Free Concerto to the Memory of an Angel by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt Page B

exclaimed Axel, “glad to see you.”
    Axel smiled, and there was a vague tenderness about him, something to do with the shape of his eyelids and his almost feminine abandonment, an air which regularly left girls broken-hearted and men feeling disconcerted. At the same time, his wide open blue eyes often focused on other people, and it was as if they were being subjected to an X-ray rather than a mere gaze.
    â€œHi, Axel. Working up an appetite for today?”
    â€œWhy? What’s on today? Oh, right, the rally . . . ”
    When he laughed, he threw his head back, showing his neck, as if he expected to be kissed.
    Chris could not imagine why Axel was not more excited about the competition. “He’s making fun of me! He’s pretending to be relaxed but in actual fact he only got out of bed for that very reason.”
    â€œI wonder,” continued Axel, “whether I should go. All I feel like doing this afternoon is going down to the beach to do some reading, I’ve got some scores and a book to finish.”
    â€œYou can’t go off and leave everyone like that!” protested Chris. “They might have liked your playing as a soloist, but they might take it badly if you go off on your own.”
    Axel blushed.
    â€œYou’re right, forgive me, I’ll join in. Thanks for putting me back on track. Sometimes I behave in a really monstrous way, I tend to think only about myself instead of the group.”
    To himself Chris grumbled, “Think about me, in particular, because you’re going to get a hiding from me.”
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    The contest began at nine o’clock. The candidates were all given a bike, a map of the island, and a first clue; after the starting signal they had to go from marker to marker, finding the clues that led from one marker to the next, until they reached the last place where the treasure was hidden. Whoever broke into the pirate’s chest first would grab the coin with the number one, the next in line would be number two, and so on.
    â€œMay the best man win!” shouted Paul Brown, red in the face, the veins in his neck bulging.
    A loud bang resounded in the turquoise sky.
    Chris set off, with all the energy of a final sprint, thinking hard as he pedaled and elbowed his way past his neighbors.
    By the third stage he was at the head of the pack. Solving the rebuses and locating the hiding places were child’s play to him, yet he was not about to relent or let up on the pressure.
    There was a first annoying detail: two participants were hot on his heels, Bob and Kim, from Texas and Korea respectively. He thought with a moan, “I’m not in this competition to have two guys like that as my rivals! A tuba player and a percussionist!” Like all musicians, Chris had established a hierarchy: at the top were the great soloists—pianists, violinists and cellists; then came flautists, viola players, harpists and assorted clarinetists; at the bottom were the menial drudges who played poor, limited instruments that provided mere background noise, like tubas and percussion.
    â€œWhy is Axel so far behind in the pack?”
    He tried to understand his rival through his own self, and concluded that Axel must be going slowly on purpose, taking part half-heartedly to avoid the confrontation with Chris; by competing at a slower pace Axel could always find the excuse that if he had wanted to, he would have won.
    â€œBastard! Cheater! Loser!” hissed Chris, weaving back and forth on his bike as he climbed a steep slope.
    When he came to the tenth clue, he turned around and saw that Axel had caught up with Bob and Kim.
    â€œAh-hah, now he’s at it.”
    The mettle of one’s adversaries determines the worthiness of a competition and sets the price of the victory: when Chris saw Axel on his heels, he felt a sudden boost of energy.
    Despite the fact that the sun was at its zenith, he put all his mental and physical strength to work