Nobody noticed the family arrive. This was especially annoying to Gerard, the maître d’ of Le Poisson Froid, who took pride in his vigilance and attention to detail. However, it was one thing to publicly shame a customer at the door, and quite another to cause a scene with a family already seated at the restaurant’s most central and conspicuous table. And anyway, this particular family seemed very well behaved—sedate, in fact. Even the girl, who was no older than five or six, was impeccable in both her conduct and appearance. Her tight red ringlets and floral dress were entirely befitting of the ambiance Gerard and his employers strived for.
Adjusting his own tailored suit, the maître d’ approached the table, casting an eye over the other customers’ as he went. All seemed to be in order, although he was less satisfied with the pianist’s performance than he might have been. He would deal with him later. His priority was to present this very conservative family with menus, inform them of le plat du jour, and leave them in no doubt that they were fortunate to find themselves in an establishment of such distinguished repute. This he did with his usual arsenal of withering looks, French bon mots, and casual references to the eye-watering wine prices.
Gerard returned to his counter at the front of house via the baby grand piano by the large window. The crescent moon outside was enchanting in its brightness, but the same could not be said of the pianist’s skills.
‘Callum, my boy, your performance is, how shall I say? Moins que parfait.’
Less a boy and more a man, but with a boy’s sad attempt at facial hair, Callum rested his fingers and gazed up at the maître d’. ‘Is that a good thing? I don’t follow, boss.’
Gerard twisted one end of his dark grey moustache. ‘It is less than excellent. Here at Le Poisson Froid, we demand excellence in all we do. In our food, in our service, in our décor, and in our music also. Maybe your… talent would fit better elsewhere. There is a café down the road that might take you.’
The back of Callum’s neck warmed beneath the collar of his tuxedo. He needed this job, and he knew he was good enough. Not only did he need the money to live, but he desperately wanted to prove to his parents that three years studying music at university was not time wasted.
He took the notation from its stand. ‘I’m playing it as it’s written, look.’
With a sigh, Gerard snatched the booklet. ‘To play music as it is written is to recite the most beautiful poem in the voice of a donkey.’
‘You’ve lost me again, boss.’
Gerard closed his eyes and groaned. ‘The music on the page is only the instruction. The piano is only the tool. But the player—you—you are the… the… the interpreter. The commander. Interpret the instruction and command your tool.’
‘Command my tool?’
‘Command your tool.’
‘Okay, command my tool.’ Perplexed, Callum reached to retrieve the manuscript.
‘No, no.’ Gerard leaned away and shuffled through the papers.
Over at the central table, Callum noticed, the family appeared ready to order. The little girl, nursing a rather ugly rag doll with mismatched button eyes and a shoddily stitched grin, was drumming her fingers on the leather cover of her menu. Her parents, meanwhile, sat silent and motionless, just as they had since their mysterious arrival. A prim waitress swept over and took their order, though only the little girl spoke back. Unfortunate, Callum thought. Beatrice, though rather lovely, was not only new to the restaurant but also to the country. Her English was limited, and conversation with a five-year-old would no doubt be tough.
‘Ah, now, this,’ said Gerard, returning the music to its stand. ‘This is la belle musique. Play this with excellence and maybe you will change my mind about you.’
Callum scanned the first page. ‘Gaspard de la Nuit? This is one of the most difficult pieces ever written.’
‘And it took the genius of Maurice Ravel to write it. All you have to do is play it.’
‘With excellence.’
‘Naturellement.’
With an air of triumph, Gerard returned to his post by the entrance. Callum peered around, as though the sight of escargot might inspire him to musical greatness. At the central table, the parents still gazed blankly. But their daughter was engaged in what appeared to be a fluent back-and-forth with lovely Beatrice. Surely the waitress had not suddenly developed conversational English. It then occurred to Callum that the young girl may herself be French. Great, he thought. Even more pressure to perform a French piano piece… with excellence.
He focussed on the notation and began to play, his right hand tinkling intricate, delicate arpeggios while his left provided a simpler melody. So far, so good. He allowed the tempo to slow, then took a moment to glance over at the maître d’ station. Gerard’s eyes were fixed on the young pianist. Quickly, Callum looked away and noticed that the little girl had turned on her chair and was also watching him intently. Her parents, meanwhile, were as vacant as before.
He struggled for several more bars before a manicured hand obscured the black and white crotchets and semiquavers.
‘No, no, no,’ said Gerard. ‘This is not the way. Where are the dynamics? Where are the ebb and the flow… and the passion? You are not commanding your tool. You are waving it around.’
‘Waving my tool around?’
‘Oui. Waving your tool around willy-nilly.’
A sudden urge overcame Callum. ‘Can I go for a p—I mean, may I take a comfort break, boss?’
‘You have three minutes to compose yourself, then I expect to see and hear excellence.’
‘Yes, boss.’ Callum rose from the piano stool.
‘And wash your hands. Your replacement does not want to catch a disease.’
The gentlemen’s room was spacious and beautifully tiled, with a cabinet upon which stood a ceramic vase of oriental lilies and a pungent bowl of potpourri. Standing at the middle of three urinals, Callum rehearsed what he would tell his parents.
Yes, Mum, I do have a degree in music, but not French music. No, Dad, I won’t be able to move out just yet. Maybe he would have to give up and accept the factory job his uncle had spent months trying to fill.
He was just about finished when he sensed a presence behind him. He turned his head. By the cabinet stood the little girl, hugging her doll to her chest and staring.
Callum cried out and quickly stuffed himself back into his trousers. ‘What are you d… are you lost?’
The girl continued to stare, almost as expressionless as her family.
‘You can’t be in here,’ said Callum. ‘Come on, let’s get you back to your parents.’
‘They’re not my parents.’ Her voice was light and birdlike.
‘Oh, well, auntie and uncle, whoever they are, let’s get you back to them.’
‘You’re not ready to go back out there.’
Callum thanked her for the reminder and washed his hands at the sink.
‘You’re still not ready to go out there.’ Her unblinking blue eyes glared at him from above a field of copper freckles.
‘You’re not French,’ said Callum.
‘Neither are you.’
‘No, but I saw you talking to the waitress.’
‘Delightful girl, Beatrice. She’s fond of you, y’know.’
Callum, who was still recovering after being caught with his pants down, blushed anew. ‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Not entirely of her own volition.’
Callum squinted across the bathroom at the oddly grandiloquent child. ‘How old are you?’
Finally, she smiled. ‘Older than I look. I’m Lucy.’
‘And I’m—’
‘Callum,’ said Lucy, extending a hand. ‘And this is Sheila.’
Callum grasped her tiny fingers, conscious of the dampness of his own. ‘Sheila looks like she’s seen better days.’
Lucy withdrew her hand and covered the doll’s ears. ‘Shh. She’s sensitive.’
The full extent of this moment’s weirdness dawned on Callum. He stepped towards the door. ‘Let’s get back out there.’
Lucy sidestepped to block the way. ‘I told you, you’re not ready.’
‘What do you mean? I washed my hands. I’m all zipped up.’
‘Say you go back out there. Then what?’
‘Then you eat your chicken nuggets and I do my job.’
‘You mean you lose your job.’
Callum retreated to the sink. ‘Who are you?’
‘We just want to help.’
It was clear from the way Lucy squeezed the doll that Sheila was in on this Good Samaritan act.
‘Help how?’
Lucy spoke now as though Callum were the child. ‘You want to keep your job. To keep your job, you need to play like you’ve never played before. Play like you never could before.’
‘I still can’t.’ Callum rapped his knuckles on the porcelain. ‘He wants the impossible.’
‘He wants you to fail. Wouldn’t you like to disappoint him?’
Callum’s shoulders sagged. ‘Who ar—’
‘Don’t ask who I am again. Just hold Sheila for a moment.’
Callum took the doll as Lucy crouched to straighten her frilly socks. The doll felt warm in Callum’s hand. And heavy. Then it started to move.
Back at the piano, Callum took his seat. He was oblivious to Gerard checking his watch and shaking his head. The only thing he could see was the music. But he couldn’t just see it. He could feel it, taste it, even. When his fingers began dancing over the keys, he no longer needed to look at the notation. Instead, he glared over the top of the piano at Gerard. The usual frown of the maître d’ softened, then returned with renewed vigour, though it was clear this took some effort. As he grimaced to hide his true emotions, Gerard strode towards the piano with a grace and poetry that only the magic of otherworldly music can conjure. He arrived at Callum’s side and dropped to his knees. His head fell back and he looked to the heavens through half-open eyes, his face a mask of rapturous ecstasy.
On Callum played, with a fluidity he believed he had always possessed but had never before harnessed.
At the centre table, Lucy looked on. So, now, did her two accomplices.
A cry of agony, or perhaps unbearable pleasure, erupted from Gerard’s throat. Then his body tipped back and he lay on the floor with his knees bent beneath him.
Even now, Callum’s fingers did not stop. Even when Lucy gathered her doll and made for the door with her two followers, now returned to their vacant state.
‘The job is yours, Callum,’ she said. ‘Play as long as you want. When you stop, we’ll be back to claim you.’
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