Maestro

The Maestro stared out of the broad bay window and watched the rain falling onto his capacious front gardens. His eyes followed the paved path to one side that led toward the distant street. He tried to imagine the steady progress of the sturdy black umbrella bobbing up the path, glimpsing the tweed coat and long grey skirt underneath as if the force of his will could make her appear.

But he lost patience. “Where is the blessed Housekeeper?” he grumbled.

The only answer was the tick of the grandfather clock which presided over his study.

He looked at the sore side of his finger where the slim wound seemed to mock him with a smile through which he could see the inside of his flesh. He grimaced as he did not like seeing the interior of his body. Even when brushing his teeth opposite the mirror, he tended to avert his gaze to avoid looking into his own mouth. 

The whisper came to him but he ignored it, refusing to be tempted. It was only half past January, much too soon to give up on his New Year’s Resolution.

Slicing that Granny Smith apple was obviously not as straightforward as expected. Sustaining an injury to his hand, well, he would rather lose a toe than bruise a finger. He should have bit into the pale green orb like most people did, only the dentist had warned him he might lose a tooth doing that.

Better to lose a tooth than harm one finger.

The whisper murmured again, but he turned and walked toward the hearth, subconsciously expecting to find the warmth of flickering flames that would have lifted his mood.

But only ashes occupied the hearthplace which had the opposite effect.

The Maestro yearned for warmth, would have translated himself in an eyeblink if he had that power to Spain or, no, Italy would be best since he knew some musicians there who had braved the British climate for that conference last autumn. They promised him sunny skies if he visited and that their wives could cook much better than any restaurant.

His homeland always beckoned, naturally, but the last time he visited disappointed him. Despite all the time that had elapsed, he never failed to expect everything to be exactly as it used to be. But centuries of history had rolled over Greece like an unstoppable tide. 

Too much effort required to discover the scant remnants of the past. And without the power he once possessed, he could barely wield any influence to resist what humanity called progress. His search for Euterpe had only resulted in a conviction that all of the muses had either fled to other lands or faded entirely away.

He ambled over to the grandfather clock to stare at the phases of the moon that ornamented the clock face before registering that it was precisely eleven minutes past eleven. Time for Elevenses which he never missed unless he was travelling and, even then, did his best to observe the quaint custom.

On cue, he felt the hollowness of his middle and the dryness of his mouth. After glaring at his injured finger, he strode from the study and made his way through an altogether too quiet house to the kitchen where he did not, unfortunately, find the Housekeeper baking bread or busy at another of her many vital tasks.

He nudged the cold kettle to make it slosh enough so he could detect, without his glasses, that a little more than the minimum level of water was contained within. He had once boiled a kettle dry, so he always measured up. With his unhurt hand, he switched the kettle on and gathered a mug, adding a teaspoon and a half of sugar before drowning it with a dollop of milk.

Grabbing the handle of the fridge to replace the bottle of milk, he muttered imprecations as his wounded finger collided with the stiff plastic. The pain rippled through him as if seeking somewhere else in his body to lodge.

Using his other hand, he transferred the bottle to the inside shelf then shut the fridge door. He heard the kettle switch itself off, but he was not ready to deal with that yet.

He remembered his yelp when the injury occurred, the red blossom of blood on his skin, how he rinsed the wound under the tap, cold water taking away any germs. Patting it dry with paper towel until it stopped bleeding.

Though he had a vague idea about ointments and bandages from that time the Housekeeper’s grandson had fallen and needed a plaster, he had no idea where to find these items or precisely how to apply which of them for best results. His mind tended to focus on more refined matters such as music.

Catching a ragged breath, he contemplated how long it might take this finger to heal itself. Maybe a week or ten days? Surely not a month. He imagined dust gathering on the case holding his precious violin.

The whisper, sensing his weakness, surged.

Just a little effort required. No harm done.

The Maestro looked around the kitchen as if his conscience might be lurking somewhere close by.

Nobody actually knew about his resolution, after all.

He had not even confided this to his diary. And how, in point of fact, was he going to write today’s entry with this stricken finger?

With a mixture of guilt and relief, he cradled his sore hand in the crook of his opposite elbow, then focused his mind on the purity of healing, aligned himself to the possibility of restored vitality and let the whisper of magic flood through him.

The wounded finger burned with an incandescent heat which rapidly shifted to normality. He inspected his handiwork, smiling at how easily this inconvenient painful problem had entirely vanished.

But something was wrong. He frowned, looking around the kitchen.

In the middle of the kitchen table, a vase of desiccated wilted flowers that had yesterday been vibrant yellow and red tulips fresh from his own gardens made him blanch.

He carried the vase to the bin near the back door and emptied the contents before setting it to one side. Unrolling more paper towel from the roll, he piled this on top of the dead flowers to conceal them from the Housekeeper.

The racket of the cat flap made him turn as if caught in the act.

“M’row,” the big black cat said, announcing its presence.

The Maestro walked over to the kitchen table and sat down on a chair.

He stared at the cat which met his gaze before walking over to the corner that held its food and water bowls.

Timing was on his side, at least. If there had been no fresh flowers and the cat had come through the cat flap just as he was using magic to heal his blasted finger. . .

“M’row,” the cat said, as if agreeing about the narrowly averted catastrophe. Though surely the cat would only have been poorly? Not anything worse?

Then he looked over at the black cat and saw that the food bowl was empty.

Where to find the kibbles? How much to dish out? He knew because he had been strictly told by the Housekeeper that this cat was allergic to milk—like most cats were apparently, but feeding the cat in this instant was far too demanding for his beleaguered brain although his finger was in fine fettle. All he really wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep for a few hours.

The Maestro watched the black cat stare at the back door just before he heard a key turning in the lock.

“Such a rainy day,” the Housekeeper said. “I had to shelter in the library for a while. Proper deluge. Someone mentioned we might need to build an Ark.”

“The cat’s hungry,” the Maestro told her, concentrating to get his priorities in order so as not appear selfish, “and the fire has burned to ash and I need a cup of tea.”

“That’s odd,” she replied. “I made the fire up before I left, but soon be sorted.”

He watched her open a lower drawer and scoop some kibbles into the cat’s bowl.

The fire. Was that his fault too, somehow, some rogue bit of magic gone astray? 

“Kettle’s hot,” she reported. “Did you almost make yourself a cup of tea, Maestro?”

He tried to smile but was glad she wasn’t looking at him as it was a feeble attempt. “Nearly,” he admitted.

“Not to worry, that’s what I’m here for.”

Looking down at his hands, he asked, “Did you make a New Year’s Resolution this year?”

“I did,” she said, “and it was to not make a New Year’s Resolution. I’ve done quite well, actually.”

“Well done,” he replied as she placed the mug of tea in front of him and a plate of homemade shortbread biscuits. He felt disappointed as he had hoped she would be up against it like he was. And could he resume his resolution now he had broken it? Did that count or not?

Watching the black cat pad across the room, he resolved to persevere.

Really, he should never have let the Housekeeper adopt this stray, to be on the safe side. Bad enough having to be careful when her grandson visited now and then.

But then these were some of the perils when living among mortals.

They appreciated his music, though, and packed every venue where he played his violin and the magic that flowed through him with such magnificent abundance when he played hopefully made up for any small errors in judgment. 

Those tulips were dying anyway, he had just speeded up the process. The black cat was fine. And perhaps—he studied the creature more closely—yes, more than likely, the cat was wise enough to avoid being too near him when he drew on magic for selfish reasons. 

If he was playing his violin for other people, the energies simply flowed through him without needing anything from his environment though sometimes electrical lighting flickered during a crescendo. Nothing like the days when he held a lyre instead of a violin and could charm the muses themselves. His listeners believed in him to some extent, but not like the believers who prayed and brought sacrifices to his altars, the priestesses who prophesied in his name.

The Maestro brought himself back to the rainy day, deciding that he would be more careful and focus on keeping his resolution after this minor slip. As this was his first ever New Year’s Resolution, he wanted to give it a proper trial in the hope that the discipline would enable him to find a new spring of inspiration for composing music. He hoped to dedicate his first new composition to Euterpe, though he would have to locate a flute player to accompany him. 

Placing another mug on the table, the Housekeeper sat down. “I think I’ll join you, if you don’t mind. I still feel chilled after my long walk in the rain.”

“Be my guest,” the Maestro invited as he reached for another biscuit. He pushed the plate toward her to be hospitable.

The unusual intimacy of drinking tea with the Housekeeper made him consider telling her the truth. It would be wonderful to confide in someone whom he had trusted for so many years. 

Perhaps too much a burden for her, though, and, being human, she would probably think he was inventing a fairy story. 

Fairy story indeed. Most people these days would not even recognise his true name. That was why, when adapting to his altered circumstances so long ago, he referred to himself as a musician. Of course, when people started calling him the Maestro, he gladly adopted the honorific which was much closer to his true identity. 

The sad thing was that humans, he had learned from firsthand experience, knew nothing about keeping secrets, not for love and not for money. He kept his distance for good reason after so many hundreds of years.