Death and Transfiguration

Chapter 3

It was 11:00, I was standing under the green awning at Café de la Paix, it was beginning to rain, and Bertrand Sylvestre was nowhere to be found. I had brought along a few of my best compositions, but now, I was afraid that I would have no one to show them to. I looked around one more time, searching for anyone who might possibly be Sylvestre, but I didn't see anyone. I tried not to give up hope quite yet: perhaps he was simply running late. To pass the time, I spent a few centimes on a copy of Le Petit Journal, went inside, ordered a cup of coffee, and attempted to decipher the newspaper.

MYSTERIOUS DEATH AT THE PALAIS GARNIER: WAS BERGMANN MURDERED?

Johann Bergmann, an Austrian composer notable for his many experimental pieces that pushed symphony orchestras across the globe in exciting new directions, died yesterday during the premiere of his opera The Lost Shadow at the Palais Garnier. His body was found by three Paris police officers, who were at the opera house to restore order to a riotous crowd. The corpse was found in the corridor near the grand staircase, and it was soon identified as Johann Bergmann's. Further investigation revealed that there were bloodstains near the top of the staircase and that Bergmann had suffered extensive injuries to the back of his head, suggesting that someone had assaulted him on the staircase with a heavy object, causing him to fall over the railing and onto the floor below. The police department is still searching for Bergmann's assailant, although little is known about the case as of...

A man of about forty approached me, his hazel eyes looking straight at my book of compositions. "Are you Matilda Brackenborough?" he asked as I put down the newspaper and turned to face him.

"I am," I said.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Brackenborough. I'm Bertrand Sylvestre."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sylvestre," I said as I took a sip of my coffee.

"Moreau tells me that you're a composer," Sylvestre said. I nodded, but before I could open up my book of compositions, he added, "Of course, I can never really trust his opinion on such things. Moreau is a decent violinist, but a poor composer indeed, although perhaps that was simply a lack of interest in the subject...how is Moreau doing, by the way? I haven't seen him since last spring."

"He's fine," I said, thinking that if I kept quiet, Sylvestre might not notice my lack of proficiency in French.

"How do you know him exactly?"

"We're neighbors."

"Interesting," Sylvestre said. "And where are you from exactly?"

"London."

"That explains quite a lot," Sylvestre said. "What brings you to Paris then?"

"I came to see The Lost Shadow," I said.

"Bergmann?" Sylvestre asked. I nodded. "All of you kids seem to love Johann Bergmann for some reason, but I never understood the appeal. He takes out everything that's good about music - melody, harmony, all of it. Bergmann's a world-class ratbag too, but I suppose I shouldn't speak ill of the dead. It's truly a shame that he's gone now."

"You knew Bergmann?"

"Of course. We attended conservatory around the same time, we lived in some of the same cities, we were friends with the same people. I think it would be more unusual if I hadn't become acquainted with Bergmann at some point."

"What was he like?" I asked, eager to know more about my favorite composer, one I would never get a chance to meet.

"I think I've said enough about him," Sylvestre said. "I'd like to know more about you though, Miss Brackenborough. Would you mind showing me those compositions you have over there?"

I nodded, placed the book on the table, and opened it to the first page. Sylvestre flipped through the compositions, occasionally making comments. "I can see Bergmann's influence here," he said at one point. "You lifted this melody from his second piano sonata, didn't you?"

"It's a great piece," I said. "I thought it would be nice to...to place the sonata in dialogue with my music."

"Yes, but I see little of your own work here," Sylvestre said. "There's a fine line between influence and plagiarism, Miss Brackenborough." He turned to the next piece and muttered, "The counterpoint technique here is amateurish at best."

"There isn't any counterpoint there," I said.

"That's a problem in and of itself," Sylvestre scoffed as he turned to the last few pieces in the book. "This one is nice, but it doesn't look like you've finished it."

"I didn't have the time," I said. "I teach during the day - I can only compose at night."

"I think you just need to manage your time better," Sylvestre said as he looked at the last few pieces, all of them similarly unfinished. I could feel my heart breaking as he dismissed each of my compositions in turn. Those pieces were everything to me, all of my emotions poured out and translated into notes and rhythms. I had done everything I could to make them the best that they could be, and for Bertrand Sylvestre, that still wasn't enough.

Perhaps it would be best for me to return to London, to my old life. Perhaps it was time for me to give up on my dreams.

Sylvestre sighed, closed the book, and handed it back to me. "There isn't much I can do for you, Miss Brackenborough," he said. "You said you were a teacher though, yes?"

"Yes, I taught music at a girls' school back in London."

"I have an idea for you," Sylvestre said. "You see, my wife passed away last year."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Miss Brackenborough," Sylvestre said. "Ever since her death, I've been looking for someone to take care of my two children, and I think you might be perfect for the position. You would look after them while I am teaching at the conservatory, helping them with their lessons, broadening their musical education, and teaching them to speak English. I will pay you well, and if you'd like, I can also help you learn to compose."

As soon as he said that, I knew what my answer would be. "Yes, Mr. Sylvestre," I said. "I think this would be an excellent arrangement."

"Fantastic," Sylvestre said. "When can you start?"

"Whenever you would like me to."

"How about tomorrow?" Sylvestre said. He took out a pencil and scrawled his address on the newspaper, right next to the headline. "Meet me at my house tomorrow morning. I'll give you a tour of the place and introduce you to the children, and then you'll watch them in the afternoon."

"That sounds perfect, Mr. Sylvestre," I said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Sylvestre said. "I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Brackenborough."

Sylvestre left, while I stayed at the café for a little while to finish my coffee and process what had just happened. There were a million reasons to be scared - I was leaving my old life behind, plunging into the unknown - but I was also unbelievably excited. Even if it meant taking care of Sylvestre's children all day, I was getting what I had always wanted. I was one step closer to achieving my dreams.