As he staggered down the steps of the club and walked through the streets towards the beach to try and sober up, Gustavo knew he had come to a decision.
Whatever his wife might or might not have done, there was no apparent benefit to himself if he declared that he knew and threw her out. She would obviously run to Brouilly in Paris and that would be the end of their marriage.
Other women in society had affairs, he rationalised.And other men, he thought, as he recalled a particular peccadillo of his father’s, whom he’d once met at a charity dance. The woman had made it obvious there was more between the two of them than simply friendship.
Ultimately, it would give him more satisfaction to return home and tell his mother he had investigated the situation and found not a shred of substance than it would to confront Izabela with the letter.
Gustavo looked at the waves pounding relentlessly against the fragile softness of the sand and sighed in resignation.
Whatever she had done, he loved her still.
Taking the letter from his pocket, he walked nearer to the shore, tore the page into pieces and threw them into the air, watching them flutter like miniature kites before they fell towards earth and disappeared into the sea.
45
Paris, December 1929
‘So, Brouilly, you’re back in one piece.’ Landowski eyed him as Laurent walked into hisatelier. ‘I had written you off for good, thinking you’d joined some Amazonian tribe and married the chief’s daughter.’
‘Yes, I’m back,’ Laurent agreed. ‘Is there still a place for me here?’
Landowski turned his attention from the enormous stone head of Sun Yat-sen and studied his erstwhile assistant. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, turning to the young boy, who had grown and filled out since Laurent had last set eyes on him. ‘What do you think? Have we work for him here?’
Laurent felt the boy’s eyes on him. Then he turned to Landowski, and with a smile, he nodded.
‘So, the boy says yes. And from what I can see, it seems there’s not much left of you and that it is your turn to require feeding up. Was it dysentery or love?’ Landowski asked him.
Laurent could only shrug miserably.
‘I believe your smock is still on the hook where you left it. Go and put it on and come and help me with that eyeball you worked so hard on before you left us for the jungle.’
‘Yes, professor.’ Laurent made to move towards the hooks by the door.
‘And Brouilly?’
‘Yes, professor?’
‘I am sure that you will be able to pour all your recent experiences – good and bad – into your sculpture. You were technically competent before you left. Now, you have the ability to be a master. One must always suffer to achieve greatness. Do you understand me?’ Landowski asked him gently.
‘Yes, professor,’ Laurent replied with a catch in his voice. ‘I do.’
*
Later that evening, Laurent sighed and wiped his hands on his smock. Landowski had left theatelierto return next door to his wife and children hours ago. As he made his way by candlelight towards the kitchen to wash the clay from his hands, he stopped suddenly in his tracks. From somewhere close by, he could hear the faint but exquisite sound of a violin. The violinist was playing the mournful first few bars ofThe Dying Swan.
His hands paralysed under the tap, Laurent felt tears he still had not shed prick his eyes. And there, in the tiny kitchen, which was the place he’d watched Izabela care so tenderly for a suffering child and known then that he loved her, Laurent wept. For him, for her, for all that could have been, but never would be now.
As the music drew to its poignant finale, he dried his eyes roughly on a cloth, and walked out of the kitchen in search of the musician who had allowed him to break the dam that had sat inside him ever since Loen had delivered the soapstone tile from Izabela in Rio.
The tune on the violin had changed and he could now hear the haunting melody of Grieg’sMorning Mood, evoking – as it always had for him – a sense of a new day and new beginnings. Comforted somewhat, he followed his ears and took his candle, making his way outside into the garden, then held it up to illuminate the player.
The young boy was sitting on the bench outside theatelier. In his hands was a battered fiddle. But the sound coming from the instrument belied its shabby appearance. It was pure, sweet and extraordinary.
‘Where did you learn to play like that?’ he asked the boy in astonishment when the piece had ended.
As usual, he received only a piercing gaze in return.
‘Who gave you the fiddle? Landowski?’
