Page 40 of Saving Mr. Bell

Rudolf and I both watched enraptured as they chased each other round, the depth of the snow compared to their small stature not seeming to bother them one bit.

Even when the mother turned up, our fascination didn’t turn to fear. Whether it was because we were safely off the ground and confident the adult wolf either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, climb the ladder, or whether it was because the wolf cubs were just so damn cute, was up for debate. Whichever one it was, we watched them for the best part of thirty minutes, with huge smiles on our faces, until the small group finally disappeared out of sight.

Chapter Fifteen

Rudolf

In my dream, I was playing Mozart’s Allegro Sonata, and just like on that fateful night in Germany when even my talent had let me down, I couldn’t make my fingers do what they were supposed to. Playing the piano was like breathing, but that night, it had been more like suffocating. I’d been close enough to the audience in the front row to see their furrowed brows, to see them look at each other as they silently asked what was going on.

That wasn’t a question I’d been able to answer then, and weeks later, I still couldn’t answer it. I’d left the stage, and I hadn’t played the piano since, had barely even looked at one. Hell, I’d spent the last few days near one and hadn’t so much as touched a single key. So I wasn’t appreciating this dream. I wasn’t appreciating it at all, especially when dream me was mangling the notes even worse than I had in Germany.

Except, when I opened my eyes to the familiar wall of the cabin bedroom, the music continued. The other side of the bed was empty. Well, of course it was—the piano wasn’t playing itself. Although I couldn’t help wondering if it could, whether it might do a better job. Back when we’d made the documentary, I’d invited Arlo to play my piano, a Steinway worth an obscene amount of money. Arlo had paled, stuttered out an excuse that had been far from convincing, and I hadn’t offered again.

I rolled onto my back and tried not to listen. I’d pretend I was asleep and stay in bed until he got bored and stopped. That way, we didn’t have to discuss it. We could go about our day as normal. No stress. No strain. Exactly the way Arlo had intended when he’d brought me here. Which begged the question why, after days of respecting my wishes and acting like the piano didn’t exist, he’d decided to play the damn thing today?

Ten more minutes passed, Arlo moving on from butchering Mozart to Brahm’s lullaby. That one was easier, so it was a little better, but not by much. It didn’t, however, do as intended and lull me back to sleep. How long could he play? My subconscious laughed at the question when there’d been days where I’d played for hours straight without stopping for food or water, and had only dragged myself away when my bladder threatened a messy protest if I didn’t. That was different, though. Playing the piano was my life.It used to be your life.

When Arlo moved onto Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, I sighed and swung my legs out of bed, resigning myself to the inevitable.Once I’d pulled on sweatpants, I wandered out into the main room, taking a deep breath before sticking my head into the adjoining room. “Why are you torturing me?”

Arlo smiled, but kept playing. “Because I’m playing the piano or because I’m playing it badly?”

Both.“Because it’s too early for something this heavy.”

Arlo’s fingers stilled on the keys and he changed to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. “Better?” I winced as he played the next set of notes wrong. He grimaced. “Ignore those.”

More wrong notes followed. “What about those?”

Arlo flashed me a grin. “Those as well. I bet you’re realizing why I never played for you six years ago.”

“It crossed my mind.”

He stopped playing and shifted his weight back on the piano stool. “I didn’t want to see that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The look that says you wish I’d had a better piano teacher when I was a kid.”

“You had a teacher?” I winced. Wow! That had been brutal, even for me. “I mean…”

“You said it. You can’t take it back. Poor Mrs. Shufflebottom will turn in her grave. Or at least she would if she was dead. Last I heard, she was still going strong, though, and had eight grandchildren.”

“You expect me to believe that was her name? She sounds like a Roald Dahl character.”

“She had certain similarities to one. If I could grow a mustache as magnificent as hers, I’d never shave. She taught me every Wednesday and Friday after school for three years.”

I couldn’t help myself. “And had she ever seen a piano before?”

Arlo shoved the piano stool back and stood. “We can’t all be born with magic in our fingers and music in our heads.” Heswept a hand over the vacated stool. “Come on then, show me how it’s done. Put my playing to shame.”

I almost fell for it, Arlo’s maneuvering damn close to expert. No doubt he could play better than he’d made out. Maybe not much better. But he’d definitely fumbled a few notes he could have made . He thought that if he got my hands back on the piano keys that the universe would realign itself and everything would be alright. If only life was that simple. Instead of taking the seat offered, I took a step back. “I’m hungry. I’m guessing I’m cooking breakfast, that playing music took priority for you today.”

By the time Arlo joined me in the kitchen, I already had sausages sizzling in a pan. I didn’t look at him as he came to stand on the opposite side of the breakfast bar. “Sausage sandwich,” I said. “I thought we could use the last of the bread.”

“Fine by me.” Silence stretched on just that beat too long before he broke it. “I’m sorry, Rudolf. I thought if I could get you playing again… that you’d get over this stage fright thing.”

“It’s not stage fright.”

“No? Then… what is it? Talk to me. Tell me about Germany.”

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