Page 13 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
‘Once you have finished, you are to come straight down, do you understand, Bo?’
I nodded.
‘You know he is mute?’ she added to Monsieur Ivan.
‘Yes, but it is the music that will speak for him, isn’t that right?’ he said to me.
Without further comment, he opened the door and ushered me inside.
Even when I was writing my diary later that evening – and then my secret diary straight afterwards, of which this is part – I had only vague memories of the time I spent with Monsieur Ivan. I know that first he made me play what he called my ‘party pieces’, then he produced a score to test my sight-reading, then he took out his own violin and played a string of scales and arpeggios, which I had to follow. That really did seem to happen very fast. After that, he ushered me to a small, wooden table with chairs around it and told me to sit down.
As he pulled a chair in, he swore and looked at his finger. Then, he said something else and I realised he was speaking in Russian.
‘So, I have a splinter, which I will have to pull out tonight at home. The smallest things can cause the greatest pain, don’t you agree?’
I nodded, because whether I did or didn’t, it would have made no difference. I wanted to please this man, more than any other I’d wanted to please since Papa had left.
‘How do we communicate if you won’t speak?’
Already prepared, I pulled out my scrap paper from my pocket, along with my pencil.
‘Your name is Bo?’
Yes, I wrote.
‘How old are you?’
Ten.
‘Where are your parents?’
My mother is dead and I do not know where my father is.
‘Where are you from originally?’
I do not know.
‘I don’t believe you,petit monsieur,and I have my suspicions already, but you hardly know me, and all us émigrés do not like to give up personal information easily, correct?’
Yes, I wrote, moved that he understood and did not think me strange like everyone else.
‘Who taught you to play the violin?’
Papa.
‘How long ago is it since you last took a lesson?’
I tried to think back but I couldn’t be sure, so I wrote:
Three or four years.
‘I have never met one so young with so much skill. It is quite remarkable, really. Your musicality comes naturally, which hides the flaws in your technical prowess. I was impressed that your nerves did not get the better of you, although I imagine that this chance to be taught at the conservatoire means everything to you?’
Yes, I wrote.
‘Hmmm...’
I watched him as he put his hand to his chin and moved it up and down and to both sides as he thought about whether I was worth teaching.
