Читать книгу The Bach Manuscript - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 14

Sometimes it seemed to them as though the whole world was made up of nothing but words. Words, words, every day a storm of words, coming at you so hard and fast from all directions that you could barely digest the information in time for the next torrent. Lecture after lecture, until the voices appeared to merge into a babble of confusion that echoed around your head, enough to drive you crazy. Book after book, until the dots on the pages became meaningless and floated in front of your eyes and remained hovering there even in your dreams.

Which was what made these moments all the sweeter and more magical. Moments of pure stillness, where you could just drift awhile, and share a silence with someone so close to you, and simply be.

The wine they’d drunk earlier was cheap and rough, but neither of them cared. The night was warm, just the merest kiss of a gentle breeze through the dark cloister. She rested against his body with her arms wrapped around him, saying nothing, gazing into the deep black shadows, imagining that the glow of his cigarette was an orange star billions of light years away in a galaxy nobody knew about. Nobody but them.

She could feel the tightness of his muscles, and knew that such moments were the closest he could come to being relaxed, like a compressed spring that was never fully unwound. Ben never spoke about the bad things in his life, but Michaela sometimes saw the pain that seared his blue eyes like lightning in a summer sky. Things she was too young to understand, even though she was only eleven months younger than he was. Hers had been a sheltered life, up until now. His had not. That was all she knew, but she wanted to make him happy because she loved him with every molecule of her being, more than she could ever have imagined it was possible to love anyone.

Some days, it seemed he could never be happy. Tonight, she thought he could.

No words. Just being. Listening. Enjoying. The voice of the organ drifted down from the cathedral tower and echoed through the darkness of the cloister, mingling with the night air. In those hours when the college slept, nobody minded. Nick could play until dawn if he wanted to, because as organ scholar he had the keys to the ancient studded oak door in the far corner of the cloister, which led up the narrow staircase to the hidden chamber where the heart of the instrument lay.

He’d started his practice after midnight. Just messing around at first: the opening Hammond organ riff from the rock classic ‘Smoke on the Water’ by Deep Purple had made Michaela chuckle. Jon Lord was one of Nick’s organ heroes he often raved about. Johann Sebastian Bach was the other; and now the organ was filling the sweet night air with the haunting, cascading music of a minor-key fugue, its lines intertwining and swooping and soaring like the flight of birds – or so she pictured it. The music seemed to pulse with its own life, making her think about the new life that pulsed inside her, so fragile, so tiny, yet growing imperceptibly each day.

Michaela hadn’t told him yet. She hadn’t told anyone. She was still waiting for the right moment, afraid of what Ben’s reaction might be. Terrified, too, of what her parents would say when she broke the news to them. She was only eighteen. So many plans had been made for her future. Now, she suddenly no longer had any idea what lay ahead. Doubts often gripped her. Would she and Ben have a life together? What would it be like? He could be so wild, even reckless. Michaela worried that her family would never accept him.

She reached up and ran her fingers through Ben’s hair. Ever so gently, he grasped her hand and kissed it.

‘I love you,’ she whispered.

‘I love you too,’ he murmured in reply, and the sound of it, and her total and complete faith in his sincerity, rocked her heart and made her want to cry with happiness.

If the baby was a boy, she’d already decided she wanted to call him Jude.