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years old. She stared hard at Christine, her blue eyes cold, glistening, her red lips parted. Moist.
I donât remember what the girl was singing, only that it was beautiful, as irresistible as a hook in the mouth of a carp. I donât remember what she said to me after her scarf flew, red as a blood-gout, into the cold sea and I struck out into it, soaked to the skin in the freezing water. I remember the shape of her warm mouth as she spoke, twisting the sea-water out of the silk. I remember that her voice was silver. It did not matter what she said. To me, it was an invitation. I had earned her.
2.
I experienced her intensely for one week, I got to know the Countess and her frail father (even then it was obvious that he was not long for the earth), they always made me welcome in their large, immaculate home. The downstairs was decorated in the English Georgian fashion, all neo-classical pillars, ceilings lined with plaster laurel leaves, open-beaked eagles, the walls painted light blue, green, stark white. I wouldnât say I knew Christine.
This is not to say that she was not kind to me, or friendly. She may have even genuinely liked me. Certainly she acted as though she did. She couldnât have been miserable all that time we spent together in the attic among the bare dressmakersâ dummies, headless as ghouls, all those veiled mirrors and obsolete furniture, all those soft, shrouded lurkers, listening as her father told us stories in his strange northern accent. Little Lottie and the Angel of Music .
I can hear him speaking now. A sweet voice that could be made rough or childlike depending on his need and the thrust of the story. He sat on an old leather trunk, pony-skin I believe, with patches of piebald fur missing. His large, precise hands moved as he spoke, as though he were conducting the narrative. Occasionally he scratched his moustache to hide a kind, sly smile.
âLittle Lottie lived dreaming. The old fools in her village thought that she was a bad girl because she spent all her time singing, and some of the things that she sang were not very âproperâ, though they were all true.â
He stroked his daughterâs hair with one huge hand, catching his fingers in her chocolate curls. The other hand he rested on my knee. I took this as a sign of his unconscious approval. I thought he thought that I was very fine. Probably he thought that I was a fool. All I wanted in the whole world was to lay my hands in those curls of hers, lose my nails in that dark river of hair. I thought she owed me that, at least, for rescuing her scarf, for condescending to adore her. I was very young.
The old man continued, âHer father loved her very much and, since he was an artist himself, he knew that it is an easy lie of the common folk that artists have no morality. They have their own morality. They are dedicated to their truth, to portraying it as beautifully and powerfully as possible, even when it makes the small folk uncomfortable.
âLittle Lottie lived a long time with her father in their safe little house at the edge of the forest. They were happy a long time, but happiness is not real if it lasts forever, and one day little Lottie woke to find her father burning in a fever, coughing blood into a rag.â The old man coughed here, wetly, into his handkerchief. I didnât know then that he was not acting.
âBefore he died, he comforted the daughter he loved more than his own life. He said âDarling, do not be afraid. After I have made my home in heaven I will ask God the Father to send down to Earth the Angel of Music. He will sing to you in my voice and your art will improve until it glows from you like flameâ.â
âWhat happened then, Father?â Christine looked much younger than fourteen, leaning forward to him, her delicate hands digging into his knees, her eyes wide, gleaming with the sheen of tears.
The old man bent and kissed her once on her
I donât remember what the girl was singing, only that it was beautiful, as irresistible as a hook in the mouth of a carp. I donât remember what she said to me after her scarf flew, red as a blood-gout, into the cold sea and I struck out into it, soaked to the skin in the freezing water. I remember the shape of her warm mouth as she spoke, twisting the sea-water out of the silk. I remember that her voice was silver. It did not matter what she said. To me, it was an invitation. I had earned her.
2.
I experienced her intensely for one week, I got to know the Countess and her frail father (even then it was obvious that he was not long for the earth), they always made me welcome in their large, immaculate home. The downstairs was decorated in the English Georgian fashion, all neo-classical pillars, ceilings lined with plaster laurel leaves, open-beaked eagles, the walls painted light blue, green, stark white. I wouldnât say I knew Christine.
This is not to say that she was not kind to me, or friendly. She may have even genuinely liked me. Certainly she acted as though she did. She couldnât have been miserable all that time we spent together in the attic among the bare dressmakersâ dummies, headless as ghouls, all those veiled mirrors and obsolete furniture, all those soft, shrouded lurkers, listening as her father told us stories in his strange northern accent. Little Lottie and the Angel of Music .
I can hear him speaking now. A sweet voice that could be made rough or childlike depending on his need and the thrust of the story. He sat on an old leather trunk, pony-skin I believe, with patches of piebald fur missing. His large, precise hands moved as he spoke, as though he were conducting the narrative. Occasionally he scratched his moustache to hide a kind, sly smile.
âLittle Lottie lived dreaming. The old fools in her village thought that she was a bad girl because she spent all her time singing, and some of the things that she sang were not very âproperâ, though they were all true.â
He stroked his daughterâs hair with one huge hand, catching his fingers in her chocolate curls. The other hand he rested on my knee. I took this as a sign of his unconscious approval. I thought he thought that I was very fine. Probably he thought that I was a fool. All I wanted in the whole world was to lay my hands in those curls of hers, lose my nails in that dark river of hair. I thought she owed me that, at least, for rescuing her scarf, for condescending to adore her. I was very young.
The old man continued, âHer father loved her very much and, since he was an artist himself, he knew that it is an easy lie of the common folk that artists have no morality. They have their own morality. They are dedicated to their truth, to portraying it as beautifully and powerfully as possible, even when it makes the small folk uncomfortable.
âLittle Lottie lived a long time with her father in their safe little house at the edge of the forest. They were happy a long time, but happiness is not real if it lasts forever, and one day little Lottie woke to find her father burning in a fever, coughing blood into a rag.â The old man coughed here, wetly, into his handkerchief. I didnât know then that he was not acting.
âBefore he died, he comforted the daughter he loved more than his own life. He said âDarling, do not be afraid. After I have made my home in heaven I will ask God the Father to send down to Earth the Angel of Music. He will sing to you in my voice and your art will improve until it glows from you like flameâ.â
âWhat happened then, Father?â Christine looked much younger than fourteen, leaning forward to him, her delicate hands digging into his knees, her eyes wide, gleaming with the sheen of tears.
The old man bent and kissed her once on her
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