Free The Madagaskar Plan by Guy Saville

to bed. In the drawing room there were calls for music. A slender, dark-haired woman volunteered to play. “‘Knees Up Mother Brown,’” called someone. “‘What’s the Use of Getting Sober,’” shouted another. Ginned-up laughter.
    The woman ignored them and began to pick out a classical piece. Burton recognized it at once, even if he couldn’t name it. The music was mischievous, melancholic. He moved toward the piano and watched her. She was trying to play casually, a virtuoso tinkering at the keyboard, but he could see her knitted concentration. Her fingers were long and delicate. Every now and then a lock of hair would bounce into her face; he liked the way she flicked it behind her ear when the music allowed. Halfway through the piece, she gave up.
    “Why did you stop?” asked Burton.
    “Nobody’s listening.”
    “I am.” He moved closer and smelled her perfume; it was a musky barrier around her. “It’s familiar—what is it?”
    “Schubert,” she replied. “The Hungarian Melody.”
    He nodded to himself. “My mother used to play it.”
    “She was a pianist?”
    “On the gramophone,” he said absentmindedly. “It makes me think of kerosene lamps and crickets.”
    The woman raised her eyebrows; they were finely plucked.
    “I grew up in Africa. She liked to play her records in the evening…” Burton fought away the memory and studied the woman.
    She was younger than he’d first thought, about the same age as him. Her eyes were blue with a tinge of pewter; he noticed that instantly, as he did the wedding ring. Her expression was bright, but beneath it he sensed something else, something forlorn, unconsoled; or maybe he was seeing himself. The mercenary in him noted the pearl earrings and expensive dress. Burton didn’t know what else to say. They appraised each other for a moment that lasted too long.
    She held out her hand: “Mrs. Cranley.”
    He took it. Her grip was assured, the skin soft, and yet in the palm he felt calluses that no amount of cream could smooth away.
    “Burton,” he replied.
    “Ah … the famous nephew, back from Africa.”
    He let go, unsure whether she was mocking him. Her eyes gave away nothing. He searched for something to say and saw that her glass was empty.
    “Another?”
    “No. I don’t much like parties. I only came because of your aunt.”
    “How do you know her?”
    “We’re neighbors. I have a house along the coast.”
    “But you’re not from here.”
    “It’s a country home. The rest of the time I live in London.”
    “I meant the accent. You’re German?”
    Her expression darkened. “Viennese.” She replaced the lid of the keyboard and stood. “I left before the war.”
    “Es waren die guten Leute die gegangen sind.”
    She looked alarmed and, glancing around, replied in English: “My husband says it’s best not to speak German. Or to men I don’t know.”
    Sometimes Burton took pleasure in provoking his aunt’s friends, with their settled, swanky lives, but watching Madeleine walk away, he was irritated with himself. “I enjoyed your playing,” he called after her—in English this time. His father had been German and he grew up speaking both languages. If she heard him, she didn’t turn round.
    Twenty minutes later, exhausted by small talk, Burton retreated to his room. He stood by the window, ignoring the shouts of laughter from the garden, letting the sea breeze cool him. Then he closed the shutters and pulled the curtains tight. At once the air took on a hot, oppressive quality—he drew comfort from that. As for Madeleine Cranley, he didn’t give her another thought. It was more than a year till they met again.
    The piano was cold and lifeless beneath Burton’s palm. His aunt couldn’t play, and he wondered if anyone had sat at it since Madeleine. A deep quivering sob rose in him; he stifled it and blanked his mind. The minutes passed. Burton was beginning to wonder if Pebble had failed to rouse his aunt when she glided