Free Parallax View by Eric Brown, Keith Brooke Page B

Périgueux might interest you, or perhaps the caves at Lascaux – then a car will take you. All we require is that you work for two hours of each day.”
    She nodded, then sipped at the lapsang souchong she had requested. “What work is it that you ‘require’?” she asked. “Am I to teach your prodigy?” She suspected she had been brought here to teach the marginally talented child of one of PKS’s directors. The rich seemed unable to put aside the naive belief that talent was a commodity to be bought and sold.
    She wanted to ask more, but she held back, as ever; any betrayal that she was interested or curious was a sign of weakness, one that would always be seized by those around her.
    Ventori finished wiping his mouth on a napkin, then said, “When you are ready, Ms Chang, I will introduce you to Jonathan Graves. He has a phenomenal gift for composition and he has reached the stage where his current work should be performed by a virtuoso. If it is satisfactory, and if you are in agreement, then I am certain that it can be arranged for you to record this work.”
    Mae said nothing. She sipped at her tea, then meticulously stripped the flesh from a segment of cantaloupe melon. Let them wait. If she must spend two hours a day with some gauche, talentless composer – far worse than mere tutoring – then they could damn well wait.

    Ventori paused in the corridor by a pair of doors. “Ms Chang,” he said. “Jonathan is a genius. But he has been... rather confused of late. His behaviour can sometimes be a little erratic.”
    He released her arm and pushed ahead of her through the door on the left. The sound of a piano – hesitant and somehow constrained – rose up as Mae followed Ventori into the room.
    It was furnished in the style of an old-fashioned drawing room, with over-stuffed settees and armchairs, dark oil paintings, dowdy statues of Greek gods. At the far end of the room, before full-length picture windows overlooking the lawn, was a grand piano. A man in his late thirties or early forties sat before the keyboard. From time to time he turned to a small table at his side to scribble notes on a big pad.
    Mae shook her head. The term “prodigy” had implied someone younger, perhaps even younger than herself.
    They stood for several minutes while Jonathan Graves ignored them.
    Mae watched as his large fingers found the notes with the lazy ease of a natural – if somewhat limited – player. He worried at a particular phrase over and over, as if he was not happy with it.
    If that was the case, then at least his judgement was sound, Mae decided. He should be writing tracks for shampoo commercials.
    When he was ready, he placed his pen with a flourish and twisted to appraise his visitors with a fierce look. “Yes?” he snapped.
    There was something peculiar about him, but Mae could not quite place it. His face was long, his dark hair greying at the temples. It was his eyes, she realised: their watery, slightly glazed look, his rapid blinking – almost a tic – serving to betray his facade of hostility. Mae smiled. She knew all about hiding behind facades.
    Ventori was not perturbed by Jonathan’s response. “Mr Graves,” he said. “I’d like to introduce Mae Chang. Ms Chang wishes to learn your music. Mae, this is Jonathan Graves.”
    From his sitting position, Graves stared up at Mae. Finally, he nodded. His peculiar mixture of aggression and confusion gave him the air of someone suffering some kind of mental illness. “You...” He stopped himself, seeming to change his mind. “I am pleased to meet you,” he said. “Dr Ventori tells me that you play the piano.”
    She had been right: only a psychiatric patient could not have heard of Mae Chang.
    “A little,” she said, and smiled again. This week might prove diverting after all, she decided.
    “In that case... I am in the process of putting the finishing touches to a piano sonata. Perhaps you would care to try it out?”
    “I’ll leave