Читать книгу The Drowned Violin - H. Mel Malton - Страница 5

I can’t believe I’m actually going to meet Hugh Pratt,” said Alan’s fifteen-year-old sister, Candace. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the van, talking excitedly to her mother and completely ignoring the others in the back.

“It is rather exciting, isn’t it, darling?” Mrs. Nearing said. “But don’t crowd him, all right? Some musicians are terribly sensitive, you know.”

“He better not be too sensitive,” Alan muttered. “Your perfume would knock out an army. Did you take a bath in that stuff?”

“Alan, you are such a pig,” Candace said. But it was true. Candace had kind of overdone it in terms of personal hygiene. Whatever perfume she was wearing had filled the van with its sweet, flowery-candy scent, and Mrs. Nearing had powered down the windows almost as soon as they had backed out of the driveway, although she hadn’t mentioned the reason. Alan exchanged a grimace with Ziggy and Josée and made choking sounds.

“Mom! Make him stop,” Candace said.

“Oh, I ask you. You’d think you were still six years old, all of you,” Mrs. Nearing said. “Alan, try to act civilized, at least when we have Mr. Pratt in the car.”

Candace had the famous musician’s latest CD with her and gazed dreamily at his picture on the front cover.

“I’m going to get him to sign this,” she said.

“Well, wait for the right moment,” Mrs. Nearing said. “Don’t shove the thing at him as soon as he gets off the train.”

“Mom. Of course, I wouldn’t do that. Give me some credit.”

He was good-looking—at least his picture was, Alan thought, staring over at the movie-star profile of the Canadian virtuoso plastered across the front of the CD, all white teeth and gleaming black hair. The musician was wearing a tuxedo, and his famous Stradivarius was under his chin, as if he was in the middle of playing something. Alan knew that it was posed, because you couldn’t possibly look that good while you were playing. He had once practiced in front of the mirror, just before a recital, and saw that whenever he played the hard parts, he stuck out his tongue, like he had just burned it. Still, maybe virtuoso violinists learned how to smile and play at the same time. Alan knew he would never be a virtuoso—in fact, he would have given anything to quit violin lessons completely, although he hadn’t had the guts to mention this idea to his mother. It was Candace who had the potential, not him. She was already playing solos in the concerts given by their music teacher, Mr. Ziegler, and she took special classes at the Royal Conservatory in the city. Candace had a chance at a first-chair orchestra position, her mother said. Alan, on the other hand, had a chance at maybe being the guy who swept the floor after the show. Still, he kept taking lessons, because he knew his mother would call him “a difficult person” if he told her he wanted to quit.

“So how did this guy get hold of a Stradivarius? Is he, like, a millionaire?” asked Ziggy.

“He won a Canada Council contest,” Candace said. “Some American magnate donated the Strad, and they had a big competition for all the young up-and-coming violinists in the country. Hugh Pratt won, and he gets to play the instrument for five years, to help build his career.”

“Oh, I get it. So it’s a loaner—he doesn’t actually own it.”

“No, but that’s the point, right? When you’re young and starting out, there’s no way you could afford something like a Strad, but the chance to play an instrument like that for five whole years—can you imagine? I would kill for that kind of opportunity.”

“Try not to exaggerate, dear,” Mrs. Nearing said. “It’s unbecoming.”

“Well, I would do anything to get a chance to play a Strad, anyway,” she said.

“And what’s so special about a Stradivarius?” Ziggy asked. “Apart from the famous name?”

“Nobody really knows,” Candace said. “It’s like the big mystery of the musical world. Scientists have done all kinds of tests and stuff on the instruments, and they think it has something to do with the varnish the violin-maker used. They were built back in the 1600s, and it’s amazing that they still sound so good. People say it’s the best string sound in the world—Stradivarius violins, violas, cellos—there’s nothing that compares to it. And of course, they’re worth bazillions of dollars, so only a very few really famous musicians can afford their own.”

“Is that why you’re all dressed up like that?” Alan said. Candace, who usually didn’t pay too much attention to her looks, was wearing a very short skirt and a crop top that exposed her stomach. She was wearing shoes with big heels, too, and makeup that made her look way older than fifteen. This was not her usual style. “Are you hoping that Hugh Pratt will let you take his instrument for a little spin?”

His mother snorted loudly, then immediately blasted him to kingdom come. He sat quiet for the rest of the journey, folding his arms and frowning, ignoring Ziggy and Josée, who didn’t say anything after that, either.

The train was on time, and so were they, so they didn’t have to wait around much. Alan and his friends had wanted to stay in the van and let his Mom and Candace do the welcoming. But Mrs. Nearing insisted that they all come.

“He may have a great deal of luggage,” she said, “and I want you on hand to help carry it. The days of the railroad porter are long gone, you know, so you’ll have to help out.”

When the train pulled into the station, they were waiting on the platform in a row, like those plastic ducks some people liked to put on their front lawns—the mother duck and four babies in descending size, although Ziggy and Josée were not technically Mrs. Nearing’s ducklings.

Candace gave a little squeak when she saw Hugh Pratt descend from the train like a royal prince. He was wearing a black leather jacket, baggy black trousers and shiny dark shoes. His hair was mussed in the kind of way that you just know takes a lot of careful planning, and he had a slightly stubbled chin, as if he had forgotten to shave that morning. He had a square, chiselled jaw and large, dark eyes.

“He looks like a model,” Josée said to the others.

“Oh wow, he is even more amazing in person than he is in his pictures,” Candace said. Her voice had gone all breathy. Alan risked a look at her, although he was determined not to make any more mean comments. He had seen this happen before, when his sister had said she was in love with Leonardo di Caprio. Alan was sure that his remarks then had helped get her over it. Now she was doing the same thing again over this musician, and it would be hard not to bug her about it.

A rail attendant handed down two large suitcases out of the passenger car onto the platform, and Mr. Pratt himself carried a black leather briefcase on a strap over his shoulder, and in his left hand, his violin case.

“Welcome to Laingford, Mr. Pratt,” said Mrs. Nearing, and held out her hand.

“Thank God that’s over,” he said, touching her hand briefly like a guy on the winning team in a post-game handshake. Alan felt a stab of dislike as he saw his mother’s welcoming smile get brittle, suddenly, like glass. “The train journey was a total drag, and I was stuck next to this incredibly boring old woman who talked the whole way about her stupid grandchildren.” His voice was a slow, drawled-out whine, like a long bow on an untuned string.

“He doesn’t sound near as classy as he looks,” Ziggy muttered. Alan and Josée nodded in agreement.

“You’re the reception party, I take it?” Mr. Pratt went on. “I was expecting a limo. Can you smaller kids handle these bags? They’re kind of heavy.” Alan and his friends picked up the cases without comment. They were heavy, but after a remark like that, they weren’t going to let it show. Then the musician turned to Candace, who immediately turned bright red. Alan thought she might be holding her breath. “And if you wouldn’t mind taking this, sweetheart, that would be great,” he said. Her face was practically glowing, a huge smile plastered on so wide, it looked like it would crack her face in half. The musician was going to let her carry the famous violin for him.

“I knew it,” Alan said quietly to the others.

Candace stretched out her arms to receive the precious case, her fingers just touching the corner of it, when Mr. Pratt snatched it away with a look of horror on his face. “Not that,” he snapped. “God, I wouldn’t let a kid carry the Stradder. No, I meant this,” and he handed her his leather briefcase. She looked like she’d been slapped.

“Ouch,” Ziggy muttered.

In the van, Mr. Pratt sat in the front with Mrs. Nearing, drawling a long list of complaints about his train journey—from the lousy food in the dining car to the hardness of the seats. Alan reached over and gave his sister a sympathetic punch on the shoulder. It was just a tap—no big deal, and luckily she knew exactly what he meant and gave him a twisted and slightly misty-eyed smile. That should make up for the remark he’d made earlier, he thought. Sisters. Unpredictable people.

In the back seat, they all kept a kind of stony silence, while Mr. Pratt talked on and on. Alan’s mother didn’t seem to have noticed that anything was wrong with Candace, and she seemed to have forgotten Mr. Pratt’s snobby handshake. She was chatting quite pleasantly to him, asking him about the upcoming concert, and whether he was looking forward to working with the Society orchestra. Maybe mothers don’t notice the same things kids do, Alan thought. She didn’t seem to have any problem with this man at all.

When they got to the Weems’ place, which was a huge glass and wood home on the shores of Steamboat Lake, Mr. Pratt seemed to get bigger, somehow. His voice changed, and he started purring, like a large, sleek cat.

“This is my kind of place,” he said.

“Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it?” Mrs. Nearing said, in a friendly voice. “I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable here, Mr. Pratt. They have a beautiful guest room.” A couple of women, standing in the driveway, pointed at the Nearing’s vehicle and waved to Mrs. Nearing. “Got him, then?” one of the women called out.

“Safe and sound,” Mrs. Nearing called back. “Come on over and meet him before anybody else does.” The women began to stroll over in their direction. Alan watched as Mr. Pratt, who was still doing his contented cat imitation, checked out his reflection in the side view mirror before getting out of the van.

Candace, who had been sitting behind the drivers’ seat, the furthest from the door, got out last, after the boys. Somehow, she got her foot wrapped around one of the seat belts, which was dragging on the floor, and she fell sideways suddenly, missed her footing and landed in a heap on the asphalt driveway, crying out in pain as she landed. Mr. Pratt moved right in on her.

“Oh, angel, are you all right?” he said, all the whine gone from his voice and replaced by a honey-sweet tone that seemed to make Candace forget her pain.

“I—my foot,” she said. He crouched down next to her, all concern and hands. Mrs. Nearing had missed the fall, having walked over to meet the advancing women, and all three arrived back at the van just as Pratt was helping Candace to her feet.

“What on earth happened, Candace?” Mrs. Nearing said. “Have you hurt yourself?”

“I tripped on something in the van and fell and twisted my foot or ankle or something,” Candace said, “but Mr. Pratt helped me. I’m fine.” And truly, she looked better than she had in a while, Alan thought. She had her Leonardo di Caprio smile on again.

“Call me Hugh, please,” Mr. Pratt said to her, all the time seeming to keep half an eye on the ladies who had come over, as if he wanted them to see how nice he was being. Is it only me who is noticing this stuff? Alan thought. He felt like a superhero all of a sudden, with special powers that nobody else had. Great. Other guys get bitten by a radioactive spiders and end up being able to climb buildings. Alan Nearing gets buzzed by a bunch of bullies on jet skis, and all he ends up with is a hyperactive sensitive-o-meter.

“Thanks, Hugh,” Candace said. “I think I can walk on it if I go really slowly.” She leaned on his arm and began walking with him towards the door, surrounded by Mrs. Nearing and the other women. Mr. Pratt had left his briefcase and the violin case on the ground beside Alan and his friends. They unloaded the rest of the bags from the back of the van and prepared to carry it all in.

“Excuse me, Mr. Pratt,” Alan called out to the musician, who had his arm wrapped around his sister’s waist. The musician turned his head and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, er, Al?” All four of them had been introduced to him at the train station. Alan hated “Al”, but this wasn’t the time to say so.

“What about your ‘Stradder’? You want to carry it yourself, or is it okay for one of us kids to bring it in?”

Mrs. Nearing frowned at Alan and gave her head a little shake, but Mr. Pratt just smiled.

“Er, that will be fine, buddy,” he said. “Just be very, very careful with it, okay? And bring it straight on in, okay?”

Alan picked up the violin case carefully, like it might explode, and cradled it in his arms. “As if I was going to run away with it or something,” he said to Ziggy and Josée. “It’s not me that has a crush on his stupid violin, it’s Candace. And Mr. Pratt looks like he’s suddenly got a crush on her.”

“Maybe he’ll let her play it, then,” Josée said.

“Yeah, and then she breaks it and has to go to jail. I can see it now. I’d be the brother of a criminal.”

“That would be good for a detective, wouldn’t it?” Ziggy said. “You’d be able to visit her in jail and get to know the real bad guys—how they work, and stuff.”

“You’d only get to meet the bad girls,” Josée said. “She’d be in a youth detention centre, not like where mamère works.” Josée’s mother had just started a kitchen job at the men’s prison down the highway in Wenonah.

“Too bad,” said Alan. “I’d really like to find a way to visit that place. It would be cool to see what happens to the bad guys I’ll be tracking down some day.”

“You’ll be visiting them full-time if you don’t watch where you’re going with that violin,” said Mrs. Nearing, coming up behind them.