“I should admire somebody who likes artistic presentation. I compose music, you create floral displays.” He gave a shrug of his shoulders.
I judged it a dismissal, conversation done. He’d run a little roughshod over me and I regretted my own abrupt response.
I lost some of my nerves, relaxed into my leather seat. Listening to his voice soothed me in a peculiar way. The crisp pronunciation reminded me of Talia.
“You’re not English. I’m sure I detect a trace of something.”
A tiny flush of pink formed on his left cheek. He chuckled. “Caught. I hide it well, yes? I am British. I’m also German. My father is German, my mum English. I was born in Bavaria, lived my early years there until they divorced. I came back to live with Mum here in England.”
“You’re bilingual. I live with a Polish girl whose boyfriend is Czech. I suppose my ear picks up the nuances.”
He sighed. A mock one with an obvious huff. “There was me thinking I was perfect.”
“I didn’t mean to insult—”
“Nonsense. You’ve not insulted me. You’ve a good ear. I admire it.” He turned his head, peering down a side road, and gave me a brilliant smile. All the tension in the air dissipated.
“Do you think in German?” Languages intrigued me. I spoke nothing but English.
“I live in England. It’s what shapes my thoughts. I speak to my father and brother in German on the phone or by email. Why would I speak German here? I’m not one or the other. I’m both. I don’t think about it.”
I shrank in my seat at his bluntness. I’d offended him. He tightened his fingers around the steering wheel, turning the knuckles white. I’d touched on something he didn’t like. Not language. It was a statement of identity. He’d reacted as if I’d asked who he was, as if he lacked a sense of belonging.
“Sorry. I wasn’t digging into your personal life—”
“Callie. It’s okay. I like that you speak your mind. I ask direct questions, so I shouldn’t expect anything else from you. Here. This is where I live.”
The landscape had remained familiar, urban, but as we drove farther out of Cambridge, the houses had more space around them. Grander properties than my own cheap area of the city. I lived among students.
I gazed out of the window at the property. Stefan’s studio. I’d not expected this. A modern structure clad in a light wood with skylights in the roof. There was symmetry to the house—two wings with roofs juxtaposed to the main body. It looked like a two-story house at the back, but the frontage had a lower height.
“It’s, wow, different.” I couldn’t find the right words.
Stefan switched the engine off. “My dad is a builder. He designed it. All sustainable materials. Rainwater is collected to flush the toilets. Solar panels at either end.” He pointed out the various features with obvious pride. It suited him. Though perhaps it out of place among its brick-faced neighbors.
He carried my music while I brought in Nettie. No stand this time—I assumed, rightly or wrongly, that he had his own. I entered the house with trepidation and copied Stefan as he slipped off his shoes, leaving them on the doormat.
A small anteroom led into a magnificent open-planned accommodation. I needed a few minutes to take it all in. The center of the house wasn’t a lounge or other functional room, but a vast open space, and smack in the middle of the floor, a black grand piano. To the left of the musical arena, in one of the wings of the building, was the kitchen and dining area, and in the opposite wing, the living space with a leather sofa and armchairs and an LCD TV fixed to the wall. The piano took center stage of the studio and before it a wall of glass looking out over a garden. Not an green English lawn in sight. Instead, neatly positioned pots and beds surrounded by gravel. The space had the same immaculate symmetry as the house.
Where was the bedroom? On either side of the house, in the two wings, was an upper floor mezzanine. Each had its own wrought iron spiral staircase with one leading up to an open-plan study complete with bookcases and a desk. In the other wing, a wall partition hid the room. Stefan followed my eyes, observing me with a soft smile as I explored his splendid domain.
“Bedroom and en suite. There’s a small bathroom behind the kitchen. If you need it.” He grinned.
I didn’t need a pee, I didn’t think I was that nervous, but I held the excitement in check.
“It’s beautiful, Stefan. I bet the acoustics are fantastic.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “It was a requirement of the design. The high ceiling at the back, the wooden floors and glass. It makes for an excellent little concert hall. I’ll fetch you a stand. Would you like a drink?”
I opted for a simple glass of water, slipped out of my coat then placed it on an armchair. My hands quivered as I opened my clarinet case. Would I be able to pull it together and not pollute the setting with my modest playing?
“Relax,” said Stefan, putting the glass down on a small
coffee table. He positioned the stand to one side of the piano, facing the piano stool. Unlike my creaking contraption, his stand was a permanent lectern made from brass and very sturdy. I lay out my music—the Capriccio Espagnole—and licked my reed. A new one, especially brought out for today. I lined it up on the mouthpiece and screwed it into place.
Stefan slid onto the piano stool and opened a binder of music. He was going to accompany me?
“I have the score here. I will pick out relevant parts to accompany you.”