Refrain

Chapter 5: Bouquet

It was past ten in the evening, and although New College Lane itself was deserted, that corner of town was chronically insomniac, not losing to the students and academics within the 500-metre radius who were still burning the late night oil. Steps away to their left was the backyard of Turf Tavern, another popular pub, and noises of drinking and drunkenness alike oozed out in unintelligible black drops from the side alley's narrow opening. In the miserly street light, tinted yellow like old celluloid, Cadence could make out the pale white that covered the cobblestones, loose petals which had drifted all the way from New College's stone wall: an Indian Laburnum, a feeble sentinel of nocturnal peace.

Their last conversation before Louis's death had happened under this tree. And in the ten years which had followed, of all the English words he'd spoken, Cadence had wished he'd dispensed more of them on that afternoon, which would always seem distant to him until, often without warning, it would be cranked into motion—by regret, or guilt, or both—and drive towards him like the ghost train of the Lumières.

The straps of Louis's violin case, which he was bid to carry despite his demurral, gnawed at his knuckles. He switched it, Stainer and Tourte and all else that its weight contained, to his other hand.

'Thank you for inviting me tonight,' he murmured into the warm summer air. 'I really needed it.'

'You did?' said Louis. 'I thought you looked pretty bored. Tortured, even.'

'In the Sheldonian?'

'No, at King's Arms just now. I did try to keep you out of it. Joseph has this way of assuming familial intimacy no matter the stage and nature of your relationship. Though I guess in my case, and Naila's too, we more or less turned him into a single parent. Not that he minded.' Louis pushed a hand into his inner pocket, and to Cadence's great surprise, produced a pack of cigarettes.

'Contraband grâce à Naila,' he explained. 'She can't bring it home because her wife still thinks she's quit. Want one?'

If Cadence was actually 20, he'd be expected to turn it down. But his 30-year-old head knew better. Cigarettes are tickets into adult conversations. Once lit, standing or walking, it grants you at least six minutes of openness to any topic you pick, however violently detached from the now. With his spare hand, he took it between his thumb and index finger, and clamped tight.

Now he could ask. Now he'd know.

They'd just walked through the stone arch of the brewery, and in that corner where a single lamp stood, Louis gave Cadence the fire first before lighting his own. Behind them, the Gothic pinnacles of All Souls College, soaked in the ink of the night, gathered into a bouquet of Poe-like flowers grown from forbidden creation.

'What I meant earlier was, I appreciate that you let me play at the concert,' Cadence drew at his cigarette and puffed. They were walking again, him close to the wall on his right. Smoke-talking always turns one's tone offhand and arrogant, but he needed the momentum to get the words out. 'For a while now I thought I'd never get another chance to play in public.'

'There's plenty of chances,' Louis said, the cigarette in his hand lit but untouched, giving off thin smoke that served no purpose other than counting time. 'There's the University Orchestra, the Chamber Music Society, the college recitals like the one Joseph said you did last year—tell me,' he paused in his tracks, 'that time, when you apparently had a full house—yes I know it was only the auditorium—did you dash off the stage afterwards as well?'

Cadence never thought the conversation would be easy, but this was the last thing he'd expected. That he'd be tripped up by Louis's questions, and not his own.

'I didn't, I think,' he said, his back against the wall.

'Then why did you do it earlier? Tonight at the Sheldonian I mean.'