shifting her weight in the chair. Something about her look unnerves him. Boldly he meets her gaze.
âGood night,â she says.
Her voice is husky, rough-textured, like velvet brushed the wrong way. The pitch of it sticks with him as he goes on up to bed; as his head hits the pillow; as his mind begins to generate the nonsense of his dreams.
CHAPTER SIX
Igor sits at the piano, penciling in corrections. Sheets of music are propped high on a board above the keys. With head held intently and glasses pushed up onto his brow, he resembles a cardsharp or racing driver: a man who might take risks.
Constantly he juggles combinations of notes and plays with their durations. Heâs after that arresting coincidence of sounds, that correspondence of tones thatâs so thrilling itâs like someone piercing you with a needle between the ribs. He tries out different chord sequences, adjusting the position of his fingers until thereâs a density of texture that seems sweet and difficult all at the same time. He finds the answers lie rarely in straightforward harmonies. The solutions are more slanted. They come at an angle and surprise you, so that what can sound at first discordant turns out to be penetratingly complex and superb.
There is a knock on the door of his study. He presumes it is Marie come to tidy. But no, it is Coco. Hurriedly he stands up. His glasses slip down his face, almost falling off his nose.
âCoco,â he says, resettling his spectacles.
âJust to let you know, Iâve arranged for a doctor to call upon your wife.â
âYouâre very kind.â A respiratory ailment has laid her low in recent days. She wasnât even well enough to go to church on Sunday.
âAnd donât worry about the expense. Iâll attend to it.â
âNo. You mustnât.â
âDonât be silly. You are my guests here. I canât stand to see people ill under my roof.â
âItâs my responsibility. Iâd feel insulted if you were to pay.â
âNonsense. Consider the matter closed. Heâll be here this afternoon around three oâclock.â Igor makes to remonstrate, but Coco insists.
They both laugh uneasily. Sheâs aware that her tone is a bit schoolmistressy. At the same time, he knows how expensive doctors can be. He knows, too, that he could never afford to pay for any lengthy course of treatment. He feels the weight of Cocoâs money tilt the balance of authority between them. Humbled, he looks down. As he does so, he notices a hole in his shirt gape open, exposing the skin of his stomach beneath. A few dark hairs crinkle finely in the light.
She follows his gaze. âYouâve lost a button.â
He colors slightly and closes over his shirt.
âThere it is!â Her eyes seem to bend around the piano in seeking it out. Reaching low, she picks up the button. âIâll sew it back on for you.â
He canât bring himself to argue again. âThank you. Iâll leave it with Marie this afternoon.â
âIâm going out this afternoon. Itâll only take an instant. Come on, Iâll do it now.â
Slightly thrown by her urge to do things promptly, he blurts, âWell, give me a minute and Iâll go up and change.â
Startled by his formality, Coco is even more abrupt. âNo need.â That toughness in her voice again. âYou donât even have to take off your shirt. Sit still, Iâll be back in a second.â Her dress whispers deliciously to him as she leaves the room.
Discomposed, Igor feels the need to assert himself more. But each time he speaks to her, his resolution melts. He finds himself constantly disarmed by her frankness. He removes his glasses and wipes them clean with the tail of his shirt. It is then he realizes his hands are trembling.
Coco returns, bearing a small tan packet of needles and some thread. âFace the light,â she says. She wets