The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,63
at the piano with a reverence reserved for religious relics. Alba waits. “So, um,” she says finally, “what do we do now?”
Instead of answering, Carmen starts to play, pressing the keys so that the notes reverberate in the wood and echo softly through the air. Shivers of excitement run down Alba’s spine as if she’s being given tiny electric shocks, rooting her to the spot. The music sweeps around her in a thousand different hues: red notes in every shade soar above her head, yellow notes sink to her feet, green and blue notes linger in the air between them. At last, the piece reaches a crescendo and, as she hits the highest note, Carmen stops. Alba exhales, suddenly realizing she’s been holding her breath.
After every echo of every note has evaporated, leaving a multicolored mist that settles and slowly disperses, Alba finally speaks. “My God, did you write that?”
Carmen nods, her fingers still resting on the keys.
“It was completely . . . utterly, purely magical. Your music, it made me feel . . .” She’s never heard anyone play anything the way Carmen just did. It filled her with emotions she’s never known before, like an empty glass filling with wine: sweet, fruity, intoxicating. She has to taste it again.
Carmen smiles. “I think you do like music, then, no?”
Alba’s momentarily confused, then remembers the lie she told. She thinks of how afraid she’d been of Carmen then. Now it seems like years ago. “Oh, yes,” she says softly, “sorry about that.”
Still a little dizzy from the music, Alba glances at the wall above Carmen’s head and there she sees it—the photograph that, with the exception of Stella, she’s been most keen to find: Agatha Christie is standing in the front garden, a tiny smile on her lips as she glances toward the midnight glory. It’s a sign. Discovering the author who’s supposedly sold more books than any other writer in the world except Shakespeare is a sign she should do something equally brilliant and bold. Or at least take a baby step in that general direction.
“So,” Alba says, realizing she hasn’t spoken for several minutes, “why don’t you tell me about this song?”
Later, Alba glances around at all the books in her bedroom, wishing she could imbibe their brilliance through osmosis. How can she write a love song when she’s never been kissed, when her only experience of romance has happened entirely in her head?
It had taken Alba a week to find the courage to confront the object of her affection. She had hurried across the quad, clutching The Journal of Modern History, her eyes on the ground, for the first time not admiring the intricately carved turrets and spires above her, the sculptures of gargoyles and saints, flowers, crosses and coats of arms. She scuttled past the chapel with its dozen stained-glass windows reaching fifty feet to the roofline, its delicate lattice of stone that took nearly a century to build. Her shoes slipped on the cobbled paving as she ran.
When Alba reached Dr. Skinner’s office, she stopped. Perhaps it had been a mistake after all. Perhaps her supervisor had submitted her name and the editors forgot to use it. Maybe she should wait, maybe she should come back when she’s calm and quietly ask what had really happened. There would be a sensible explanation, Alba was nearly certain. But she needed to know it or she wouldn’t sleep for another week.
So, very softly, Alba knocked and waited. She heard the voices inside the room stop talking, and imagined her supervisor scowling.
“Come in!”
Alba nudged the door open, poking her head into the room. Dr. Skinner sat behind a desk. A student sat on the battered leather sofa across the room.
“I need to talk to you,” Alba whispered into the silence.
“Can’t it wait?”
She held the magazine up.
“Oh.” Dr. Skinner turned to the student. “Bugger off, Nick.”
Nick scowled, apparently sorry to miss the particulars, but picked up his bag and hurried out.
“Sit.”
Alba sat.
“So, I suppose this is about my not crediting you.”
Alba stiffened, her last pinch of hope extinguished. The room went white, bleached of all color, as if she was looking through fog. So it was intentional. Calculated. Cold. Alba was speechless.
“Your research was good,” Dr. Skinner said, “but not enough to credit your name alongside mine. That would suggest we wrote it jointly, which wasn’t the case. Now, if you felt you deserved more than that, I’m sorry, but that’s how these things go.”