The Protege

“Is that the one, Isabeau?” Laszlo asks me, and I nod. I like this one.

The salesperson looks at me with her eyebrows raised as she rings up the purchase on the till. “Quite something, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yes. She’s quite something.”

The pride in Laszlo’s voice makes me smile again. He sounds even better than a cello.

As we’re walking home I remember the umbrella I stuck in the front door. “Laszlo, can I please have a key to the house?”

“Why would you need a key?”

I look at him in astonishment. “So I can get back in, of course. If I go out.”

“What would you go out for?”

“School. Milk. I don’t know. I’ve had a key for the last year.”

“I noticed that. Sweetheart, it’s not safe for you to come and go like that. I’ll be here to take you to school and collect you, and if I’m not then I’ll make sure someone I trust is. And if we need milk, I’ll get it.” He thinks for a moment. “And you’ll have to come with me for that because it’s not safe for you to be alone at home, either.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re eight.”

“Oh, Laszlo. You’re so strict.”

He laughs. “Am I? Well, maybe I’ve had some practice. There are a lot of people in my orchestra.”

“How many?”

“Nearly a hundred.”

A hundred. That’s so many people, and so much music.

He looks at me thoughtfully. “Do you mind going to a new school? You’ll have to transfer to the local one.”

I shrug. “They probably won’t care much about my cello there, either.”

“No, probably not. But there are a few good high schools in London that care very much about all sorts of instruments. That’s a thought. There are probably waiting lists as long as my arm. I’ll have to call around my contacts, get recommendations. You’ll need a cello tutor…”

He trails off, abstracted, and I watch his face, wondering if he minds all this thinking about high schools and waiting lists and having me with him every time he gets milk, but he doesn’t seem irritated. In fact as we stand at a set of lights I can hear him humming under his breath.

Back at home he helps me unpack the new instrument, and I find myself looking at Mum’s, hoping it doesn’t feel left out.

Laszlo notices. “If you ever want to play this one, just because, I want you to feel like you can, all right?”

I nod, but I know I’m not going to play it until I’m older. A beautiful cello for a grown up young lady to play on, Laszlo called it. I’ll play it again soon. I’ll grow into it, and it will be here, waiting for me.

Chapter Five

Isabeau

Then

Laszlo puts a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Laszlo,” I say, before attacking my breakfast. At my elbow are a dozen cards from tutors and youth orchestra people and Laszlo’s musician friends who come to the house, some of them proclaiming Fourteen today!

Laszlo flicks through a score while we’re eating, his fingers absent-mindedly tapping the pages to a melody only he can hear. I sneak looks around the kitchen, trying to find my birthday present. He always gives me my present at breakfast but there’s nothing next to my plate or on the kitchen bench.

When we’re finished eating I help him clean up, and then I can’t bear it any longer. “Please can I have my birthday present now?”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Your birthday present? But you’ve had it already.”

“I have not! Don’t fib!”

Laszlo seems puzzled as he looks around the kitchen but I can see the ghost of a smile on his lips. “That’s very strange. I could have sworn… Why don’t you go and look in your room? Maybe it’s there.”

I race upstairs and see my cello propped up against the wall with a pink ribbon tied around the neck. My first cello. My mother’s cello. I hear Laszlo come up the stairs behind me and turn breathlessly to him.

“Do you really think I’m tall enough—big enough—good enough—” I break off, running my fingers down the glossy wood, in an agony of excitement and doubt.

“If you want to, Isabeau. It’s always been your cello to play whenever you like.”

Yes, I want to play it now. I touch the strings which have been silent for six years but my hands feel shaky and clammy. “Will you tune it for me? I feel all funny.”

He sits on my bed with the cello between his knees and I watch as he twists the tuning pegs at the top of the neck and plays scales until the notes are just right. I’ve seen him do this with dozens of different instruments over the years though he only ever plays music on the piano. He hands the cello back to me and I take his place. What to play first?