Читать книгу The Ann Ireland Library - Ann Ireland - Страница 12

The virus has gone into hiding. No new cases since last week. The city unfolds in sections like an origami crane, and the restaurants and concert halls fill with cautious, then celebratory patrons.

Competition departure day looms, and Toby is restless as a cat. He imagines himself stepping onto the Montreal stage an hour before showtime for an acoustic check. He hears himself run through sections of his program, listening to notes bounce off empty seats and bare walls, then imagines how it will sound later, with an audience soaking up the music. Ears funnel in sound and dampen it, dermal upholstery.

Guitar Choir is in a tizzy of excitement. Toby has just broken the news that he will miss next week’s session due to the competition. Pamela bombards him with questions: “What will you play? Are you nervous? Will you come back to us?” She looks cranky; she doesn’t like being the last to know things.

The prospect of slinking back here without having made even the semifinals is so appalling that Toby tells himself that no matter what happens, he will not, cannot, return to his old life. He can hardly bear to look at them, feeling he’s already betrayed their loyalty.

Denise says, “We’re rooting for you,” and Toby catches the pensive look on her face. Maybe she’s guessed what he’s thinking.

Matthew, polishing his instrument with a special chamois, says wistfully, “Will it be folly or will it be grace?”

Is he quoting someone, or just himself?

Tristan offers, in his circumspect way, “To pray, if you think it will help.”

As they flock to the door and watch him head down the street, Toby understands that he is entering a world they can only dream of.

A day later Toby wheels his suitcase down the front steps of the townhouse, swinging his guitar over one shoulder, then pauses to look back at Jasper who stands in the doorway in his dressing gown. The streetlights are still burning off morning fog, and a feral cat mooches through the garbage.

Toby stares at the rumpled face of his lover who is making a big effort not to appear worried. Jasper seems almost old in this light, skin beginning to slacken at the chin despite a rigorous diet and exercise routine. This is the man who saved him, sorted him out.

“Got your toothbrush?” asks Jasper. It’s a joke. He’s mocking his own fussy nature.

Toby sets his luggage down and moves back to the stoop where he captures Jasper in a hug. As their bodies mesh, he feels the tick-tock of heart against heart, impossible to tell whose is whose.

“I’ll be thinking of you,” Jasper whispers in his ear.

“Of course you will.”

But will Toby be thinking of Jasper? If luck holds — no, for it is crucial that he maintain focus on performance. With perfect timing the cab draws up, thanks to Jasper’s reminder call placed fifteen minutes ago.

As Toby picks up his luggage and climbs into the taxi, Jasper can’t help saying, “I’ve got to level with you. I don’t think this adventure is wise.”

Toby pretends not to hear. They’ve been through this a dozen times.

Jasper tiptoes up to the open window. “You’re really staying in a dormitory?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Because you’re an adult and adults don’t stay in dormitories. You require a decent mattress, peace and quiet, good linen — all amenities lacking in such premises.”

“What you require,” Toby points out.

Jasper isn’t in a mood to be corrected. He passes through the open window a boxed lunch he’d prepared the night before. “Healthier than the dreck they serve in trains.”

As the vehicle pulls away, Jasper shrinks from sight in the rearview mirror. Not that Toby notices, for his eyes are already set on the road ahead. It is Jasper who watches himself disappear, a clenched figure in a blue dressing gown, waving.