To Indigo by Tanith Lee (read along books txt) 📕

old sport, who put it more clearly, more – exquisitely. Indigo. The Indigo Instant when everything superficial burns off – hope, fear, denial – and only self-dominion remains, and after that, you can rule the world.”

“That was Vilmos,” I said.

“Yes, Denis. Or should I say, Roy. And Roy, Vilmos was always you.”

I swallowed noisily.

Outside, as if to cover my swallow and then silence, a train zoomed by, flashing away along the track towards home or hell.

“Can you still play?” I asked. I heard what I’d said. I amended, “I mean, a piano.”

“Ah, that.”

He looked down and I found I watched him.

Then he got up and he went to the piano by the far wall, and I could see how he strained to make the left leg move, and at the same time strained not to show it. It was the way an old man, a proud old man, would go on. It wasn’t an act.

As he sat down at the piano on the stool there I wanted to shout out. I wanted to grab hold of him. The last time he had sat at a piano, his back to me – But even now the train was gone, I still kept my silence.

Sej sat there a long while.

Then he put his hands on the keys.

As once before, a rill of notes came, flawed. They stumbled and fell over each other. A little phrase of music leaked between, all disjointed, like a stammer that can’t catch itself and so can never be put right.

I too had got up.

I bawled at him. I stood there bellowing at him, roaring. I can’t remember what I said. It was about his loss of something so true – his wicked wilful throwing away loss of it – and, I believe, about my unwilling part in this.

In the end I stopped and sat down again. I put my head in my hands.

When I glanced up once more he was looking at me, over his left shoulder from his impaired left eye, a laughing look, a loving look. That of a father or a mother. Or a son.

“Gotcha,” he softly said.

And then his hands sprang back on to the keys.

He played me Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody, which is the concert showman’s piece, melodic, episodic, pyrotechnic, impossible. He played it perhaps as Liszt may have done, the golden notes firing off like showers of bullets, striking the ceiling, the windows, the earth and the sky.

When he’d finished he sat on there with his back to me. I sat staring out of the window. And another train, having it seemed waited for him to conclude, rattled along the track.

When ultimately I rose he said, “So long, Denis. Take care.”

The lift felt like a hippo going down too. The sun had come out. My eyes were full of golden bullets.

Near Camden Lock I saw a man selling violins on the pavement. I remember that. I’m not convinced he was real.

He called me this morning about ten, via the landline. The number remains the same as it was.

“Outside the V and A at 4 p.m.,” he said, without any preamble. “Smart casual dress. Leo will be there. You go up to him and start to shout at him. You’re angry, a bit out of control. He’s taken something of yours – doesn’t matter what – a lover, a rare book, a CD – something important. He’ll improvise on what you do, he’s had more experience. Trust him. Keep this up a bit, then I’ll be there. There’ll be a woman around. She shows promise, but it’s early days. Not like you. I knew with you from the first. Anyhow, you ignore her. And I, to you, will be a stranger. I’ll calm you and Leo down. Make it difficult for me, but after a while, give in grudgingly but completely.”

I didn’t speak nor did he require me to.

He added, “Then just walk off, any direction you like. It’s straightforward, if not undemanding. But then it’s your first real go at this sort of thing. There’ll be a meeting later, Marga, Leo, me if I can make it. Marga will call you, tell you where. She’ll call you at home, unless you want to let her know your mobile number. If you decide you don’t want to be involved in any of this, just don’t turn up this afternoon. That’s understood. We’ll manage, though we could use you. In the case of your absence, I won’t bother you again. Though of course, you do know where I live, so to speak. Cheers, Dad. Au revoir.”

The dialling tone came.

That was it.

His voice had been as I recalled from the beginning, only occasionally, on certain words – lover, straightforward, cheers – had I noted there still remained a slight slurring?

For a while I walked about the house. I thought of them, and their ‘meetings’, a roasting joint in the oven, the lamps all on. “The family” C had said. Family.

Now I’m sitting in the front room, looking at the clock with the little red drip of paint still on it. The red glass dog, once I’d mended it, had stood there, but today, about an hour ago, I moved it back to the top of the piano.

The clock, as does my watch, tells me it’s not yet twelve-thirty. I haven’t made a move. Why would I? Hypothetically of course I’ve got plenty of time to get ready and travel up to the V and A. If I were going. If I were. Only I’m not going, am I. I’m not going. Am I. Am I?

If you’ve enjoyed this book and would like to read more great SF, you’ll find literally thousands of classic Science Fiction & Fantasy titles through the SF Gateway.

For the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy …

For the most comprehensive collection of classic SF on the internet …

Visit the SF Gateway.

www.sfgateway.com

Also by Tanith Lee

Birthgrave

The Birthgrave (1975)

Vazkor, Son of Vazkor (1977) (aka Shadowfire)

Quest for the