“You have more, then?” he asks.
“Yeah, in my room. I mean, not a ton, but my favourites at least.” I put the tape back in and close the deck.
“The sounds. They are like nothing I have ever heard.” He looks far away when he speaks.
“I think most of the instruments are electric, so I guess it sounds very modern.”
“Electric instruments… Who would have imagined such wonders?” he says, eyes focused on me again. “The words are like those of the Romantics, as though penned by Blake himself. Yet the melody is haunting, reverent. Like the songs of my youth.” He moves his hand in the air as if he’s looking for something. “But then, the sorrow…the yearning. I recall the night I once beheld Chopin perform in a private salon. Never had I witnessed such feeling woven into music. It was haunting. Like this.” He taps the Walkman gently with the tip of a finger.
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been a huge fan of classical music, but seeing Chopin live…
“That must have been something else,” I finally say.
“It truly was.” He smiles at me. And when he does, his face lights up in ways that make me feel too full. Too heavy.
“You know, I kinda love that you’re comparing This Heat to the Romantics. I can see their music as a sort of nihilistic romanticism.”
“You have read Jacobi?” he asks.
“I don’t know who that is, sorry.” I shrug.
“May I have more music?”
“Of course! Let me rewind the tape for you.”
His eyes light up at my words. I turn the cassette around so I can play it from the beginning. He pulls the headphones back on and leans into the sofa. With one arm, he draws me on top of him. My head is so close to his, I can hear the music perfectly. We stay like this, silently embracing, until I hear the familiar click of side A finishing. When I turn the tape around, he draws a blanket over both of us, tucking me in beside him. Lazarus is surprisingly comfortable, and I can feel myself slowly drifting off to sleep.
The next thing I know, there’s a fluffy pillow below my head, which is propped up on Lazarus’ lap. My Walkman is tucked away on a pile of books nearby. He holds one in his hand; his other is resting on my waist. I stay there for a while, not wanting to move ever again. Here, it feels warm and safe, strangely protected from the world out there on the other side of the door.
Eventually, I rub my eyes sleepily, stretching my stiff limbs. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, sitting up.
“Do not apologise for resting, Astaire; it is a necessity of life.”
“Do you not sleep?” I ask.
“I do, though I need it not as a mortal might,” he explains. “Are you hungry? There is more food on the tray.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. I just wanna wash up real quick,” I say, heading to the basin.
I splash water over my face, waking up fully. The mural across the basin looks at me ominously. The scene in the centre is making me feel exceedingly uncomfortable. It’s not the way the creature holds a crouching figure tightly between its claws or the eerie green eyes staring at me from behind the paint. What unsettles me the most is what’s around it: mythological beings, demons and skeletons jeering and cackling with glee, as if they were celebrating the horror. In a way, it’s beautifully grotesque.
But still, it unsettles me, a shiver runs down my back. I return to the sofa where Lazarus has placed the tray on a table.
“I thank you for the gift of music,” he says as I chew a piece of cheese.
“Music is my favourite thing,” I reply.
“Really? I was unaware. I have seen the little circles upon your ears, yet their purpose escaped me.”
“I can’t imagine life without it. When there’s nothing else, there’s always the music.”
“I have always loved music, yet had so little of it,” he says, slicing an apple into bite-sized pieces. “In my time, it could beheard only through the hands of others. There is no one to play for me in this castle.”
“Do you know about gramophones? I think they were invented like 100 years ago or so.”
His face drops a little, the light that was in his eyes extinguished.
“I’m afraid not,” he says, but before he can continue, I interrupt him with, “Can I have some water?”
