ‘you’re very special.’
‘No. Please.’ His voice is cracking. ‘Please don’t leave me. I need you.’
I run my finger along the line of his chin, trace the smoothness of his cheek. ‘We had such good times,’ I say, and I try to smile though tears are overwhelming me. It would be wrong to speak about the terrible times; dark days of doubts and failings.
David is crying now, without the drama that I’ve heard him add in the past. This is real; regret, and loss and longing. These are sounds I recognise.
‘Please. I’ll do anything. I’m seeing a counsellor, facing up to myself; I’ll get better.’ He holds me a little way away from him, looks right in my eyes. ‘Why did you come here if you don’t want me?’
I say the words and I am desperately sorry; truly surprised that I am walking away from him.
‘David,’ I say, ‘I came to say goodbye to Paris.’
I know I can’t go back to Paris. Maybe one day, in another life, but not for a very long time. Until then, I hope Paris can forgive me; I know it will. Paris, more than any other city in the world, knows about love.
My tiny chocolate-box town is rife with rumour. I’m surprised by how many of my local clients turn out to know Mr Williams. I am bemused by the number of small repair jobs people have suddenly asked me to do on their instruments, just so they can take the opportunity to find out what I know. Apparently, an eighty-six-year-old man they’d assumed was a bachelor going off to live with his boyfriend in Venice is even bigger news than the local violin maker appearing in all the national papers.
I only tell them what I know – that Mr Williams is very very happy and that, almost more than anyone else I can think of, he deserves it.
I have promised some sheets and towels to Nadia. Getting them out of the airing cupboard has, as these things do, turned into a longer job; an afternoon of discovering shoeboxes and receipts, throwing away nonsense that I kept last time I tidied.
I reach into the back of the car to drag out the bin bags; I am running out of time. I have a date this afternoon; an unbreakable appointment with a dear friend. My hair is spot on and a little spiky. I’m wearing my favourite lipstick; one that manages to look like I have no make-up on at all – just fabulous lips.
Nadia’s house is impeccably neat. She rearranges furniture and straightens curtains all day long. I don’t believe it’s a nesting instinct, I think it’s an extension of a game; she has found herself in a giant doll’s house and she intends to make it perfect.
‘Where do you want these?’ I dump the two sacks on the kitchen floor.
‘They’ll be fine there, thanks,’ says Nadia. ‘I’ll go through them and take out what I want. But can you take the rest back with you, drop it off at the charity shop?’ She hates clutter.
She bends down and starts to unfold and fold the duvet sets and the towels. She puts them into two perfect piles that already make the way I packed the bags look slovenly.
She bends easily. Her bump began to show within days of her big reveal, but, although she is obviously pregnant, it is hard to believe she is going to have a baby in a few weeks’ time.
‘It’s the last antenatal class tomorrow,’ she says and looks up at me. ‘You won’t miss it, will you?’
‘Why would I?’
‘Just checking. That’s all.’
I’m sure everyone at the classes thinks I am her mother and that’s fine. I am thrilled that I will see this baby born, less enthusiastic about being Nadia’s sounding post. She has embraced every holistic and natural birth idea going. She has an app on her phone that will measure contractions and time events. When it does happen, I am sure it will be a tide that even Nadia can’t control and what will be, will be. Shota and Marion’s baby is a week late; refusing to budge. I am convinced they will be born on the same day.
‘How’s the writing?’ I ask her.
‘Good. Really good. It’s easy to think here.’ The pile of stuff she doesn’t want is huge. She puts the one duvet set and one towel that she is happy with on the kitchen work surface. ‘I emailed a new bit to Shota last night; he loves it.’
Shota is staggered by Nadia’s symphony and has every faith in it being her key to fame and fortune.
‘And the last bit? Is it finished?’ I ask her.
‘For fuck’s sake, Grace, how many times?’ She pats her small bump. ‘I have to meet this crazy little person first.’
I have three minutes to spare when I unlock the shop door. I rush through to the back, past the double basses upright in their rows, past the ’cellos, straight and polished. There is nothing in here to fix now; all the instruments have been repaired and a peace has settled over everything. It looks as magical as it ever did.
In the window, on the music stand, I have left the score of Elgar’s Nimrod open. It is almost November and, in so many ways, everything is about remembering, about listening to the lessons we have learnt.
There is one more ’cello in the rack than there was. The ’cello David bought me many years ago is now shop stock. I still love it dearly and it is a beautiful instrument, but I will never part with my beautiful spotted Cremona ’cello and I can’t play two.
The violins proudly hang from their shelf, the violas as back-up behind them. They all face towards the door, the outside world, and the whole shop looks ready to meet the future.
In the workshop, my iPad begins to buzz. It is three o’clock.
Mr Williams beams at me when the connection is made. He is tanned and happy, the air obviously suits him. We wave at each other frantically for the first ten seconds, even though we have the option of speech.
‘You look fabulous, dear,’ he says, ‘very glamorous.’
‘I didn’t want to let you down. This is the highlight of my week. Thought I’d better dress up for it.’
‘I’m assuming there’s no baby news,’ he says.
‘Nothing yet. But your house is so tidy.’
‘Has she told you what she’s going to call him?’ He is grinning from ear to ear.
I nod vigorously. Nadia’s baby is a boy; she found out at the scan as soon as we got back to England. She asked me what Mr Williams’ first name was and I told her that, unfortunately, it was Maurice.
‘Little Mo,’ she said, straight away. And that seems to be it; Little Mo he is.
‘Her father’s father is Mohammed,’ Mr Williams says from the screen. ‘So it works all ways round. Little Mo.’ He shakes his head as if he can’t quite believe it.
‘How’s Laurence?’ I ask, although I don’t need to. I can see from Mr Williams’ face that everything is wonderful. I have ‘met’ Laurence through the magic of the internet and he is not at all what I expected. He is larger than Mr Williams and hearty. His voice booms around the shop from the screen and he laughs at the end of almost every sentence.
Rather than looking like someone who has lived in Venice for thirty years, Laurence looks like he’s just jumped off his tractor. He needs a frenetic spaniel beside him and to be marching off across the fields with a cocked gun in the crook of his arm. There is no denying that he and Mr Williams are in clover.
‘You must come, dear, Venice is so perfect at this time of year.’
‘There’s not going to be much travelling for me for a bit. And my first trip is going to be to Hamburg to see Shota’s new baby when it arrives. I might take Nadia and Little Mo.’
‘You know where we are, Grace, when you need some R and R.’
The purpose of this call is to check every detail of Laurence’s address. We check the postcodes and building number and I write them on the brown paper package in front of me with a fat marker pen. This parcel will be picked up by courier tomorrow and, the very next day, will be in Mr Williams’ hands in Venice.
Inside the parcel is Alan’s violin. It is completely restored; it is ten times the violin it was before. Because of the terrible damage I inflicted on that poor instrument, I had to look long and hard at the construction. The wood of the neck – once it was cracked and I could see the inside of it – was unseasoned; it hadn’t had the three years it needed after harvest to stop growing and to lose its suppleness.
The job was, for all Alan’s skill as an amateur, a bodged one and the violin would never have been strong enough to survive a few journeys to orchestra in its case, never mind the next couple of hundred years in various players’ hands.
Although I will never tell Mr Williams, and he will never find out, the violin has little left of Alan’s original work. On the outside it looks just like Alan made it, just as it always did, but inside it has been completely rebuilt by – I am reliably told – one of the best violin makers in the world. It is robust and firm, it will hold for a long time. As a result of everything that happened to it, it is an instrument Mr Williams can trust.
‘I’ve put loads of clippings in there too for you. Telegraph, Guardian, Times. There’s a ton of glossies as well, but they won’t come out till next month.’ I have been interviewed by – it seems like – every journalist in Britain. It has been a long time since a Brit won a prize at Cremona and everyone wants to talk about it.
‘And the Revelation Strings? Have you signed up yet?’
‘I actually have. Honestly. I’m going tonight.’ Revelation Strings is one of the orchestras Mr Williams played in – now short one viola player. They’re amateurs but the entry standard is high and most of the musicians are retired professionals or parents on a career break.
I have been to many of the Revelation Strings concerts and the shop has sponsored their programmes for years but I didn’t tell any of them that I played. Thinking about playing in an orchestra again feels like swimming, fast, to the surface of a sunlit pool. I will explode through the water into the daylight and my lungs will fill with air.
Behind Mr Williams, Laurence shouts that it’s apero time and Mr Williams signs off with a pretend air of irritation at the deep joy of being needed.
I have just days to finish my project. It is almost done.
When I came back from Paris, the first thing I did was to move the dusty cardboard boxes in the workshop. Behind them, hidden and almost cowering, were the tiny pieces of a ’cello that was never built.
I took the miniature ribs, the perfect scroll, and carried them gently to my bench. I blew the dust away from them with lips shaped like a moon and a tear fell onto the wood as I kissed those missing babies goodbye. The salt tear softened the dust and the flame in the wood did its best to shine through the years of being tucked away.
The tiny hollowed-out belly of this ’cello is the perfect shape; I am impressed at the job I did so long ago, at the craftsmanship. This wood will withstand being played with, explored; learnt on and leant on.
I have glued all these pieces together now. The tiny ’cello, smaller even than a violin, is complete. I have varnished and smoothed, I have polished and tuned. The bridge and sound post are in place and today I shall make the final adjustments to the sound.
This ’cello will be a companion to Nadia’s baby until he outgrows it and, perhaps, one day another baby will need it.
For now, his soft fingers will curl around the wood, will explore, will learn. It will be a wonder to watch.
There will be music again.