Finally, he answers. “Just keeping my reed wet.”
I give him a blank stare to show him he’s speaking gibberish.
He grins easily and goes to where he placed his instrument cases on the floor earlier, opens one and brings it over to lay it on the coffee table in front of us. Inside, his oboe is in pieces which he now puts together again. I hold my breath, not asking for a private performance but hoping, hoping, hoping.
The last bit he takes from the box is a small tube, the size of a rolled-up cigarette, “This is the reed. It needs to be moist to make the right sound. If I play it dry, it sounds horrible.”
I lean over to have a better look.
“It’s a double reed, see?” He flicks it with the pad of his thumb. “Two small reeds tied together, and they vibrate against each other when you blow.” He puts the reed into his mouth, but what comes out is a disappointing sound, not music but a short airy whistle.
“Not nice, is it?” He reads my thoughts. “But look…” he puts it in his mouth for a bit then pushes the reed into the oboe and now blows again, a long sweet clear note, like that first note he played in the church.
“It’s incredible!” I can’t help saying. “It sounds like silk.”
A smile breaks on his face, a gorgeous smile I’ve never seen on him before. Love and pride, as if I’ve just given him the best complement in the world. “Yes, the oboe has the purest, cleanest sound of any musical instrument. That’s why, in an orchestra, before the concert starts, everyone waits for the oboist to play an ‘A’ so everyone else in the orchestra can tune up to the same pitch.”
He blows a long steady note, a clean ribbon of sound that sails out and up towards the sky then fades.
He clearly enjoys talking about this, even simplifying it for me, his expression is animated, and his long fingers slide up and down the black instrument pointing out keys and features.
“What about the other oboe?” I ask looking at the bigger case standing on the floor beside him.
“Ah.” He opens the case “This is not an oboe, it’s a cor anglais, it means English horn.” He assembles it to show me.
“It’s like the oboe’s older brother. Made from the same hard, black wood, but see? This is the bell, where the sounds comes out.” He passes me the end of the instrument. “It doesn’t look like an open tulip but like an onion.”
“Why?” I pass it back to him.
“It makes the sound warmer and a bit more serious, even sad.”
I’ve never seen this side of Brandon. Nothing, not the gardening, not the cooking, not even talking about his brother makes him look this absorbed or inspired. It’s as close to seeing a man in love as possible without actually being in bed with him.
“Which do you prefer?” I really want to know, and I want him to continue talking.
He gives me a mysterious smile. “You tell me yours, first.” He takes up the smaller instrument and plays. It takes me a few seconds to recognise it. Enio Morricone’sGabriel’s Oboe.
I settle more comfortably on the sofa and bring my knees up under my chin and hug my legs while he plays that gorgeous, spellbinding music. When he’s finished, he lowers the oboe and looks at me, waiting.
“I don’t think you need to play the other. Nothing could be more beautiful.”
His smile widens slowly. “Let’s see. I’ll play you Mozart’sAdagio for Cor Anglais.” He removes the reed and keeps it in between his lips while he changes to the Cor Anglais and inserts the reed into the top and plays.
It starts a bit scratchy and boring, not a patch on the first tune. Gradually, though, it gathers warmth and steals into me, making my head rest against the back of the sofa. The melody wraps all around me, full of longing and beautiful sorrow. When it comes to an end, I say without opening my eyes. “Please play this again.”
Without a word, he plays it again.
It’s so sad, like an old forgotten love story.
All too soon it ends; I could have listened to it for hours.
I open my mouth to tell him it’s my favourite, his too I suspect by the shining pleasure in his face.
But, before I can speak, there’s that fluttery feeling in my tummy.
This time I know what it is.
“Oh, Brandon!”
