Since she’d been observing him, she’d seen his expression change twenty times. It was though it was his profession to translate the emotions of others. She was unable to guess exactly what made her brother tick. As a child she’d had a lot of admiration for him, but Alix was like a watchdog baring its teeth. Louis was her brother, at the piano or the dinner table or anywhere else, night or day. Laura had accepted the situation. Later, Hugues and her daughters had provided her with everything she’d wanted out of life, and she harbored no hard feelings. She was serene.
“I adore what you were just playing…” she said
“What, this?” Louis said, keyed up. “You liked it?”
Head lowered, making sure he was injecting into his playing the required emotional intensity, he launched into what was going to be the overture of the second act. After the last note, Laura kept quiet for a second and then whispered, “It reminds me…”
“Shit!” Louis screamed, slamming down the Steinway’s lid.
Stunned, Laura saw him get up, tighten his bathrobe, and shrug.
“Fine, okay,” he said, extremely upset, “so I’m failing.”
“Louis…”
“I don’t want it to remind people of something else, someone else’s music. It has to be original, you understand?”
“All I was going to say it that it reminded me of stormy nights.”
Looking terribly sorry, Louis grimaced and went over to his sister. Grabbing one of her hands, he helped Laura to her feet.
“I’m sorry , Laura. How about a walk to the belvedere before the others wake up? I think I need to walk around bit. My back is so stiff…”
Laura had to laugh.
“Go put on a pair of jeans,” she said, “and I’ll make you a cup of coffee. Then we’ll go.”
She headed for the French door while he lifted the piano’s lid, slowly, as though he regretted manhandling it. He rarely had these types of outbursts. He was sorry that his little sister had been the victim of one just now.
He ran his fingertips on the piano’s ivory keys. It was familiar, sensual. He continued for a while. If he ever managed to finish this opera, even if it was twenty years from now, he’d dedicate it to Francine. She’d still be with him, of course, so he had time. He tried to imagine his opera’s heroine looking like her but he’d been thinking about Marianne while composing, maybe as a way to exorcise her. Nothing was easy when it came to this piece. He knew that he’d go through many nights of doubt and frustration. He accepted the challenge, as he loved that kind of hell.
When Laura came back to the music room five minutes later, Louis was still in his bathrobe, writing frantically, once again beyond reach. He was a complete slave to the music he was hearing in his head, and nothing else was important.
Françoise Bourdin was born listening to opera. Her parents, both opera singers, helped her to develop an appreciation for strong characters, plots, and the music of words. Since 1994 she has written dozens of books, three of which have been adapted for French television. Bourdin lives with her two daughters in Normandy.
© 2000 by Françoise Bourdin and Belfond
© 2010 by Belfond for the English translation
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
cover
title
chapter1
chapter2
chapter3
chapter4
chapter5
chapter6
chapter7
chapter8
chapter9
chapter10
chapter11
chapter12
chapter13
chapter14
author
copyright
The Man of Their Lives Page 30