The Instrumentalist by Harriet Constable

Author:Harriet Constable
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781526672575
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Published: 2024-06-29T00:00:00+00:00

15

April. Two pigeons on the Pietà windowsill coo, fluffing feathers until they are no longer birds but plump orbs with beaks. One twists and fidgets, the sun beating down on its body, finding that it is difficult to tuck its wings in on the ledge. It peers through the glass as it adjusts itself, round and round, each time spying a man with a shock of red hair and a teenage girl with long brown curls, hunched over a table inside.

Months have passed this way. After figlie practice, the two of them hard at work. Sometimes they can go through three candles right down to the stub. Sunset swept beneath the dark cloak of night. When they hear footsteps in the corridor they have to stop, pretend Anna Maria is the one playing, and that he is the one composing. Sometimes Sister Clara comes to get her, says it’s time to stop, says she needs to rest.

But they cannot stop. Not now. Not when what they are creating is so miraculous, so remarkable.

Sometimes an idea jumps from him to her without them even having to exchange words. She drinks in his notes, he drinks in her ideas, they dive down and drown in them, not even realising the time. Her ribs are starting to show, from the meals she keeps missing, but food is secondary, unimportant. They are inventing music that feels truly different and new. And Anna Maria is here at the heart of it. A collaborator. An equal. This, plus her performance schedule ramping up, and nothing can stop her now. Maestro beckons her. It calls out in her sleep. From there she is just inches from being an official composer. Her name will be remembered forever.

A blot of ink drips from her nib on to the parchment. She rubs her eyes. Pauses for a second on this thought.

She hasn’t been able to work on her own compositions recently. There has barely been a moment to spare what with practice and performances and helping him with his compositions. But he is so happy with her, so impressed. She needs to get through this phase and then she can get back to her work, her ideas, to developing her own voice in secret.

She stands, stretching now. Moves toward the window. She glimpses her reflection, icy and transparent. At fifteen, her face has grown longer and slimmer. Her eyebrows are thick and arched. She shifts focus, looking through herself to the world beyond.

A boat is on the horizon, white sails faded and ripped. A song floats toward her. Anna Maria can hear from the music that the sailors are Dalmatians. It is happy, upbeat. A folk tune she recognises. They must be crossing back into Venice from the sea beyond.

She watches for some moments, imagining herself standing on that deck with the breeze on her cheeks, sailing over the horizon.

Now the boat is in the lagoon and she can see the men. Tanned, muscular arms pulling the oars to the rhythm, surrounded by stacks of timber, bags of salt piled high.

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